When my Grandpa told me about it, it was just kind of out of nowhere. I had just finished doing some plumbing work at his house and he was writing me a check for the supplies, and just started telling me stories about the war. He just had a thousand mile stare and you could tell he could see these events replaying in his head as he told them to me. He told me about killing men from only feet away, and how he covered himself in debris as a German tank rolled over a trench he was in, he said he was shot at directly from an 88. He said everyone he fought alongside was killed, he spent 32 days in front line combat and collapsed from battle fatigue. He said he woke up in a hospital in Paris and cried tears of joy to be out of that hell.

My grandpa was there, he told me about once. He said they would move in small groups and throw a grenade down the cellar stairs first when clearing houses. He rarely talked about the war because of PTSD, the stories he told me about fighting in Germany were intense, close up brutal combat.