January 6, 1945 Saturday

Somewhere In France
[V-mail]

Dearest Honey,

I have written you a little about the nightly conversations I have with the mayor of this village. They are very interesting to me. Every night after a series of officers meetings I return to find Armand waiting eagerly for me. We shake hands, wish each other well. He brings out a battered pair of slippers for me, and we settle down before the fire. After lighting our Chesterfields, I drag out our daily newspaper and translate the main articles, with a little sage comment added. He listens and comments, too. Then after I show him the pictures and read “Li’l Abner” to him, we turn to general conversations. His past life, travels, US-French customs, post-war problems, philosophy. My French gets real smooth with this practice. Finally, we pour two small shots of Scotch and we alternate nights proposing a toast – to you, to our future and safety, to “La Belle France.” My Scotch is low, but he says “Quand il y en a plus, il y en a encore – comme les cheveaux de Leonore.” Then we shake hands cordially, wish a good night to each other for 5 minutes, and so to bed.

Yours always,

Wallace.