To Mom And Dad

Dear Mom and dad,

War appears to still be on. Nazis would appear to still be unfriendly and distinctly closed off to the idea of knocking it off, having a beer and going home. But that's that. I got shot again, but it's not so bad. We have a kind doctor here. Well, ok, I fib. It hurts like heck and the whole getting it yanked out part is inordinately unpleasant too (That was a word of the day in class once). But you can't be inside and screaming otherwise it bugs other people, you know? It's like, sure, I got shot - but thank goodness I am not the guy stepping on the mine, you know? Or thank goodness I am not on fire? I don't know.
Elise is here with me, but I worry for her. I'm turning into a babushka before my day. I've made a few friends though, including a fellow with immense feet and a sense of humor (almost) as good as mine. What is it about a guy with big feet? He'll never find shoes? He wears big socks? I'm sympathetic to him. Most girl's shoes are for dainty girls, not an ox like me. It's funny how when things get rough, you start worrying about the little things. Or big things, depending on your shoe size I guess. See, this is why I could not be a writer. They'd find my manuscript, make copies, put them all in a sack and beat me with it. A lot.
Regardless, I hope this makes it to you. The Volga seems to like eating mail.


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