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.
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