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[Chalice] A WW II Chaplain's Letters Home [Chalice]

Presented November 1, 2015, by Paul Miller

Listen to a recording of "A WW II Chaplain's Letters Home"
34:36 minutes - 31.7 MB - A WW II Chaplain's Letters Home .mp3 file.


In 1943, Reverend Gerald Fletcher Miller put his life on hold, as so many Americans did, and went to war. His weapons were Bible, hymnal and communion vessels; he brought to battle his faith, compassion, and skill in counseling. He left a parish ministry in East Arlington, Vermont, to serve a congregation of soldiers, doctors and nurses, returning at war's end to a parish in North Waterford, Maine. He left his wife and three children, and returned two years later to his wife and four children.

Letters to and from home are the soldier's emotional lifeline-both for the soldier who goes to the fighting front, and for the loving and beloved soldier in civilian dress who "keeps the home fires burning." That was so for me in Vietnam in 1967-68 as much as for Dad in 1943-45. Letters from the absent loved one are read, reread and treasured

Reading and editing these 60-year-old letters has been a joy and a privilege. Through them I have gotten re-acquainted with the father I was privileged to know, and learned much about a part of his life and work I knew little about.
Anthony Gerald Miller
Lilburn, Georgia, 2004

By Jimmy Page and Robert Plant

We come from the land of the ice and snow,
From the midnight sun where the hot springs blow.

The hammer of the gods
Will drive our ships to new lands,
To fight the hord,
Singing and crying:
Valhalla, I am coming!

On we sweep, with thrashing oar,
Our only goal will be the western shore.

How soft your fields, so green,
Can whisper tales of gore,
Of how we calmed the tides of war.
We are your overlords.

So now you better stop
And rebuild all your ruins,
For peace and trust can win the day,
Despite of all your losing.

Two letters from my father to my big brother and sister, when they were 5, and 7 years old:

May 30, 1944

Dear Bruce,
Do you have any playmates in your new neighborhood? I hope you do and that you get along well together. When I was five years old we lived in a double house. People by the name of Watson lived on the other side of the house. My two sisters found a hole in the wall and they talked through it to the Watson girls, Marjorie and Doris. Marjorie was about my sister Caroline's age, somewhat of a grownup lady, about fourteen years old. Doris was only about six months older than I, but very much smarter. She started school when I did, but was she content to stay in the first grade two years like I did? I guess not. She was in the second grade before she got used to the temperature of the first. And how she used to boss me around. I never liked her because she was so smart and superior and bossy. Across the street there was a boy about my age named Jerry Iought. His name sounded like that. Up street two houses was another boy called Clarence Barry. Whenever I had any swearing I needed done I always got Clarence to do it for me. That is why I never have been much of a hand to swear myself. My little friends used to do it for me.... Playmates are lots of fun if they behave and I hope you have some as nice as Ruth Main was and not bossy like Doris Watson or the swearing kind like Clarence Barry. But if you have let the bossy one do all the bossing. It is the only way you can get along with them, and let the swearing kind do all the swearing. It dirtys you up inside when you do the swearing yourself. This preaching will cost you one dollar.
Your loving

June 15, 1944

Dear Priscilla,
Here I am still in Texas but I am thinking about some people who are not in Texas. I am thinking of a girl with nice brown eyes, nice brown hair, nice brown complexion and who likes nice, brown maple sugar on her cereal, when the cereal is Maltex....
Mother writes me that she is very busy. Very busy, indeed. Don't you think she ought to have all the help she possibly can get? I have a few suggestions to make.
1. Wash the dishes twenty-one times each Saturday. You can see how helpful that would be. I always thought dishes should be washed every meal. So if you have 3 meals a day 7 days a week that makes 21 meals & 21 times to wash the dishes.
2. Dust each thing seven times every Saturday.
3. Play sweet music on the piano while Mother is giving Anthony his dinner, breakfast, mid-morning snack, afternoon tea, and just-before-bed-luncheon.
4. Read to Bruce often so that he won't have quite so many times to say, "Mother, I wish you'd tell me what would be fun to do."
5. Talk over with Kenneth the idea of having a little worship service once or twice a week. Fix up an altar, have candles, work out your service and invite Mother and Anthony to attend. Like the idea? I'm beginning to feel bad that we have so seldom invited God into our home. Of course you will find a place for Bruce in the service, too.
6. Mother and I both love you and your three brothers very much. And because we love you we both wish you to have the very best things life has to offer. Mother would not be satisfied to give you rotten oranges when she could give you good, fresh ones.... Well it is that way with the things Mother gives you to read. So I think I'm going to ask you and Kenneth to spend two minutes reading or listening to the good stories in your new books for every one minute you spend on the poor stuff you find in the comics. Mother and I wish you to feed your mind with good food as well as your bodies.
Yours with love,


