Somewhere in France
[V-Mail]
Dearest Marjorie,
I am very sorry that I am not writing as often as I have
been. Please forgive me, I’ll write just as often as I can always, you know.
I slept at the home of a French villager the other night,
and he dragged out from under a pile of straw a bottle of champagne he had
hidden during the occupation. It was the best I have ever had—really wonderful.
He said it was the last in town; the Germans took the rest.
Had the thrilling experience of capturing a couple of
A.W.O.L. soldiers at the point of my trusty carbine the other day. They were
hiding out in an old house in the woods. We found the house, threw a guard
around it and let them walk into our trap. It was really very simple, but I
felt like Dick Tracy, nevertheless.
I have been reviewing your letters and devour every one. I
hope they will continue to come as well, even if I can’t return them all. They
are wonderful, Honey, and are the high points of my days. If I don’t get a
chance to write the folks, will you give them my love, etc.? I am fine, and not
furiously busy—just looking after things that don’t stop at sundown—seldom get
to a place where you can sit down and write. Have all the faith in the world
now, Honey. I love you more than a thousand V-mails could say.
Always all yours,
Wallace.
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| December 3, 1944 V-mail |
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