An excerpt from a letter my father wrote to his parents from France during WWII:
“Well, at least I have a chance to write again. I have not been hurt, except just one little scratch on my leg from a mortar shell. Don’t worry, please, I went 4 days after and then went to the medics and they put some stuff on it. It is all healed now, but I think the piece is still in there, as there is only one hole. The medic said there is nothing to worry about, and I went right back to my company… We have really been plastering and plastering them until I don’t see how they can stand it. I will really have some experiences to tell when I get home.
The war hasn’t affected me the way you might think it would, and I have seen things that I never thought I would see, but they just seem everyday. After it is over, the letup on my nerves may make me jumpy for a while, but that is all… I’ll be home soon, I hope, and I will be happier than I can ever say. I have the folder with your pictures in it, and the Bible that Aunt Ithel gave me in my pocket, and when things are hot, I feel them and think, ‘How can I miss with these in my pocket?’”…
Dad was badly wounded a few months later, but he did eventually make it home. He was indeed jumpy for a while—and although that eventually faded, he never forgot what happened over there. May we never forget, either.