April 22, 1945 Sunday

Hosp. - France

Dear folks,

Sunday rolls around again and I’m still at the hospital, but the toughest, roughest, patient you ever saw. I do roadwork, play horse-shoes and ping-pong, hike to nearby towns – generally living the gay life. Today I served on a committee of three that gave a dance for the enlisted patients. Rounded up about 40 French girls and an orchestra and let them cavort in the enlisted men’s mess hall for 3 hours.

One of the most pleasant things I do is to take walks over the countryside in the afternoons. There are several small, rural French villages near here. Each one has a little cafe, and those make a good destination to amble to. Sometimes we even go fishing in the canal nearby. The French civilians can pull out perch and everything else, but the fish don’t seem to like the American touch. We have had some peaceful afternoons, uninterripted even by a single bite.

This last week was brightened by one lone V-mail from Marjorie. It was one she sent to my hospital address, and it was very welcome. The ones that have been sent to the company just haven’t been forwarded to me, and I have every intention of liquidating our mail clerk by the most vicious method I can devise when I return. That will be before long now, so continue sending letters to the company address.

As for me, my leg is back in its original supple and muscular form. No limps or stiff spots. Since there is nothing wrong with me now, I will no doubt leave on the next train from here. That will be in a day or two, I believe.

The news continues good just about everywhere. Things are going a fast as can be expected, and I imagine Germany will continue to crumble at its present rate until there is nothing left. The San Francisco Conference will be well on its way when you get this. That should bring plenty of news with it. 

Everything is going well at home, I hope. I will be interested in knowing the plans for the summer season.

Love, 

Wallace.

April 22, 1945 Sunday

Hosp. - France

Dearest Honey,

Here is some writing I have had among my stationery since the 6^th of April. When I first came into the hospital, the events that had gone on just before were in my mind most of the time. It’s always like that – when you get a “break” you digest emotionally the things you were too keyed up to appreciate when they happened. During an operation you think of what is going to happen next. The present goes into your memory and comes back later on almost like a movie being shown again. Since those events were in my mind, I thought I’d write them to you. Now I can just barely make up my mind to send them. Writing some of them down was a great idea for me, because it took the pictures out of my head, and kept them from going round and round as they sometimes do. But it makes a lousy letter, and the wording looks silly to me now. But I had you in mind as an audience when I wrote them, so here they are, more evidence that I can’t say what I feel even if I try.

I love you always,

Wallace.

April 6, 1945 Friday

Dearest Honey,

I can just put a ditto mark under my yesterday’s letter and you will know what I am doing today.

‘ “ ‘

It seems I remember you once mentioned in a letter to me about the interesting things to be seen along the Rhine. You were right. I have seen some of them now, not in detail but perhaps in a better way. The whole valley gives an impression of medieval romance, and I first saw it under circumstances so real and exciting and romantic that at the time I felt, and was, more like a knight in armor than a tourist. By fitting into the scene, I got an emotional reaction you never get merely looking at relics. 

You read in the news how rapidly our armored outfits ripped thru the “Palatinate Pocket.” We traveled day and night, due east over the mountainous country between Trier and the Rhine. That was a wild ride, with plenty of action, but we skipped thru it to reach that long white area on the right hand side of our maps. That was the Rhine Valley and it was the easiest thing to see on the map because there were no contour lines in it. The mountains made the rest of the map red with them. 

One evening we stopped about two inches (on the map) from the abrupt line where the red mountains met the white valley. The tanks drew into a circle on the slope of a hill and we drove the half-tracks into the center of the circle. This formation reminded everybody of the way covered wagons used to be put in a circle to provide a defense against Indians. The object was the same, for we were alone in an area still more the enemy’s than ours. We had little contact with the rear, so little that we burned any of our vehicles that could not keep up with the task force. Maybe the pioneers stayed all night in one spot, but we never did. Gas up, water up, clean up, take off. That was our bivouac.

We moved out that night before darkness had come. A brief officers’ meeting revealed that we were to push on without further stops until we reached the banks of the Rhine. There was no information of the enemy, but we knew that if he was to make a stand this side of the Rhine, we would have to hit it that night. As the column moved out in the dusk every man felt the power of the thrust we were making. For nearly a week it had seemed as tho our force was alone in the midst of a confused but numerous enemy. Now we saw the culmination of our dash blended with the mighty thrust of an entire army. Our tanks and tracks rolled along a road which wound among several large hills, finally curved under an autobahn (the first of Germany’s super-highways we were to see) and headed straight for the Rhine Valley, between the autobahn which was above us on the left and a smaller highway in a valley to our right. Along all three of these roads poured tanks and half-tracks, filling the entire area with dust and the deafening din of thousands of motors. Our task force, which we had considered a large one, was swallowed up in a flood or armor that filled all of us with awe. Tank columns silhouetted on the hills above us, roaring past the stream in the valley below us, creeping up behind us—all headed in one direction at the same unchanging speed. We could only smile faintly and thank God we were part of it all and not assigned the impossible task of stopping the avalanche. 

