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A clean tablecloth is laid out on a neat desk. Next to the teacup, there is a Groma brand typewriter, a pair of dexterous and slender hands, constantly tapping the typewriter's keyboard.

The typewriter of the 40s, as complex as a piano, mechanically driven and with many parts.

More than a hundred intricate percussion mechanical levers follow the fingertips on the keyboard and hit the typing paper, leaving a regular character imprint.

The young female soldier in the SS uniform, after striking the last period, took down the documents from the printer, placed them in the wooden basket containing the paper beside her, and then took a sip of the water glass beside her.

She carefully closed the lid of the cup, then pulled out another piece of white paper and stuffed it onto the typewriter, which was not brand new.

Immediately after, she skillfully pulled out one from the middle of the stack of papers stacked on the side, and placed it in a place where she could see it with a slight squint.

Then, having twisted the knob of the typewriter, she looked at a notebook full of adjectives in front of her.

"Click! Click! With a crisp voice, she began to write quickly again, one by one with fluent typing, on the white paper jammed by the printer.

"Dear Madam, your son Hoffman has been very heroic on the front. For the sake of the Führer, he fulfilled the duty of a soldier and fought the enemy until the last moment. I would like to express the country's concern for you with this letter, God bless you......"

As she tapped on her keyboard, she used words from the notebook in front of her to describe a man she had never met.

Perhaps this soldier, named Hoffman, was a humble and insignificant ordinary soldier. But under her description, a great hero was born.

This unrecognizable foot Hoffman soldier may have only been killed on the march by an enemy shell at the front line, or perhaps he was just humbly huddled in the crater of the attack, blown into a sieve by the enemy's grenade.

But he died, fighting for the country. None of this is so important.

Every soldier is on the front line for the country, so when they lose their lives for the country, they are heroes of the country.

Singing the praises of such heroes is also an important job, and the daily job of this female soldier is to write such letters and send them to every family.

This is probably one of the most glorious letters of the Third Reich, each of which bears the name of the marshal.

This may also be a letter that every family in this world does not want to receive, because when this letter appears at the doorstep, it means that the father of the child or the son of the father will never come back.

The officers in charge of delivering the letters, all of whom were major-lieutenant colonels of considerable rank, would stand at the door and salute solemnly, and then distribute a flag to hang at the door.

Families flying such flags are given special care by the SS and the police, no one is troubled, and the conscripts do not disturb families with a record of dead soldiers.

As she kept tapping, a decent letter appeared in front of her. Most of the letters were composed of arbitrarily chosen adjective phrases, and she wrote them without a trace of emotion.

When she first started this job, she would cry because when she wrote these letters, it was as if she could see the vivid lives of those who fought bravely for their country.

But as time passed, such images were no longer in her mind. She numbly tapped on the mechanical keyboard, making a clicking sound.

And those once vivid lives have passed away forever at her fingertips with the long passage of time and the numbness of her thoughts.

"Boom!" At the end of the book, she tore off the letter that had been written on the printer and placed it on top of the one she had written earlier.

A female officer in her forties walked over to the soldier's desk, took the printed letterhead, compared the casualty report, and left without looking back.

It is said that it is a letter, and it is sent after someone specially checks it, and it is not a channel to mail a letter. So there is no need for an envelope, and there is no need to fill in an address.

Just in front of the woman who printed the letter was another woman typing fast, doing the same job.

While she was drinking water, the female soldiers in front of her were still working diligently. The other party's fingertips are just as fast, and the sound of the typewriter is just as crisp:

"Dear Madam, your son Scat was fearless in battle on the front lines, and he was one of the best soldiers I had when he attacked enemy positions. I deeply regret his death, he was a good soldier of the Führer and a good example to the people......"

Further afield, there are the same people doing the same work, and most people here are doing the same work every day after they go to work.

"Dear Madam, Bowman died today on the Eastern Front, because because of his brave battle, our troops captured the enemy's positions and won another great victory. Your son is the bravest soldier I have ever met, and his death is a great loss to the nation......"

Every day, they have to type out dozens of letters with a typewriter, and today they use words such as bravery, bravery, and fearlessness, and tomorrow they deliberately change to words such as agility, wisdom, and struggle.

Anyway, everyone try to use their own words randomly, and try to make the letter look more natural and comfortable.

The female soldier skillfully pulled out a list of the dead, looked at the names on it, and then began to skillfully repeat the action she had just repeated.

She had repeated the action countless times, and she had to repeat it countless times a day, clamping the paper, and then referring to the adjective, writing an emotionless letter:

"Dear Madam, I regret to inform you that your son, Brian, has died. He fought bravely with the enemy, but unfortunately was killed by a bullet. He was a good soldier and always a man that everyone respected......"

Next door to this workshop is another workshop, where female soldiers sort all kinds of letters, and classify and file each letter where it should go.

The "...... of Munich" saw the address in the letter, and a written letter was thus stuffed into the classified area of the city of Munich.

When recruiting, each soldier has a statistic of his identity, so when they die, it is very easy to check the original address, as well as various resumes after joining the army. Reading, a better reading experience.