Somewhere in France
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,
|December 3, 1944 V-mail|