April 6, 1945 Friday

France – Hosp. 

Evening, my Honey,

Today coasted along following the same routine I told you about in yesterday’s letter. I told the doctor it was time to take the stitches out but he didn’t agree with me. Guess he hasn’t had too much training. No, actually he is about the best doctor I have been under, and everyone has all the confidence in the world in him. He’s a big man, not fat, but big. He has a mild, intelligent face and a manner that inspires faith in him without him saying very much. 

This afternoon I started another letter to you, trying to tell you about some of the little incidents that have happened that I never have written you about. I suppose it is the “veteran” story-telling that we all catch in time. I can see why “veterans” get that way now. Some of the experiences are extremely impressive and you have a big urge to get some of the off your chest. A good many of them feel that what has happened to them just must be more unusual than anything that has happened to anybody. That isn’t so. All of them have had very similar experiences – at least the tankers and infantrymen, and they are the ones I’m talking about. That doesn’t make each one’s experience have any less effect on him as an individual, tho. 

I am still trying to escape this form of “veteran-itis,” because it is a completely useless thing. The vet is carried away by his own story because he lived it, but to others it’s just another monotonous combat experience. Of course, they all meet some of those things you don’t want to talk about, but those are the episodes that are soon repressed almost completely out of memory. Funny that way, the worst things are forgotten; from conscious memory, that is. They pop up in bad dreams now and then. Then you wake up and start going to sleep all over again. 

I’m counting on you, you know, to “rehabilitate” my conversation in that respect. I want to tell you all there is to tell, but just you, Hon. There is good reason for sharing these things with you and I want to very much. Just be sure to stop me after I’ve been around the whole story a couple of times. I know I’ve mentioned this before but I have to keep re-deciding it each time I take a time-out.

Seems as tho I ask you to do, or prepare to do something for me in each letter I write. I don’t mean to ask for too much, Marjorie Hon, but you are a pretty important person to me, and the only one I can count on for a lot of things. I wasn’t raised to be a soldier. You are just about the only part of my life that isn’t G.I. That just makes me love you more, and want to do things for you. I wish I could do something right now to start repaying you, for just being there you are doing more for me than you could guess, dearest. Remember our Durham song “You’d Be So Nice To Come Home To” – that goes now much deeper than I ever thought it would. You are all I want to come home to.

Always all yours,

Wallace. 

April 5, 1945 Thursday

France

Dearest Marjorie,

The idea came to me that it would be possible to keep a diary while I am in the hospital. But, on the other hand, it would be a pretty colorless affair. I have done less in the last week and a half than I have ever done in that length of time in my life. The other hospital was a beehive of activity compared to this. Probably it isn’t the hospital, but my position as a bed patient that makes the difference. Anyway, even if I do nothing worth writing about, I still have the urge to keep a diary. It’s hard to figure out just why. The books say it is an adolescent characteristic, but as far as I can see, all I have left of adolescence is an occasional pimple. And I most likely wouldn’t have those if I washed my face as I should! I think the diary urge is there because I like to feel as tho I knew what I am doing, and writing things down forces you to think more clearly. Another good reason is that my memory for times and places is always in a comfortable fog, but if there is a place for me to look up details of memories that doesn’t bother me. 

In a place where I have trouble holding on to my pay data card, it is easy to see how long I could retain a real diary. So for the time that I am here, I will incorporate a diary with my letters to you. That’s no great innovation. My letters usually amount to that anyway. But I’ll be a little more conscientious about it now. 

By the way, are you keeping a diary now? If you are, will you put an entry here and there about what I am doing? Then I can “catch me up” when I can keep a diary again. Let’s see Sept-Nov = Trip over and Tidworth; Nov = Normandy – St. Mards; Dec = Baccarat – Urbach; Jan = Mulcey – Herrlisheim – Hosp.; Feb = Hosp. – Cites des Charbonnages; March = Trier – Speyer – Hosp.

Today I rolled over to eat breakfast at about 8 o’clock. The reason I got up so early was that the tray was shoved under my nose and I had no alternative. After breakfast I lay back, fatigued, smoking a resuscitating Chesterfield. Hardly had I finished the second one when the wash pan was brought around and I gingerly shaved. After that effort I did snatch an hour or two of rest and brilliant conversation. Then the mail clerk brought the mail – not incoming, that’s not for me, but mail to censor. My share comes to about 20 letters per day, and usually I finish that before the doctor makes his rounds. Today I had a few left when he came, but he only asked me if I had any complaints. I said no, and he passed on. Tomorrow I’ll see if he will take out the stitches.

I read for the rest of the morning from “Thunder Mountain.” This was interrupted by dinner – brought on a tray of course. After the meal, more conversation, and finally the rest of “Thunder Mountain.”

That about finished my activities, except for writing to you. Supper came and interrupted me for awhile. Then a surprisingly heated but intelligent conference on international organization was held spontaneously in the ward. 

The lights went out at 10 o’clock, but we talked on ‘til around 11. Then I said a few words to you and went to sleep.

That’s my day – and they are all alike. Pretty strenuous, but I bear up under it all.

‘Bye now, Hon; I love you every minute.

All yours,

Wallace.

April 4, 1945 Wednesday

Dearest Honey,

How is my Bunny tonite? All nice? I bet so, how could you be anything else? This is your wandering husband, who wanders and wonders just how long it will be before he can see how nice you are again. ‘Course I know all the time, but each time I hear from you or see you I am surprized just how nice you are. Haven’t done either for some time now, so I like to think of the surprize I have in store for me one of these days.

I guess this paper about completes the rainbow for me in the past few days. The Red Cross gives it out, and altho it is weird, it is all that is to be had.

My adventurous spirit came to the fore today. I was determined to find out a little about where I am. Altho I am still not permitted to ambulate, my leg feels very good. It is not sore now and I can bend my knee quite well. I feel as tho I could walk, but the doctor won’t let me try. So today I defied authority and took off on my crutches. I went all around this floor, and then threw caution to the winds and went down the stairs! There wasn’t anything down there but the first floor, but it gave me a feeling of great accomplishment. This hospital is on the site of an old French army garrison. There isn’t much in one building. The authorities make it difficult for me to spread my wings, by not issuing me even a bath robe while I am a bed patient. I should be able to shake that classification in a day or so now. I imagine they don’t want me walking for fear of breaking the stitches. There aren’t many this time – just a few at each opening.

Today was P.X. day, so I am now supplied with enough candy and cigarettes for a while. I have just finished a full pack of Phillip Morris’ and I found out why most people don’t like them. They give the impression of being very, very dry and after a few they leave a bitter taste in the back of your mouth. I am fairly certain I noticed a real difference in taste – in fact, it was hard for me to smoke the entire pack and I rushed back happily to a Chesterfield.

Today I started a full-sized novel – “Thunder Mountain,” which is a robust, escapist story that holds a lot of interest with its well defined characters.

Will you excuse me, dear, if I close a little early tonite? I started writing late tonite and “lights out” is creeping up on me. As always, you will be the subject of my “dropping off to sleep” thoughts. You seem much closer these days – because I can write more consistently, probably. Remember I always love you more than anyone in all the world, Honey.

All my love,

Wallace.