Letters from the front lines
FOR COMBAT SOLDIERS, letters home can be as much about personal therapy as communication -- a way to process the horrors one has witnessed, exorcise demons on paper, remember love and family in the midst of death and destruction. They also help the rest of us understand the toll that wars exert on those who fight them. In honor of Memorial Day, we present these letters written by American soldiers, battling in conflicts from the Mexican-American War to Iraq.
The letters were taken from collections of the Legacy Project -- a volunteer group headed by Andrew Carroll that preserves wartime letters -- and the Gilder Lehrman Institute of American History. They were edited for space and some had dates and places added, but the words, spelling and punctuation belong entirely to the writers.
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Nov. 18, 1846, Santio, Mexico
My Dear Friend
I intended to have written to you long ago, but neglected to do so from mere indolence. I am now determined to make some amends for my negligence, although I am shivering with cold and my fingers so benumbed that they can scarcely grasp the pen ... My youthful fancies in regard to the battle field have been sadly altered of late. I had always pictured to myself an extensive plain, covered with armed hosts in gay uniforms, with banners streaming, music playing, bright armor glittering in the sun-beams ... Instead of which, we had to wade deep streams, climb mountain heights and charge upon strong batteries without any other music than the concert of cannon balls and without any other banners than our ragged clothes streaming in the breeze, and then after the battle had been won, we had to lie down among the dead and dying in the wet and cold without food, fire or blankets ... Do not let the little children forget me. I would be delighted to see them once more. Tell Mrs Latta that I hope she will occasionally remind my fair friends that the Dons have not yet taken my scalp -- My kind regards to all who pray friendship to inquire about me.
Yours &c; D H Hill
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Oct. 27, 1862, Tennessee
My darling Wifey,
For the first time in two months I write to you ... The anxiety and suspense I have endured have been quite equal to the fatigues and dangers of this hazardous and to some extent unsuccessful campaign. For more than thirty days our devoted little Regiment has not passed a day without more or less fighting with the enemy. Night and day we have been kept in their front contesting every single foot of ground over which they have passed ... The battle of Perryville was the hardest contested field of the war. We had about 1500 and the yankees about 3500 men. We drove them over two miles killed and wounded over five thousand and captured several hundred prisoners. Such slaughter I never dreamed of. Any where on the field you could stand still and count from one to two hundred dead men in a hundred yards ... I am constant and pure to thee my own beloved wife. My companion through time and I trust that when our Father calls us home we shall go together, loving forever and undivided ... Kiss me X here -- By By -- Your own Gustave.
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July 13, 1864, Memphis, Tenn.
Absent but Affectionate Wife
It is with pleasure that I seat my self to write you a few lines, and to know that there is one who thinks of me though far away from home and friends, and in return I can assure you that my love for you is as great as it ever was.
It was ten years ago that to day that we was married and you have always been better to me than I disserved and I hope that I may always live so to disserve your love. I hope I may get a chance to to come home and see you and the children....
This from your affectionate husband
D.G. Winegar
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Dec. 7, 1941, Pearl Harbor, Hawaii
Dear Sis:
It is now 9:05 Sunday morning and we’ve been bombed now for over an hour. Our anti aircraft guns are yammering and every so often a bomb strikes so close as to rock this ship. Again a bomb. We’re helpless down here in the Forward Engine Room because our main engines are all tore down ... This seems to you like a nonchalant letter but it’s the straight dope. There is only a handful of us down here as most of our men are ashore on Liberty. They really caught us sleeping this time ... I’ve never figured it to be like this. The next bomb may be our last but I will keep writing until I am told to stop or am given another job ...
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May 2, 1945, Munich, Germany
Dearest Mom and Lou,
A year ago today I was sweating out shells on Anzio Beachhead -- today I am sitting in Hitler’s luxuriously furnished apartment in Munich writing a few lines home. What a contrast. A still greater contrast is that between his quarters here and the living hell of DACHAU Concentration Camp only 10 miles from here ...
A railroad runs alongside the camp and as we walked toward the box cars on the track I thought of some of the stories I previously had read about DACHAU and was glad of the chance to see for myself just to prove once and for all that what I had heard was propaganda. But no it wasn’t propaganda at all -- if anything -- some of the truth had been held back.
The first box car I came to had about 30 what were once humans in it. All were just bone with a layer of skin over them. Most of the eyes were open and had an undescribable look about them. They had that beaten “what did I do to deserve this” look ... And then into the camp itself ...
There is a gas chamber and furnace room in one barracks. Two rooms were full of bodies waiting to be cremated ...
How can people do things like that? I never believed they could until now.
Well enough for now --
Miss you all very much.
Your son,
Horace.
[The above letter was written on Adolf Hitler’s personal stationery.]
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July 10, 1969, Vietnam
Dearest Wife,
There are many times while I am out in the field that I really feel the need to talk to you. Not so much about us but what I have on my mind. I can tell you that I love you and how much I miss you in a letter & I know you will receive it and know what I mean, because you have the same feelings. But many times like tonight -- I am out on ambush with eleven men & a medic -- after everything is set up and in position I have nothing to do but lay there and think -- why I am here as well as all the men in my platoon -- age makes no difference -- there are very few kids over here -- a few yes but they grow up fast or get killed ... Being a good platoon leader is a lonely job. I don’t want to really get to know any body over here because it would be bad enough to lose a man -- I damn sure don’t want to lose a friend.
... Sorry I haven’t written more but the weather is against me. You can’t write out here when it rains hour after hour. I love you with all my heart.
All my love always, Dean
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March 12, 2003
Dear Emileigh Ann,
Hello sweetheart! How is my little girl today? Have you been a good girl for Mommy today? ...
Mommy said that you have started eating baby food now. No more of that old breast milk, hugh. I am sorry I wasn’t there to see your big switch. Hopefully I won’t miss too many big moments.
Things here are starting to get busy. Remember how I told you about the bad man way far away, who daddy and his friends were going to have to go talk to? Well, I think it is getting close to time for us to make him stop being bad. I hope we can do it quickly so that I can get home to you and mommy.
... Remember how we talked about you giving mommy lots of help and be on your best behavior ... I love you big, big bunches.
Love,
Daddy
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Sept. 14, 2003, Iraq
Hey Daddy Merle,
... Until that point we’d been talking and joking around, but when the agents started digging, an uneasy silence fell over everyone there. The wind started blowing hot sand in our faces, and that old Iraqi watched with his hands folded behind his back. A few of us wondered if his ken were buried there.
... When they pulled a femur bone from the hole I almost dropped my camera ... There was a bullet hole directly between its eye sockets ... But the eerie part was what the forensics officer said when he showed us the skull and the slug that had shattered it: “This guy took one between the eyes. He knew what his killer looked like.”
... These bones belonged to someone who had a life once, who had a family and people who loved him, only to be shot in the face and buried in the middle of the desert without a headstone or any trace that he ever existed.
Take care of yourself Daddy Merle
Your grandson,
Mark