Dearest Marjorie,
Boy, your letters are coming thru in fine style now, and
quite fast. I know all about your trip to Bill’s and the doings of the Russells
up to Dec. 2. It sure is good to read about what you do and the homey things
our folks worry about. Makes me feel right at home. I wish I could tell you
more of my activities and travels. I am no longer at Mme. Legrande’s or the
large farm, you know. Seen a lot of France since then, tho, and as soon as my
censorship ideals permit I will tell all. This part of France is not nearly as
quaint as the section of Normandy we were in. The towns look feudal, ith drab
clay houses—each with its big pump and dung pile out front. Chickens and cows
roam at will down main streets. My French still serves me well and puts me in
close contact with civilians—I can converse quite freely now and they don’t have
to slow down for me as a rule. One trouble, tho, every time a civilian has a
bone to pick, he gets me out of bed for it and I have to hear his tale of woe.
Not being a civil affairs officer, all I can do is mumble “très
difficile” and go back to sleep. My platoon is in fine shape, best boys you
ever saw, and working smoother every day.
All my love, Hon,
Wallace.
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