It was a picture story of the death of one 82nd Airborne trooper. He had occupied a German foxhole and made it his personal Alamo. In a half circle around the hole lay the bodies of nine German soldiers. The body closest to the hole was only three feet away, a potato masher (gernade) in its fist. The other distorted forms lay where they had fallen, testimony to the ferocity of the fight. His ammunition bandoliers were still on his shoulders, empty of M-1 clips. Cartridge cases littered the ground. His rifle stock was broken in two. He had fought alone, and like many others that night, he had died along.

I like the description. And the sadness of the picture. I can't fathom the desperate stand he took. Imagine - you're surrounded by enemy. You're out of ammo. You've killed a good many but there are a bloody lot more out there. You wait for them to come and get you, since you don't have any more ammo. When they come, you switch to using your rifle as a club instead, using all your strength until the butt breaks. Eventually, as you lie dying, or in the instant before your death, you wonder - for what reason do men fight.