July 15, 1918 — Philadelphia, PA
Peter Boeselager returned home and just felt tired. After his family’s faithful passage across the Atlantic Ocean, which cost the lives of his uncle Walther and his mother, he had to keep the brewery running. Gerrit De Groot wouldn’t return to the United States soon, and his father wasn’t allowed to leave the United Kingdom, so Peter was responsible for the employees.
Although his family had no part in the ownership of the baseball club anymore, De Groot told him to do what had to be done. Luckily, his General Managers, Martin Pitsch and Bobby Orgeron, are pretty capable and didn’t require much supervision. Something he wanted to get involved in was the players sent to war. Alois told him how he felt, and he tried to find out if his players were doing okay. After all, they had no choice.
The past months were a lot, so his fiancée suggested he should take a few days off, travel to New York, and watch the Brewers play the New York Kings. The series finale was exhausting – in a good way – as it was a 14-inning thriller that ended in a 7-5 win for the Brewers and ultimately resulted in a sweep.
But his presence at the brewery was necessary. The day was long, so Peter just wanted to sit down and decompress, but an envelope on the kitchen table caught his attention. Sent from the Netherlands. He carefully opened it…
June 14, 1918 — Charleroi, Belgium
Dear Peter,
I am deeply ashamed that it has taken me so long to respond to your letters. It wasn’t until my short leave in Aachen last July that I finally retrieved them—Uncle Matthias had kept them safe for me. I read every word, but by then your country had entered the war, and it was unsafe for me to write back.
Now, by some twist of fate—or perhaps mercy—I have found someone who can help me send this letter. Do you remember the nurse I mentioned, the one who cared for me after Verdun? Against all odds, I crossed paths with her again.
We had just been pulled from the front lines and I received a promotion to Vizefeldwebel. Our battalion advanced during the March offensive, and in our most recent push, I sustained a minor shrapnel wound—not serious, but enough to send me here for a few days of rest and stitching. I consider myself lucky. Many were not so fortunate. We nearly lost our company commander, Lieutenant Jünger, whom I have come to know well over these past months. He suffered a terrible wound to the chest and shoulder. Whether he will survive, I do not know. But if anyone can claw his way back from the brink, it is him. Brave and brilliant—some even say mad. I have heard him say, “War is not the continuation of politics by other means; it is a continuation of the human condition by monstrous means.”
The nurse recognized me first. We spoke briefly—like people, not ghosts. When I asked if she could take a letter back across the lines, she didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” she said. “One more time.” We have agreed to meet again after the war—if fate allows that meeting sooner and under less cruel circumstances.
Her kindness has stirred something I thought was long buried: hope.
I have been informed that I will be transferred to a new composite unit, hastily formed from battered regiments. We are to hold a sector southwest of Cambrai, near a small town called Aix-Celle. You won’t find it on most maps—it’s too small to matter unless the war decides otherwise.
Peter, I don’t know what things are like back home. One of your letters mentioned discussions about selling the brewery and the club and possibly moving to Europe. I beg you—please let that idea rest. The seas are perilous, and the future here is uncertain. If you are safe, remain where you are. Tell Mother and Father to stay, not for me or anyone else; they should not brave the Atlantic now.
I still dream of home. Of baseball, of our beer, and the scent of cedar from Father’s office. Sometimes, in half-sleep, I hear the crowd at Boeselager Stadium, see the bright whites of the uniforms, and feel the warm air off the Delaware. And yet, here I am—bandaged, limping, and scribbling a letter in a dim ward lit by a flickering lamp.
I miss you more than I can put into words.
Until then,
Your brother,
Alois
Peter couldn’t believe it. His brother is still alive.