Today I end with his words

I have fallen in love with the man who wrote the letter I am transcribing. How grateful I am he was my grandfather’s friend and he wrote this detailed story of their days.

His letter is addressed to Mrs. Peirce, not me of course but my grandmother, and no wonder she kept this letter hidden for 60 years. When he writes of how he learned about her, it is so direct and sincere, it grips one’s soul and pulls one completely out of one’s day, out of the here and now, and brings one into 1944 war time France, into a large brick building on the front, where men are waiting to go to die.

My grandmother Mrs. Peirce did not know this man but he knew intimate details about her and her life. He writes:

"Our main pastime around the school however, was sitting around in our little rooms swapping tales and talk of home. From the time we left England to late November we got no mail so we did a lot of wishful thinking. We showed one another our pictures and read snatches of old letters. I learned about you and the little house across from the courthouse, about the inlaws, the characters of the county, the job in the courthouse, the interesting cases that had come up there, and all such homey little items and replied from my own nostalgic memories.”

In February 2011 New Jersey, I uncovered some bulbs trying to rise up beneath mushy leaves. But I am also with the American soldiers in France. It is time for Thanksgiving.

Today I end with his words:

“All this time our company was being reduced in size by the constant flow of men to the front. Every day 3, 5, or 15 perhaps would leave for a combat unit from our company, and in most cases when we said good-bye we knew our paths would never cross again. Our little group seemed to be charmed however and at Thanksgiving we were still together. We had an excellent Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings, and for a change we ate in the theater with no standing in line. Our numbers were sufficiently reduced by this time to make this possible.”