Here you are:
"Samter, 23rd Aug.
My loved ones!
Today, I want to drop you a few lines again. Most of all, I send you all the most heartfelt greetings and hope that you are still doing fairly well. I am quite alright myself. Of course, the wound takes its time to heal. It shouldn't take too long. Otherwise, things are still the same. The weather is still very nice. And so, our longing to finally get out of bed and catch some fresh air is growing stronger with every day as well. Food is pretty good so far; it's just that we are living as if we were on the moon around here. There is no radio on which we could listen to news, but no newspapers either. Fortunately, the nurses own some books; we borrow one at a time from them. The hardships of the front have been all but forgotten. It's only a faint memory anymore.
Today, I would like to tell you how I got wounded. For 3 days, the Russians had been pounding our entire sector with all calibers. The area around my foxhole was covered by shell fragments. Then, on the 3rd day, 15th Aug., the Russians succeeded in making a very minor penetration into a stretch of woodland to our right. As Ivan was now firing on us from the flank, the company's right wing was pulled back some 500 meters. Our platoon, a full 150 meters. We had selected the new positions together with the commander. At the onset of darkness, when the enemy fire decreased somewhat in intensity, the men began to dig in and before long, the new position was completed. At 2200 hrs., I was inspecting the newly-manned positions one more time when misfortune struck. You know: 'A bullet came a-flying'*. Maybe some Russian had heard the rattling of ammo crates or a barrel in our positions during the momentary silence and suddenly let off a wholly unaimed burst of fire into the night. And of all things, one of those rounds had to hit me. I was just at the second-to-last machine gun and quickly jumped into the machine-gunner's foxhole. I was swearing and cursing my head off, more from anger than from pain really. The news spread from foxhole to foxhole like wildfire: 'Uscha.** Schmidt is wounded.' At that, my 4 machine guns starting firing like mad and gave the Russians such a fireworks that they must have thought, with rattling teeth, the Germanskis are launching a raiding party. Well, despite my pain, it filled me with joy to see the men express their feelings like this. Anyway, this was a farewell with military honors. The Russians in their fear returned fire like mad. When it got silent again, the no. 2 gunners of each machine gun brought me back. You know the rest.
What's new back home? If you should get any more mail from Ellwangen or the front, please forward it to me.
Now I will come to an end for today; many greetings once more.
Your Julius"
*) The author is quoting from the song "Ich hatt' einen Kameraden": "Eine Kugel kam geflogen, gilt sie dir oder gilt sie mir?"
**) Uscha = Unterscharführer, i.e. corporal
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