Somehow, I managed to survive the assault on the beach. I'm just not too sure how. The unforgiving hail of German fire rained down around us, never once letting us forget that we were on offense. They held the high ground and mercilessly raked anyone or anything that moved with piercing bullets. So many men died in the assault. So many lives were lost.

At least it wasn't in vain. At least their death wasn't meaningless. By the end of the long day, we were victorious. Not even the defending Germans could withstand the relentlessness of the Allied Forces. Most notably, the U.S. Army Rangers.

Yet, after it was all said and done, they took command away from Captain Miller. He had repeatedly proved himself in battle. On D-Day and after. But even after all of that, they still give him the assignment that they did. Take a squad and go find a Private Ryan.

When will the madness end? Will it ever end? How many more have to die? There's eight of us. Eight. With a Captain in command. Somewhere, someone in command fucked up. Either that, or they're making a big fuss out of something that really doesn't deserve the attention.

Somewhere along the line, we transcended the line that separates reality from everything else. Nothing makes sense. Duty and honour. Honour and duty. Where has it all gone? Does it even exist any longer? In the end, it may be worth it. But I don't see how.

How can one soldier be worth all this fuss? Sure, his mother only has him left. Sure, all his brothers died in this War. But what about all the others All the other soldiers who lost brothers. All the other mothers who lost sons. Some of them lost their only child. Some lost husbands.

Do they not matter? Are their rights and suffering trivialized just because this one man happens to be from Iowa? I think so. But, on the other hand... to relieve the pain and suffering of just one, distraught woman, would be enough to make the ends justify the means.

The horrors and nightmares never really end. Even as we walk through the countryside, we are reminded of the war raging on around us. The dead animals. The dead bodies. The ruins of houses and homes. It goes on and on.

At night, I'm sometimes still haunted by the screams of the wounded and dying. The cries of the soldiers, some of them just boys, for a medic, aide, or corpsman. Some of them for their mother. I did what I could, but some... some I just couldn't save. Some I didn't get to in time.

Caparzo is gone and now here we sit, in the ruins of a church. In my pocket I carry the blood-stained letter he was writing home. I just can't send it like that. After copying his words to a clean sheet, I will include some words of my own and send it. But not until then.

Once again, there wasn't a damn thing that I could do. No matter how badly I wanted to run out into that street and try to help him, I couldn't. I was held back. And when Jackson finally nailed the German sniper, it was too late. Caparzo was gone. And I hadn't done a damn thing. Not one single thing to help.

Just seven of us left now and we still haven't tracked down this Ryan. How many more of us will have to die before we accomplish this mission? Will we ever accomplish it, or will we die trying? It's almost a certain that at least one more will die before the end.

But for now, I need to get back to working on Adrian's letter. We will be moving out soon, and I haven't even had a little rest. But that will just have to wait.

I'm so sorry I let you down, Adrian. If I could have gotten to you sooner, I might have been able to help you. Yet, on the other hand, this just might have been meant to be. But that still doesn't make it right.