A thin little line, just like a high-water mark, for miles along the beach. This is the strewn personal gear, that will never be needed again, of those who fought and died to give us our entrance into Europe. Here in a jumbled row for mile on mile are soldier’s packs. Here are socks and shoe polish, sewing kits, diaries, Bibles, and hand grenades. . . . Here are the latest letters from home. . . Here are the toothbrushes and razors, and snapshots of families back home staring up at you from the sand. Two of the most dominant items in the beach refuse are cigarettes and writing paper. Each soldier was issued a carton of cigarettes just before he started. Today these cartons by the thousand, watersoaked and spilled out, mark the line of our first savage blow. Writing paper and airmail envelopes come in second. The boys had intended to do a lot of writing in France. Letters that would have filled those blank, abandoned pages.