Private Danny O'Shea sat in a ruined farmhouse, a pencil in his hand, a scrap of paper on his knee. Outside, the guns rumbled. Inside, he wrote to his mother.
"Dear Mom,
I'm alive. That's all I can say for sure. I think of you every day—your cooking, your voice, the way you hugged me when I left.
The guys here are good. We take care of each other. Some won't make it home. I pray I will.
Tell Dad I love him. Tell my sister to study hard. Tell everyone I'm doing my best.
I'll be home soon. I promise.
Your son,
Danny"
He folded the letter, tucked it into his pocket, and pic