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Vol. 1 No. 42 … Cover: Painting by Sgt. David Lax … And so it was Victory in Europe Day. When the sirens sounded, they hurled ticker tape in New York and drank champagne in Paris and fired artillery salutes in Moscow and began a holiday in London. And the people who write for the newspapers and speak on the radio mentioned “the victorious march across Africa, the triumphal battles of Sicily and Italy and the glorious drive across France and into the heart of a prostrate Germany.” And those were eloquent words. But the men who had fought the war and won said none of them. The men who had fought the war remembered, remembered Hill 609 in Tunisia, remembered Gafsa in Sicily, remembered Cassino in Italy, remembered Easy Red Beach in Normandy, remembered St. Lo and the Huertgen Forest and the Rhine and all the towns and forests and rivers before and after and remembered the Purple Hearts along the way and the neat white crosses. And knew that there had been no victorious marches, knew that there were no triumphal battles and no glorious drives. They knew that there are no words to say what it had been and what it would still be in -say, Shanghai, say, Borneo, say, Tokyo, say, Manchuria. There was no ticker tape or champagne or artillery salutes or holidays in the Pacific. And so it was Victory in Europe Day, but the men who had fought the war – and won – were not joyous. They were humble and silent, remembering.