Soon it was dark, except for the light of the half-moon in the cloudless sky [first quarter on March 20, 1945 = waxing gibbous]. We could no longer see the other columns, but the dull roar of engines on all sides informed us they were still there. We cut down our speed and grew taut and nervous as we watched our sectors and waited for whatever was to come. Gerry could be anywhere, we knew. An A.T. gun around the corner, a string of burp guns hidden under the trees, bazookas in houses or in foxholes near the roads. Delaying actions, usually, but hot enough for a few minutes. And tonite it could be a real defense, not just an empty crust. 

We crept without opposition to the top of the last ridge before the valley. We came on it suddenly, and almost all at once the miles of flat country bordering the Rhine were stretched out in front of us. The spectacular and reassuring sight of demolition fires could be seen dotting the entire dark plane. We could see giant explosions spring up and violent fires stay on wherever they came, but we heard no sound for the explosions were too far away. 

Then as we turned down the winding, steep-sided road that would bring us to the level of the plane, it seemed that the Middle Ages closed in around us. First was the castle. It was a perfect story-book castle, silhouetted largely against the sky beside us. The walls, the towers, the large gate were all there in the pale moonlight. From its location at the peak of the highest ridge in the area, you could see how the massive stone structure was built to command ground or repel attack. It would not have surprized me to have been challenged by a mounted knight in armor as we rolled passed the main gate.

Still nothing broke the tension. A burning half-track just off the road lighted our column for a short time when we were halfway thru the steep series of “S” curves that were taking us to the valley.

Soon the inevitable village at the base of the hill with the castle loomed before us. We stopped, reconnoitered on foot. No enemy in town. Civilians, yes, but here they chose to hide away out of sight while we passed. The mighty contrast between the town and our armored force could be felt. The town was built for defense. We were a symbol of offense. The town was like a historical panorama. We were like a glimpse of future supermen. The town was silent, frightened. We, a roar like thunder, an irresistable force. 

Tanks passed under one massive stone arch, the only break in the high wall circling the village. We felt our way along narrow, cobblestoned streets. All blinds were closed. It was as tho the blamk, cold buildings were the walls of a ravine thru which we were passing. Here and there a coat of arms or a sign in the shape of an animal showed where an inn was located, but there was no light anywhere in town. Tanks retaliated for this silent animosity by chipping off pieces of the corners of the houses on turns in the street.

A square heavy church stood in the center of the town. Before it was a court yard, which narrowed into a long corridor leading to the gate on the far side of town. It was a stone village—no wood houses, no dirt roads. Only rock and cobblestone. Our armor edged along until it reached that last gate. Like the other one it was an arch in the city’s walls. Here the forbidding medieval town successfully opposed modern machines. The arch was too low to allow the passage of tanks! The town was ours, but undelayed advance was impossible. It would take some time to blow the arch. Radios were active for a few moments. It was decided to overcome feudal stubbornness with mechanical mobility. By-pass the town. It would do no harm behind us. 

We left the village as we had entered, and as I rode under the main gate it seemed that our sojourn in the past had ended. We found a modern highway to procede on, but we still thought of our strange attack against antiquity. No man had opposed us, but centuries-old fortifications had resisted us and forced us into a new route. It was a peculiar, striking interlude that I didn’t shake off for several hours. However, dawn, and an accompanying attack on our column by enemy air, soon convinced me that we were opposing living fores as well as the dead past. 

--

I remember a night attack we made in January; we all wore long robes fashioned from white cloth in order to camouflage ourselves in the snow. We drew near the line of departure. Artillery began to fall around us. In a silly effort to raise morale, I struck a Shakespearian pose, and said to my runner, “There are more things on heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.” He countered quickly and meaningfully, with one eye on the artillery, “The times are out of joint, o cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right.”

Five minutes later artillery maimed my runner for life.