"Whoever lights the torch of war in Europe can wish for nothing but chaos. We, however, live in the firm conviction our times will see not the decline but the renaissance of the West. It is our proud hope and our unshakable belief Germany can make an imperishable contribution to this great work."
Adolf Hitler
Speech to the Reichstag in Berlin May 1935

Spike Jones

When der Fuehrer says we is der master race,
We Heil - pffft- heil - pffft- right in der Fuehrer's face.

Not to love der fuehrer is a great disgrace,
So we Heil - pffft- heil - pffft- right in der Fuehrer's face.

Are we not der supermen?
Aryan Fuhrer's supermen.
Ja we are der supermen.
Super duper supermen!

Is this not ze land so good?
Would you leave it if you could?
Ja, dis NAZI land is good.
We would leave it if we could!

We will bring the world new order,
Heil Hitler's world to order!

Everyone of foreign race
Will love der Fuhrer's face,
When we bring to der world dis order.

When der Fuehrer says we is der master race,
We Heil - pffft- heil - pffft- right in der Fuehrer's face.

Not to love der fuehrer is a great disgrace,
So we Heil - pffft- heil - pffft- right in der Fuehrer's face.

[Last night, you may recall, was Halloween. Long before Halloween became a time to dress up and act silly, it was a time to honor our ancestors. Next week, on Veterans Day, we honor our warriors; the brave young men and women who fought the wars that our old men got us into. Today I offer a tribute to both our ancestors, and our warriors. This is especially a tribute to my father, and he wrote most of this sermon for me, while he served as an Army chaplain in WW11.

After my mother died, her lifetime accumulation of old photos, keepsakes, and clutter was passed on to my sister. This random ancestral archive included all of Dad's letters home from the war. When my brother learned that she had these letters, it seemed to me kind of like finding the Dead Sea Scrolls. My brother, and his wife and their son re-typed all the letters, and assembled them in a book, a copy of which he gave to each household in the Miller Clan. This collection of Dad's letters is one of my greatest personal treasures.

I hope not to bore you with details of interest only to family members. I will share letters that I hope give insight on the life of an army chaplain, and life during wartime in general.

Our story begins during training at Fort Russell, Texas.]

Chaplain Gerald Miller
85th Chemical Battalion

Chaplain Gerald Miller
85th Chemical Battalion
Fort D. A. Russell, Texas

September 26, 1943

Dearest Sweet Doris:
I've decided to spend this afternoon writing to the people I care most about. Naturally I start with you. Yesterday I received a letter from your mother and another from your father and I was very pleased to get them. So I know they aren't mad. Your mother said she enjoyed having the family there this summer. She didn't say so, but I gathered she enjoyed it about as a football player enjoys a game in which he is carried out in the last quarter.
I am working hard now to get things ready for next Sunday which is World-wide Communion Sunday. I have one problem that I can't handle. Of all the close communion sects the Lutherans of the Missouri Synod cannot be served. There is no local church for them here and they won't take communion from my unconsecrated hands. If any one of these boys were dying of thirst and I poured out a cup of cool, pure water, he would be glad to take it from my hands and live.... But the handling of the element by me interferes with what they call the "real presence" of Jesus Christ. You see, Jesus belonged to the Missoury Synod. Judas did, too. He held the bag. Apparently they expect me to. Anything like that makes me mad.
Your loving sweetheart

111th Evac. Hosp.
Camp Swift, Texas November 22, 1943

...I went over to Wake Island with [Chaplain Morford] ...a new outfit has moved into that area and it has two chaplains. One is a stout man from the Episcopal church and the other a small man from the Catholic. The former is a captain and takes charge. He and Morford had a long chat about what they were doing with emphasis upon the Episcopal part of it while I just listened. They talked about a visit of a bishop to Camp Polk and, being a typical Episcopal bishop he was broad of girth rather than broad of mind. He got into a tank and he was so long getting out of it that he was almost late for his next appointment. Then and there I discovered the difference between a medium tank and a heavy tank. A medium tank becomes a heavy tank when an Episcopal bishop gets into it....

