Dearest Marjorie,
Each day you can see more plainly the effects of the paper and ink shortage here! I’m sorry, but this is all there is to write on—no more can be bought, and pens to buy are unheard of here. At least I can get a message to you, even if the means isn’t very formal!
Yesterday my eyes were tired from too much reading, and I had a slight headache. So I postponed last evening’s letter to first thing this morning. It will go out at the same time, you see. Spent all day yesterday visiting and talking with other men from the outfits that I have found here. Also saw a mystery movie in the afternoon. These movies are the regular Hollywood productions, but shown from small projectors. And will it be a pleasure for me when I can again see a movie without having to wait while they turn on the lights and change reels! Don’t think the shows we do see are unappreciated, tho. The lousiest film on the worst projector goes over big. G.I.’s will wait hours for a movie to be set-up and shown.
My arm shows daily improvement. Coming along real good now, and I can use my fingers more and more. The soreness is leaving the arm, too, but my little finger remains numb. That’s all of today’s sick report.
Somewhere in France there is a lot of mail for me, but it doesn’t seem able to find me. It has been over 2 weeks now since I received any mail, and there don’t even seem to be any prospects of getting any for a while. I hope so much that some finds me while I am here at the hospital, because I have time to read the letters carefully here. If I do receive any, I shall declare a holiday and spend all day reading and re-reading it. Even if it’s only a V-mail!
I told you that I spent yesterday visiting and talking. Last evening two other Lieutenants and I discussed combat lessons all evening. It is quite profitable to share experiences like that. You can never learn too much about Jerries’ ways, and how to outsmart him. It’s up to platoon leaders in the final analysis to pull the little tricks that usually decide who’s going to tell about the skirmish. You just have to be “on the ball” all the time, working hard and thinking. Your men just have to work hard.
I am always torn between not wanting to write you unpleasant things, and still wanting to tell you sincerely about all I think and do. I think the last is more important, but please, dear, don’t add things with your imagination to the unpleasant things I may tell you. I shall try to tell them just as they are, and maybe judge how important they are. They need no more coloring. And don’t let them make you morose. I’m sure you know what I’m trying to say, Hon—just take ‘em in stride.
Well, I only have one unpleasant thing to talk about today. You know, they aren’t playing marbles up here, hon; a lot of people get killed. When you’re up front it is surprising how you take these things almost as a matter of course. That, I suppose, is because you’re working on your nerve, and doing so much physically that you build a mental wall around the shock of events. You don’t feel them emotionally at all, or very little. Now, however, after the tension has gone, those things come back to you and for the first time the emotional shock of the events strikes you. For the last few days I have been having events turn up in my mind that I never digested at the time. It is just a matter of feeling them and tossing them around in your mind a while as an introvert rather than an extrovert. Having men wounded hasn’t caused any twinges in my conscience. But every action in which I had a man killed has really been giving me a go recently. Damn it, those men were acting under my orders, and you can’t help feeling a certain responsibility for them. I have been going round and round with each case. Did I make a wrong decision? Could I have avoided it? Did the men know as much as I could tell them? And that old sentimental one—what could you say to the man’s relatives?
Those questions just creep up on you when you least expect them. They have to be answered before you can be adjusted to the death of those men—and it is a vivid picture to adjust to. I can answer them O.K., and am even now fairly well adjusted to it. It’s just one of those things that have to be assimilated the hard way—by facing them, admitting them and finally accepting them. Even this writing about it helps a lot, Hon.
I made mistakes. No criminal ones, tho, and none my conscience troubles me over. I took out one patrol to get some prisoners out of a group of foxholes. The patrol was the C.O.’s idea, or at least we had it together and both agreed to it. Well, snipers had those holes covered and I was the only member of the patrol to get back unwounded. Hereafter, I’ll never go out to get prisoners. They come to me. It’s very clear now, but that day we didn’t know that Jerry was in force in that area. We were supposed to meet him nearly a mile further on. Somebody had to find out he was there, and if we had gone by our original plan, the whole platoon might have gone out there. Lost some good men there, tho, and I keep asking myself why I didn’t try yelling at the damn Jerries rather than going out to see if they were there. I can think of a lot of reasons why—we didn’t know for sure they were there, we thought we might have to fight them and that was the only way to close with them, etc. I think now they would have come out if I had yelled, tho. It’s hard to accept the death of those men, some of my very best. Even if I had talked those Germans in, somebody would eventually have had to go out there. It was the only way to find out where the enemy line was, because they were not firing and were extremely well hidden.