--

I did my first serious deer hunting from a half-track in Mulcey. Platoon Sergeant Siverling and squad leaders De Witt, Taylor, Schielke, Giangagario[?] and Otto went with me on “route reconnaissance,” mounted. We soon spotted our deer. I gave command to fire and for 2 minutes the six best men in the platoon fired rapid fire while the deer trotted blissfully, and unharmed, away. From then on I had no trouble keeping my non-coms in line. I only had to suggest telling the story of their marksmanship to the rest of the men. 

Eventually, Siverling got a deer. But we never ate it. The night before our scheduled barbecue we were called up into the operation from which Siverling never returned and every one of the squad leaders became a casualty. 

April 19, 1945 Thursday

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.

April 17, 1945 Tuesday (#2)

Hosp. – France

Dearest Marjorie,

It is always hard for me to express the most sincere things I think and feel in writing. Even when I am with you the words I use don’t themselves mean much, but I always feel as if we had an understanding when we were together that existed even if I couldn’t put it in words. That deep understanding, which I believe is our love, is a real thing that I always marvel at because I can’t explain it. It is there, that’s all. Something very solid that I didn’t try to put there, but which simply was, and was finally recognized, not made. As a rule, people are actors. They try to appear to be what they want to be, or what other people expect them to be. They become so engrossed in acting that often they themselves can scarcely recognize the real perdson beneath the appearance they try so earnestly and unconsciously to uphold. The most remarkable thing about us is that the “real person” in both of us stands out so dominantly in our relations. I always feel that basically I knew you and especially that you knew me so remarkably well, so much better than other persons know each other, that is it like a shining secret between us. Something wonderful that nobody else knows, something true that puts us so close together we become almost one person. Perhaps when persons are so close in real understanding, a good many artificial words become unnecessary. Could be that the things we think and feel most fundamentally are not conceived of in words at all, and so it is impossible to express them in writing. 

Being necessarily apart makes it important to try to put in words many things we would automatically understand if we were together. I know you are there, I know I love you and want to be with you, I know I feel a thousand things each day that I share with you in my mind. Our “real persons” are so close that even in thinking of you I feel as if I were talking with you. Nevertheless, we need something more tangible to connect us than thoughts and emotions if we are going to share our lives as much as our closeness makes us want to. I suppose that is what all soldiers are trying to achieve in their letters home. The intent to share experiences and express beautiful relations is there, but the words used are such a confused mess of superlative platitudes that the result is usually sickening or absurd. Those ungrammatical jumbles don’t show the way I feel about you, Marjorie. I can’t explain how much I love you, and I mean that deep-inside, intimate, very, very sincere and almost unspoken harmony I feel with you, in a few worn and thoughtless phrases. It is not easy to put your deepest feelings down in a letter. Often I have to be satisfied with small talk and reminders that you still are close to me, for words don’t come to me for the more genuine thoughts I have of you all the time. But they are always sincere, and I will never put artificial feelings into them. When I can, I express the most sincere thoughts I have in the best way I can. Sometimes the real me isn’t the person I would most like to be, but I know you will understand, and I love you immeasurably and appreciate you always because of that. It makes my whole life warm and sunny to feel you there.

Perhaps you have noticed lately that my spirits have been up and down. Some days the fine weather and my easy life at the hospital make me feel very good. Other days the war and my prospects make me feel blue. I do have a pleasant life here, but I also have a chance to take stock of [the] present situation.

Actually, the situation is no different that it was in December. But now I see it a little differently. For one thing, the size of the war has been driven home to me. It is a war to the finish. There is still a lot left to do in Europe. Then everyone with a “high priority” (armor and platoon leaders always come first in anybody’s priority list) will head to the Pacific war. There is nothing to indicate that Japan will not insist upon a complete mop-up job before she quits. Those things take time, and are amazingly destructive. Even when they are over, their effects drag on in disease, famine and poverty. These are felt by everybody, win or lose. 

And what are the prospects after the war? I agree with most of the world that the possibility of a just peace lies primarily with the U.S. And with Roosevelt gone, what is there but an unknown man who means well, and a Babbitt of a state secretary to do the job?

Yes, it is too early to be completely pessimistic about the post-war world. But one thing is certain, regardless of plans they make for the future the insidious effects of the war on people and on things will make it impossible to forget the war or overcome its destruction for many, many years. 

I’m not just moaning’ for the lot of humanity. World politics apply directly to our personal lives. The longer the war or the larger the occupation armies, the longer the army will hang on to me. The more disjointed the world is after the war, the more difficult it will be for us to proceed with our own plans.

Well, what to do about it all? There’s really not much choice. Whatever slim chances there are for the world and for us, lie in finishing the war with thoroughness as fast as possible. The only thing more destructive would be a continuation of the war, or a conditional peace that could only be an armistice before another war. And after the war, we can only plug like everything for the longshot chance of establishing a permanent peace. 