Dec. 5, 1943

Dearest Doris:
Here I am sitting at Chaplain Morford's desk, sitting in Chaplain Morford's chair, using Chaplain Morford's pen. Perhaps I am Chaplain Morford. I hope not. Chaplain Morford is a fine fellow but I like Chaplain Miller's wife better than Chaplain Morford's wife. I like Chaplain Miller's children better than I do Chaplain Morford's children. I like Chaplain Miller's church better than I like Chaplain Morford's church and I like Chaplain Miller better than I like Chaplain Morford. So I hope I'm the former & not the latter. Gee! When I think of all the things I done to, with and for Chaplain Miller's lovely wife I hope I'm the former! Gosh!

February 7, 1944

...I suggest you subscribe for the Free Press or some other paper. A Chaplain's wife ought to keep posted. Perhaps you may even see my picture in it some day over the caption, "Chaplain gets perfect-attendance-at-mess-medal" or, "Chaplain preaches patient to sleep when ether supply is exhausted,"... I've another request for you. The Bible I have been using for the last eleven years is a Christmas present from you, but you never wrote in it. I'm sending it home for you to write your name in. That Bible is going around the world with me and it will be helpful to turn to your name in it when I feel the need of a little comfort. And please dig through the books out back and send the Abingdon Commentary....There is so little of the Bible in the preaching of these army Chaplains and so much of what there is ain't so that I feel the need of correcting that and keeping myself thoroughly grounded on the facts about the different Bible books....

March 5, 1944

The package with my Bible and other books arrived yesterday. And the cookies. They were very good and I ate them all up this morning. The cookies, I mean. It was so nice of you to send them that I love you all the more. I would like to kiss the hands that made them. I would like to rub my nose against the nose that first smelled them cooking. I would like to look into the eyes that first saw them. And I'd like to kiss the lips that belong to the person whose hands, nose and eyes I mention above. (Gosh! wouldn't it be awful if someone else made them!)

February 29, 1944

There's a new major around here who is helping me make a first class hypocrite out of myself. He offers again and again to give me pointers about military life. That's all right. But he rags the sergeants that probably know more about their job than he'll ever know. I always act pleased to see him and act appreciative of his suggestions. He's even trying to get me interested in his church, the Roman Catholic. Well, I know too much about the history of that church and the practical results of its work in Catholic countries and communities to care a damn about its forms or ceremonies. He gave me a book called, "The Faith of Millions," to read. I put it on the shelf, let it stay there a week and then returned it... Well, this bud got to discussing birth-control with me. "Does your church believe in the use of contraceptives?" I explained to him that with us it was an individual matter. "But don't you believe that a man ought to have sexual intercourse with his wife alone?" I admitted that we did. "Don't you look upon the reproduction of children as a gift of God?" I said we did. Then I pointed out that it was grossly unfair to a woman to make her have a baby every year, as he does his wife. I pointed out that the denial of that instinct usually led to unbalance on one hand, and the having of a large family with a small means was not fair to the children. I also pointed out that, with our advance in medicine it was not necessary to have twenty children in order to have five grow up as was true in Mexico. He was called away then so our discussion terminated. It is just as well for in time I would let him know what I thought of his priest-ridden mind and what I thought of him in the bargain. I hope he or I get transferred elsewhere before that time comes.
Your lover,

Have I told you about my assistant? His name is Louis Figlioli. He is a Catholic boy but not thoroughly indoctrinated with all the hocus pocus of that medieval institution. He has been giving me a lot of soft soap which I really don't know whether he believes himself, or not. Such as "I wish you would help me with my letters some time. You're a master at that sort of thing." "How do you know?" "Because of the way you speak." Now what would you do, hand him a quarter or throw the vase of flowers at him? He has been talking to the Catholic boys about me, trying to convince them that I would be mighty glad to help them with their problems. So far none have come up

He does seem to admire me a lot and I don't know why unless it's because I don't allow my rank to impress the men. Out on bivouac I pitch right in with the tent pitching, loading and unloading, and when I can I get in the mess line instead of barging right into the mess tent like the other officers do. He says the men like me very much. I hope so, but he may be judging others by himself.

