I was twelve in 1949 when a family friend gave me a Walther PP he brought back from WWII, having taken it from a German who "no longer needed it".
My dad disliked guns after D-Day (first wave) on Omaha Beach, and could no longer see well enough to shoot anyway. My mother wasn't thrilled with Harry's gift, but didn't say anything at the time. But when someone tried to steal the Walther she took it to a pawn shop and sold it for fifteen bucks. I never got to shoot it.
Nice pistol, very clean. Had the late owner's name penciled inside the holster flap.
Wish I had it now.