Other cases; artillery fire, enemy patrols, close-in work—are not so hard to see as inevitable. One case a man didn’t fire when he saw a big patrol coming toward our area. Consequently they got so close they did a lot of damage with hand grenades. Why in hell he didn’t fire, I don’t know. I had tried to impress the importance of firing first on the whole platoon, but if he didn’t hear about it, that’s my fault, too. Well, praising or blaming doesn’t change the picture at all. I know I did as well or better than any of the other platoon leaders, and am satisfied that I foresaw all that could be foreseen. It’s impossible to see the best solution in advance all the time.
The men are gone. It is like losing a piece of you or me, for they were part of humanity as we are. But again, it is not the end. In the big sweep of things, these men died for the mass of humanity and its well being. And humanity goes on, a little better because they were a part of it for a time. Think of the tremendous investment that has been made in the future of mankind! And see how intensely and unquestionably real these sacrifices are! We can do nothing for those men as individuals now, but we can learn from them the earnestness of our jobs and at least justify their deaths by contributing to the humanitarian ideals for which they died.
For several nights thoughts like those have been going thru my head, as I slowly “digested” the events that have happened recently. I am glad my philosophy is big enough to take them. It is being well chastened but not basically changed, as I have said. I don’t think any bad dreams will come to me for long—but I have been doing a lot of fighting with my platoon the last few nights! I wake up two or three times a night with me on one side of the bed and the sheets on the other! Last night, tho, I wasn’t on any extensive maneuvers, and I think that they are over with now that I have looked into the things that were causing them.
We have ever so many humorous customs here at the hospital. It is like a comedy just to observe life here in the officers’ ward. Nobody ever does anything except play around—none are seriously wounded here. There are many German prisoners who do the menial work and some French civilians who help out. There is one chunky French girl whose sole job seems to be that of being chased by the patients. “Suzy” is the butt of all our jokes. When she enters in the morning, somebody always yells “Sooooozy” and takes after her with a gleam in his eye. When he has chased her thru a ward or two, somebody else takes over while Suzy pants and squeaks all her English, “Take it easy,” and “My aching back.” When Suzy sits down on the edge of the wash basin, somebody always turns the water on full force and drenches her. All very slapstick and French-ly immoral, but good for a dozen laughs a day and as good as another Red Cross for morale.
And then there is our calisthenics period. Ushered in with enthusiastic yells of “Let’s go” from all the patients, maybe 6 volunteer to actually get up and do anything. The rest look on, rest and cheer. The instructor is always half asleep, and as the bold 6 idly wave their arms in doubtful rhythm, he wanders around and makes cracks at the other patients. Nobody ever works up a sweat, and many drop off to sleep as the instructor remarks without rancor “You men are not cooperating!” More fun, tho.
I do rather wish I knew what you were doing these days, Hon, and Grammy, too. But whatever it is, I am thinking of you constantly and praying that you are happy and well. I’m very selfish in that, because you see I’ve been around quite a bit recently and I’ve found that I have the privilege of having the very best and nicest wife in the world. And I want her to have everything she wants so she will stay that way. I know she will, tho, and that’s why I always feel so good way down deep. You know, we are a rather old married couple now—8 months—and I still haven’t got over telling the fellows what “my girl” writes me. Quite often I have to explain that actually I am married to “my girl.” It’s a wonderful set-up. I feel so secure and content and happy knowing we are married, and yet I feel just as enthusiastic and excited over the idea of seeing you and kissing you as if we were about to be married. I bet nobody will ever be newlyweds as long as we are—I’ve had that nice just married feeling for 8 months now and rather expect I’ll always have it. I miss you, and want you and love you every minute, Bunny, and hope that when I see you again you won’t leave my sight for at least another 100 years. It will take that long to make up for the loving I want so much now—so terribly.
Every bit of my love,
Wallace.
