August 21, 1916, Philadelphia. It’s been a long night. The season ended with a loss to Brooklyn, but it didn’t stop the team from celebrating. A sarcastic thank you that it was finally over. The Boeselager brewery allowed the staff – at least the ones working in offices – to come in at noon. Peter Boeselager was one of them. At 27 years old, he learned management from his uncle Walther after his father Karl taught him everything he knew on the brewing side. Peter still had an hour to arrive, so he first checked what mail had invaded his apartment through the mail slot. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The Boeselager family hasn’t heard from his younger brother for almost two years.
In 1912, after the 118th graduating class of Philadelphia’s Central High School received their certificates, Alois asked his father, Karl Boeselager, to send him to Germany. While Peter was busy becoming the next brewmaster of the Boeselager & Sons Brewery, Alois always had an affection for mechanical engineering and wished to study at a German university. He was well aware of his background and refreshed the long-lost connection to their grandmother’s family in Cologne. Although Peter knew his brother to be relatively disorganized, he had proven everyone wrong by planning everything well in advance. He contacted the Technische Hochschule Aachen, the technical college in Aachen, a representative of the college’s foreign students association, and the embassy to ensure everything he could do himself was done.
On graduation day, Alois asked his father to lend him money to travel to Germany and pay for tuition and some allowance.
Impressed by his ambition and motivation, Karl granted Alois’ wish, signed the necessary papers, got him a ticket, and transferred $2,000 to a bank in Aachen. This would pay the full tuition and provide a weekly allowance for Alois’s rent and other needs.
It all went so quick, Peter thought. He was six years older than Alois and always took care of him. Suddenly, his little brother embarked on this great adventure. Then, war broke out in Europe, and they didn’t hear from him anymore. Everyone was worried, but his uncle, optimistic as ever, kept saying that no news is good news.
So, there it was—an envelope, stained and wrinkled, with a bunch of stamps he didn’t recognize. It had Alois Boeselager as the sender, but it was not sent from Germany; it came from the Netherlands. What is he doing there? Did he flee? Peter thought. Then he shook his head, opened the envelope, and took out the letter.
June 10, 1916
Dear Peter,
I scarcely know how to begin writing after almost two years of silence. The last letter I sent you was in August 1914—back when war was still something distant, something happening elsewhere. By now you must have wondered why I haven’t written, perhaps feared the worst. Maybe in some ways, you weren’t wrong. But here I am, finally, and there’s much I must explain.
You probably guessed it already: I enlisted. It wasn’t quick or easy. When war began, Aachen was full of patriotic fervor. Rector Wallichs stood before us, urging every able student to enlist. Half my classmates joined immediately—some went to Pionier-Bataillon Nr. 7 in Köln, others joined the Füsilier-Regiment Nr. 39 in Düsseldorf. I stayed. At first, I thought my duty was to finish my studies, to serve in a different way. Classes quickly became empty, professors left for military duties, and we were reduced to a makeshift curriculum—what they called a Notstudium. By mid-1915, the university was a ghost town, and I had my diploma.
Yet staying became unbearable. Too many friends had left—some never to return. Letters came back, announcing classmates fallen on distant battlefields. In late summer of 1915, I could no longer bear being the only one safe and comfortable. I owed it to those friends, Peter; I had to share in their struggle. And so I enlisted, not enthusiastically or heroically, but quietly, almost reluctantly, with Infanterie-Regiment Nr. 165 in Wesel. We trained through the fall and winter—rifle drills, trench-digging, endless marches in rain and mud.
But things took a turn early this year. I was chosen for an experimental detachment under Hauptmann Willy Rohr at Beuveille. The old generals finally realized their methods were slaughtering men by thousands. Rohr introduced a new way—smaller groups, rapid infiltration, nighttime attacks, close-quarter fighting. No more charging headlong into enemy fire. Instead, we learned to move silently, armed with grenades, pistols, and flamethrowers, striking hard and withdrawing before the enemy could counterattack.
My first action was in March, near Fort Douaumont, attacking French machine-gun nests before dawn. Since then, our operations have become almost routine—brutal, sudden attacks on trenches near Fleury and Thiaumont. The French call us “les petits diables,” the little devils, appearing from shadows and vanishing again just as quickly. But I feel no pride in that reputation. Verdun is a nightmare—nothing but mud, broken men, endless artillery fire. We crawl through the dark, striking quickly, leaving behind smoke and screams. There is no glory here, just survival. And I struggle bringing everyone back. Everytime we go out, at least one doesn’t come back, and our platoon still has the best survival rate.
Recently, I nearly lost everything—not to a bullet, but a sip of water. A young recruit filled my canteen from a shell crater—a pit contaminated with mud, gas residue, rotting bodies, rats… everything vile this war produces. I drank, unknowingly, and soon lay burning with fever, unable to stand or speak clearly. They took me to a field hospital behind our lines. That’s where I met the nurse.
She was from the Dutch Red Cross, quietly working near the front. She cared for wounded from both sides—treating us without judgment, her presence a rare mercy amidst endless suffering. As I recovered, I realized she was my best chance to contact you directly, avoiding censors. She returns soon to the Netherlands and will mail this from there. She asked no questions, accepting the letter with a quiet nod. Remind me to visit her in Kerkrade once all of this is over. It’s very close to Aachen.
Peter, tell father and mother I’m safe and healthy, working comfortably in Germany. They must never know I’m here. It’s better for them. They wouldn’t understand my reasons for enlisting, and I fear they’d worry more if they knew the truth. Possibly even blaming themselves. Let them think I am simply an engineer at some quiet place far from harm.
If you write back, do it cautiously. Send the letter to our Uncle in Cologne. The address is in father’s office. Maybe I’ll get leave one day to pick it up. Fronturlaub, they call it.
Know that I miss you terribly—home feels like another world now. Please forgive the silence, and please keep this letter private.
Your brother always,
Alois
Tears ran down Peter’s cheeks. While Peter and his family worried about the family business, Alois was fighting for his life. Although, it sounded like he was ready to face death. He was leading men into battle and worried more about them than his own life.
Peter tried to imagine what he looked like at this moment. It had only been four years since he had hugged him at the harbor. Now, he was 22 and wore a uniform, possibly the Pickelhaube. Would he have a beard?
What would he tell his parents? Would he tell them anything at all?
Slowly, he walked to his desk and grabbed a pen and paper.