I am writing this letter to you, my love, fifty years after the one summer day that everyone remembers. June 6th, 1944. The day I first landed in Normandy, France. I was fresh out of high school, only just eighteen. I was scared out of my mind. I remember the day I spent in the hospital, as the nurse looked at me and started a conversation. "You're all kids, sweetheart. You're so young. Eighteen, drafted to ****. Killing people at eighteen years of age. You're all kids, fighting for the same purpose. But it's not fair, I tell ya." I didn't know what to tell her. I couldn't think of anything besides the fact that I was defending my country, not only for myself, but for you, my love. I wanted you, us, to have that wonderful life everyone once dreamed of. Today, as you lay in heaven, I hope I was able to give you that life. The one you and I dreamed of. I hope the house, the marriage, the children were everything you wished for. I miss you dearly.
I know today is the 70th anniversary, but I thought I'd take this back a couple of decades. I tried to keep language clean as men back then would not use explicit language around ladies.