Rain, Rain, Rain

HERE BEGINS AN ACCURATE DATED ACCOUNT OF MY MOVEMENTS AND EXPERIENCES…

August 11, 1942

Out on maneuvers again and again its the same old thing. Hit the line early and route march to the I.P. and then off into the fields. We contact the enemy and then it’s belly up and belly down always advancing while we see the enemy withdrawing. “Hit that ground,” they yell, and you hit it hard invariably landing in a pool of water.

And then the rain. Is there no end to it? The sun is something we left behind at home, like those meals of Mother’s. Rain, rain, rain. We eat in it, we sleep in it and someday we will fight in it.

And then after hours of battling your way knee-deep through peat bogs, the day’s problem comes to an end and back we go to the bivouac. Back to wet tents and ankle-deep mud in the streets. Back to a weary ration detail or guard. I’m sick of it all. The life of a rifleman in the infantry is no picnic even on peaceful maneuvers.

A letter from Jane today. Poor kid, it’s so evident that she suffers, too. She, too, is waiting, hoping and praying for the end of it all. And when will it all end? Things look very black for us now. If Russia goes down I may not see home again for many, many years. And Russian is going down now. Already she’s beaten to her knees, calling for help. It’s a vain call. With 6 million men under arms Britain doesn’t hear the call, for Britain hears no call nor heeds no cry but that of Britain’s. 

And so to bed — to dream of Jane and home.