[The 111th Evacuation Hospital sailed from New York July 26 and arrived in Liverpool August 1, about 2 months after D-Day. Dad's hospital unit followed the allied force fighting their way through France, Belgium, Holland, and Germany. On August 25, allied forces retook Paris. While in England, he wrote: ]

Naturally the people of England are very enthusiastic over the liberation of Paris. I heard the Marsellaise played several times yesterday. I heard a very jubilant commentator declare the immensity of the victory in northern France. Seeing these headlines in the English papers telling of complete routes of the German 7th Army makes me wonder what the headlines in American papers might be. People of England have a special stake in this victory because it may mean the end of these pilotless bombs that have done so much destruction. Well, I hope the good news continues. General Patton is on the rampage again and that is always bad news for the Germans. With no more Rommell to chase Montgomery will have to find some other objective. It may be Goering this time.

France September 11, 1944

We are still here in the old cow pasture. Yesterday we went from sun to sun without any rain, the first day in France without rain. Today is a lovely day, just like Indian summer. The officers spend most of their time making themselves comfortable. They forage around for boards and boxes to put things on, for stones to make soakage pits, for sticks to hang things on and for cans to put things in.... One of the captains had an anniversary celebration in our tent one night after dark. Bottles of whiskey were produced from bedding rolls and before long apparent adults were transformed into obvious children; children with very filthy minds and silly ideas. It lasted until about one o'clock and one of our tent mates talked in his sleep for about an hour afterwards. His conversation appeared to be entirely between him and a girl he was vainly trying to seduce....

September 25, 1944

Because of the frequent moving of supply dumps and the uncertainty of refrigerator ships our supply of fresh meat is limited. Well, we have had plain sliced baloney. Next day we have grilled baloney, the next day we have diced baloney and this morning we had chicken fried baloney. Now and then we get a surprise in the form of chicken, steak, pork chops and pork roast. But usually it is one species of baloney or another. So the men talk about it. One of them said, "The latest rumor is that they are going to feed us food at the mess." Anyway, the dog that pals around with us has got so he turns his nose up at baloney.

V-mail, October 2, 1944

Dearest Doris:
In another cow pasture! But in a different country. We passed through some lovely country during most of Saturday and how friendly the people were! Children were anxious to shake hands with us and give us things. One man accosted me with a bottle and a wine glass and offered me a drink. People tossed apples, tomatoes, pears & peaches into the jeep. Everyone waved and gave the V for Victory sign. But where we are now is another story. We have to prove ourselves friends before they more than tolerate us, and wherever we go, we never go singly. But it is beautiful country

Somewhere in Holland
October 10, 1944

There is a great poverty of men in this unit who are willing to talk about the moral aspects of our Christian way of life. Most of them do what they want to do and then challenge you to tell them why they haven't a right to do it. The nurses seem to be a fine group on the whole and their keenness of moral perception is sharp. The officers never have any moral qualms about anything. If they don't do anything it is just because they don't want to or lack the opportunity. That is what war does to them and that is why work with the enlisted men makes up practically all of the Chaplain's time. As far as officers as a whole are concerned there is no such thing as the Ten Commandments or the moral law. All they are concerned about is Army Regulations and military directives. I know that if it were not for the nurses I couldn't have any evening meeting at all. And it is needed because there are so many things that are tearing down every good ideal that they have started with.

November 20, 1944

Dearest Doris:
We are taking in patients steadily. Some are minor cases and we send them right on back to a general hospital. Some are medical cases and we doctor them up so they can go right back to duty. Others have more severe wounds that require blood or plasma. And some are so severely wounded that anyone outside of the medical profession would swear they couldn't live. Some don't. But out of more than eight hundred patients we have received not more than twenty have died.

My first business was to get every body ready for the trip to the cemetery. That meant checking with the laboratory to see that they were all ready to go. Then I had to uncover their faces and see that the dog tags were around their necks. Then I had to go to registrar and find out the number of the bag their valuables were in, go to supply and see if they had any there that were not in bags. These had to be matched up with the bodies. Then I had to get a truck assigned and arrange so that the driver could get early chow so we could get an early start. Then chow. After chow we loaded the bodies . Then I went with them to show them the way and offer my services for any burial service they might wish.

