In a Norman cemetery last week a little French girl, smiling with the maternal pride and pleasure of a little girl doing a womanly job, placed a bouquet of fresh summer flowers atop a fresh mound of earth. The grave was quite new, and efficiently spaded; two shovels stood stiffly at its side. Beneath the fresh Normandy flowers and the earth lay an American, killed before he had so much as seen a German.
This was part of war, the simple fact of death, which everyone, including the little girl, could get used to, whether or not they understood it. This...
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