From George W. Alexander

Of Wellpinit, written from somewhere

in Germany, Dec. 1, 1944

One of the boys was killed by another artillery shell which hit our old tank and cut his head off. I been pretty lucky, though for a while I was so nervous, pal, no kidding, shell-shocked, I guess. But I’m still driving the old tank, which I call the Purple Heart wagon. It holds the record of three killed and three wounded, nothing to laugh at. I used to laugh at boys when they took cover and now I beat them, taking off for shelter.

(Alexander was killed a week after this letter was written, while driving his tank).