February 1, 1945 Thursday

France

Dearest Honey,

How the home front manages to keep any morale at all is a mystery to me sometimes. Just finished censoring a heap of letters from the hospital and of all the dismal complaints! Those that are wounded badly do not drool around so much, but these guys with scratches like mine—if the world was as bad as they picture it, we’d better fold up right now. The worst one, the one that soured me on the lot, was from the Chaplain’s assistant here! Oh, he had troubles—his poor sinuses, losing weight, and his music all wrinkled up. Tush, tush.

Well, I am disgustingly healthy still, and have nothing of consequence to moan about. At least, I won’t add to the stack of blues I sent out today.

Life is completely uneventful here, there is no use relating each day. I just coast along, eating, sleeping, reading, and writing—even did a little drawing the other day, just for fun.

Today I did a particularly large amount of nothing—didn’t even read or think much. Played around a little bit with Herbert Agar’s “A Time for Greatness” and William L. White’s “Report on the Russians.”

I’ll close early now, and put in my doodles for the day. Just so you can see how busy I must be. More shortly--

I love you, know that?

All my love,

Wallace.

January 31, 1945 Wednesday

France

Dearest Honey, 

Physical therapy is very pleasant. Yesterday and today I have gone down to building five, which is the physiotherapy ward. There they put my arm under a heater for 15 minutes, then a nurse massaged all my arms muscles very thoroughly. The first time I pulled a pulley or two to help straighten out my arm, but I didn’t do that this morning. I can almost get my arm out straight now, and with a couple more days down there it will be as good as new. The scar from the wound isn’t going to be very big, at all.

Yesterday I saw another movie—they are doing very well this week. You see, they give shows in the different wards and I just hound dog around until I find out where it is going to be, then go down to that ward. Saw Jack Oakie in “Bowery to Broadway” yesterday afternoon.

The only trouble with this life is that my eyes do get tired, and this forces me to the awful expedient of taking frequent naps during the day. At least, that is the excuse I use for them, and I’ll stick to it. I have an unusual capacity for sleep. I never seem to get quite caught up. It is very fine to be able to sleep all you want.

I mentioned once, I think, that I was reading St. Mark as literature, didn’t I? I have finished that now, thought it over and started in on St. John. Mark is an account of the healings and miracles of Jesus and of the parables he told. I like John much better, for Mark stressed the miracles more than anything, while John puts the whole thing on a spiritual plane—“God is a spirit—to be worshiped in spirit and in truth.” As always, I find the philosophy good, but much of the concomitant things unacceptable. Much time spent in saying Christ had truth or that he represented God, without elaborating on what that truth was, or who God was. Where they do elaborate, it is very real. Where they do not, it is mysticism and legend. Generally, I accept Christian philosophy but am skeptical of so much that goes with it that I don’t consider myself a Christian. There is much for even a rational man to study there, tho, so I continue on with St. John.

I love you, Honey, all the time and hope that you are as comfortable as I am. Are the allotments coming in O.K., and do you have any problems? I’d love to hear about them and share them with you. Gee, you’re nice, Hon—I feel so lucky to have you. Let me know if I can do anything for you. 

All my love,

Wallace.