There we unloaded our cargo. It was five Americans and one German. While we were there a load from the battle field came. Ours were bad enough but those were even worse. They were unloaded by colored soldiers and their nonchalance in handling these poor, mangled bodies is a sight to see.

I just got safely in bed last night when my assistant came over and said there was a patient about to be operated on who wanted me. So I went over and he was on the operating table. He was a medic who saw two soldiers injured by snipers and started out to get them. He stepped on a mine that blew off his left foot. He applied the bandage on himself and was sent to us with a bandage on the leg. But when it was time for our surgeons to operate he began to feel worried. So I held his hand and talked gently to him and almost like magic he quieted down. The nurse that gave the anesthetic said he took it surprisingly well. I stayed right by him for an hour and a half while they took off the rest of his leg just above the knee. It was my first night on the operating room and I did not enjoy it.

One of the extra tasks was to solve the problem of what to do with amputated parts. There is an army directive instructing us to bury these parts under six feet of earth. This sounds very simple on paper but the question was where and how. So I went to Civil Affairs to see if I ought to hire a Dutch farmer's field for this purpose. There I was sent to the Corps Surgeon's office. I went there like the man looking for a pail of steam and found three colonels talking about something. A major talked to me for a while and said any place I could find would be all right. Then he suggested I go to a signal Construction Battalion and ask them to send a post hole digger down and dig my holes. That struck me funny for this machine has a huge 16" drill they use for digging holes for telegraph poles. But I went there and asked them. Sure enough, they'd do it. So the next day, which was today they sent their machine down and dug about 25 holes for me. They dug them at least seven feet deep. It would take two men at least a week to do that amount of work. So this afternoon I carried the leg over and buried it. You don't know how much good it did me to solve that problem. When I came back I was told I had more of the leg to bury. The man whose leg was cut off yesterday had to have more yet cut off. So what was left of that and some of the other stuff that is offal of the operation room was put in a 12 qt pail. So I poured that into one of the holes. But the hole had water in it. Now, just like the fable of the crow and the pitcher of water, when I dropped in stones and dirt, the water level rose and brought what I was trying to bury up with it. So, if I kept on we would have the hole filled up and the offal right on top stinking to high heaven. What would you do?

Well, yesterday we received seven cases of cigarettes for our men. Each case has a covering of waterproof paper on the inside. So I threw two of these down the hole, covered it with a lair of dirt and, presto, the stuff was buried.

That is what makes my job here so fascinating. Whenever there is some problem to be solved that is not covered by an established army policy they put me to work on it. It takes quite a lot of thinking. If I had the brains your dad has I'd have been a major by now.

January 1, 1945

The Germans paid us a visit at exactly midnight last night. The timing was perfect. Take that and the response our A.A.A. batteries gave him and our drunken officers coming back from their session with Rheims Champagne it was a memorable New Year's eve for me. Well, we have the pilot of that airplane down stairs as a patient. At least, so they say.

April 4, 1945

Here we are in Germany, about seventy miles in. All along the way we saw signs of war and a very depressing sight it is, even in enemy country, even an enemy such as Germany. Farmers were getting in their spring's work. Occasionally a farmer was fortunate enough to have two strong horses for his ploughing. But usually a horse will be yoked with an ox. Sometimes the ox is harnessed with the ropes or straps hitched to the horns. At other times there is a similar harness to that used on the horses. The fields looked very good and the soil rich and black.

Often we came across groups of people with wagons of varying sizes all the way from a two wheeled affair pulled by one man and pushed by two or three women to single wagons pulled by one horse. Apparently these people were going back to what was their homes. I suppose someone had gone ahead and discovered that there was some possibility of retrieving something out of the almost hopeless waste that is the result of the kind of war they elected to fight.

