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.
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