Hosp. - France
Dearest Marjorie,
A physio nurse reminded me this morning that today is the anniversary of Paul Revere’s ride, and also Boston Marathon Day. I can see Clarence De Mar plodding along now. Suppose he must still be running, isn’t he?
I have been doing a little road work myself the part few days. The officers have a “rehabilitation hike” each day. Much more rehabilitation than hiking. We sign up if we wish to go, meet at the Red Cross and go out the gate in a body. Then we go anywhere we want to for three hours. Some go fishing in the canal I sent you a post card of the other day. Some find a shady spot and go to sleep. Some go to Commercy or St. Mihiel to get some beer or cognac. As a rule, I team up with a fellow from California who looks like a Sunkist orange. He is a redheaded Swede, who is actually 26 but looks at most to be only 17. “Red” Anderson is his name, and he is a lot of fun. Everybody calls him Junior, he looks so young and innocent. He is a smart boy, though, and knows place geography miraculously well. Also acts as ward “orientation” officer, keeping a map of the front lines up-to-date for us.
Yesterday we took a walk to two small villages near here. We walked a ways along a railroad track in the time honored manner – on the tracks with a pole held horizontally between us for balance. We came to a typical red-roofed Van Gogh village, a cluster of houses all touching one another. Gave some gum to the little children there because they were so friendly and didn’t ask is for gum as most children do. They were thrilled to death by “Les Américains.” I judged that not many G.I.’s went to that place because it is out of the way and has no stores or amusement attractions. The old folks were down at the river washing clothes on a little pier they had. It is surprizing the difference there is between city Frenchmen and country Frenchmen. They are both very good types. The ones in cities are just like Americans in many things, and you can feel very much at home with them. The country people are strange, but friendly. They live simply, like peasants, and know little of what goes on in the world. They all have a good sense of humor, which helps an awful lot. All the French have one thing that we do not. That is the ability to take the war almost as an everyday affair. They can walk down main street when there isn’t a house standing and invite soldiers to share whatever they have as cheerfully as if it was a peace time visit. They always apologize for not having wine with a meal. Then they shrug and say “C’est la guerre.” After my seeing Keene go hysterical for weeks over hurricane damage, their everyday manner and optimistic attitude makes me respect them a lot.
The countryside here now is pretty. That word applies to this country very well. It’s not big enough to be beautiful, but it is small, neat, very green and flowery, clear [clean?] and peaceful.
On our way back Red and I went thru another small village and bought a glass of beer. French beer isn’t at all bad, that is, compared to English beer. Only a man dying of thirst would consider drinking English beer. French beer doesn’t have the body American beer has, but it is at least cold and sparkling.
Red and I came back talking about what he might choose as a profession. I think he is actually immature. Altho 26, he is just now trying to decide a good many adolescent problems. Lot of fun, tho – one of those moon-faced, boyish kinds that always put their foot into the wrong place.
‘Bye now, Hon, I wish you all the good things in the world.
I love you always,
Wallace.
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