In some towns everything was pretty well intact and the reason was evident. In every house window there was some kind of a white flag, a towel, handkerchief, table cloth, part of a sheet, anything white, to show that they gave up. In the Stars and Stripes there was mention made of one little city that wanted to surrender by telephone. Some one called up the colonel of the regiment about to make the attack and asked what they must do to give up the town. He said have every home show a white flag within twenty minutes. Well, talk about your evening primrose blossoming out all at once, that's just what the town did. In an unbelievably short time there were white flags all over the place. Some women even used their slips because they didn't want to take time to unset the table

Of course much of the way the usual signs of war were in evidence. We passed one factory that was so thoroughly blasted by bombing that it was just good for nothing. I think it was an arsenal but I'm not sure. I saw what I thought was a big siege gun barrel split half-way down. We headed towards Hanover but we didn't get there the first day. We met thousands of liberated prisoners, both men and women trudging back from their areas of concentration. We thought our trip was long in trucks but those poor souls, some walking and pushing or pulling carts with their personal effects, or riding on commandeered bicycles, or in wagons drawn by a horse or two, both commandeered, or in wagons drawn by tractors or even in G.I. trucks. These people often wear or fly the flag of their nation, France or Russia predominate because they are the largest nations to have forced laborers in Germany. But we also see Dutch and Belgian flags, and we passed one group which claimed to be Roumanian. It is a pathetic sight, Doris, to see these poor people, so far from home, constantly on the move. What they do for food I can't imagine unless they filch as they go along. To farmers who live along the way they must be a constant menace. I just wonder what a German farmer could do if four or five of these displaced persons should happen in just about meal time and help themselves to everything edible in sight and endeavor to catch a hen or rooster on the way out. There is no government here to stop such a thing. Yet these people seem to keep to the road and press steadily to the rear. They go just about so far and are stopped by our own Military Government that rounds them up and puts them in large buildings, where there are any intact, and they stay there until they can be taken to their homes. Load after load leaves these places daily, but the Poles and Russians just have to wait until the road is clear to their homes in the east. In just another month, I imagine, we shall be able to send them East, right through Berlin to Poland or Russia and south to Czecho-Slovakia, Jugo-Slavia, Greece, and not long hence, to Norway and Denmark. Near where we are now is another camp where these people, workers in a nearby factory, are housed and the French and Russian flags float proudly where once the Swastika was monarch of all that could survey it.

April 24, 1945

Dearest Doris:
I'm afraid I am using you as a guinea pig, and that is no way for a man to treat his wife, especially when the wife is lovely you. But sometimes we treat those we love the mostest the worstest. Ain't it the truth? You see, we picked up an Italian typewriter and it found its way into our office. I've learned by now never to ask Fig about the hows or wheres or whys of anything that makes its appearance nowadays. My policy, finally established after much protest is to accept the inevitable for if we don't get the benefit of these things in the service of the men someone else will in the service of himself. So I accept. This is a swell typewriter but a few of the letters are different and lots are in a different place. I hope, however, I can get used to this for it is a swell typewriter and perhaps it can be taught to spell better than the American one made by Remmington.

[April 30, Hitler committed suicide in his bunker in Berlin.
May 7, Germany surrendered unconditionally. It took Dad's unit another 6 months to mop up and go home.]

Aug.19, 1945

...One of my greatest problems here is to find things with which to pay my laundry bill. Money's no good to these people because there is hardly anything for sale. So, when I send out my laundry I put in a couple of candy bars, two packages of gum, a box of matches, a package of cigarettes, half a cake of laundry soap and, if I have it, some toilet soap. This, to me, represents an investment of about 30¢ but to the German family it represents a great deal more, probably 4 or 5 dollars on the Black Market. As long as I can keep ahead a supply of negotiable stuff I am all right.

September 26

...When we pulled out of the parking area on Thursday morning, drove through town and on to N-3 westbound we found that our convoy was part of one huge string of U.S. Army vehicles that were heading for Reims. I expect that this large stream of trucks and jeeps was thirty or forty miles long. As far as we could see either way were trucks all going our direction....

[The last letter is dated Oct. 26, 1945; 70 years and 6 days ago]

October 26, 1945

Dear Doris:
I expect we load onto a Liberty Ship tomorrow and probably start on our journey homeward on Sunday. This ship will take eighteen days. We sail for Boston. Expect your telephone to ring sometime after six o'clock and before ten any evening after November 14. There's a good chance I might get home for Thanksgiving. Yours with love,

Closing words:
(Dad closed his worship service every Sunday with this benediction):

"The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious unto you; the Lord lift up the light of his countenance upon you and give you peace, now and for ever. Amen."

©2015 Paul Miller

The following, adapted from the Chicago Manual of Style, 16th edition, is the preferred citation for this article:
Miller, Paul 2015. A WW II Chaplain's Letters Home, /talks/20151101.shtml (accessed July 9, 2020).

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