If things look badly, that is no reason to change your purposes. If things seem about to be ruined by hate, that is more proof that brotherhood is the right way. If nobody values truth more than propaganda, that’s all the more reason for those who do to stick to their guns. It would be pleasant if things always went well, but they just don’t. It is inevitable in a society that an individual is shaped more by society than he can shape society as he wants it. The best you can do is to decide on objectives as rationally as possible and work toward them. If you get pushed in the other direction, that at least does not change the value of the objective. If only it is in a lessening of opposition, the objective has gained something. 

War is even more miserable and cruel than it is pictured. Nevertheless, the men who fight the war do so from the best of motives, and there is a possibility of making it worthwhile. War is always bad, but it may be the better choice of two choices. Fighting now is the best way to gain peace and good prospects, but it is a dangerous way, and can so easily do more harm than good. Society has put us in a position of seeking brotherhood through hatred, truth through arbitrary force. It can only be a necessary expedient, and one we can only hope to live through without losing the things we fight for. It is like retreating in hopes of finding a different route of advance. I sure hope we find the new route. 

All my love, 

Wallace.

April 17, 1945 Tuesday

Hosp. – France

Dearest Marjorie,

Things are continuing not too difficult at the hospital. My leg is getting real limber and in a few days I’ll be doing full knee bends with ease.

I am still reading that biography of Hitler with interest. I like biography, and particularly this one because it gives as a background the internal history of Germany in the 1920’s, a part of history I didn’t know much about. What I thoughtabout it I find is mostly wrong. Biography offers a chance to combine psychology and history in an interesting manner.

The big event of the day was the softball game between the patients and the hospital detachment. I lent vocal support to the patients, who played enthusiastically in their pajamas, but it evidently wasn’t enough. The detachment won. It was fun, tho, and gave me a chance to cheer for the first time, I think, since we went to the Dodger—All-Star game last summer. The umpire was a patient from this ward, so naturally we had loads of fun heckling him.

Another one of the little things that I haven’t told you about is the Coca-Cola we get here. Yes, real Coke. They have a Coke bar and quite a good deal on Coke fro 2 francs a glass. It’s sweeter than that we get in the states, but it tastes good to me. The Coke room has been painted with lively murals on the walls (where else could a mural be?). All around the room is a series of reproductions of Sad Sack cartoons. I was surprized to learn that they were all done by a talented P.W.

Speaking of P.W.’s, it is a favorite G.I. gripe these days to complain about the ways P.W.’s are treated here and in the states. Our non-fraternization policy doesn’t allow us even to speak to Germans, but we read of dances for P.W.’s in the states, and of girls who help them escape, et al. Soldiers feel that non-fraternization should work on all Germans, wherever they may be. 

I hope everything is going well on the home front, my Honey. Particularly with you. I feel very close to you today, somehow, and love you with all the enthusiasm that spring weather can put into a young man.

Every bit of my love,

Wallace.

P.S. I read some of A.E. Housman’s poems today. Very neat stuff; intelligent, but a little on the hopeless side.

April 15, 1945 Sunday

Hosp – France

Dear folks,

Chances are you are still going thru your last late winter shivers. If so, I send my sympathies, for I am laying out on the grass in a warm sun right now trying to get a tan. It will probably end up as a burn but it’s fun now, anyway.

This past week I have been busy enjoying idleness. I want to squeeze in all I can because my days here are now numbered. All that’s left to be done now is to make my leg muscles a little more pliable so I can walk without looking like the “Spirit of ‘76.” That won’t take long in view of my daily baking and walks. I enjoy both of these, particularly the walks, because everything is green and blossoming now and the weather has been magnificent. Spring is spring, even in wartime France, and it makes everyone more cheerful.

There is a fine bunch of officers in my ward, none of us sick or bed-bound now. We all have a limp or a sore arm or some such. We did have a sick man in the ward but he was transferred after he told the nurse to “get me out of this night-club and put me in a hospital.” For the first time, I have been with a couple of boys who were part of my group – that is, Junior R.O.T.C.’s. They are the first ones I have met, but most of them are now overseas. Seems that most of them came over about December as replacements. I was in combat before most of them, but since I’ve been lucky, I am now in a better position than they are. I rank them, for one thing, and I have a home, i.e., a unit that is really mine that I can return to. Also, I have the experience that is a big help. Replacements bounce back to hospitals very fast, one has had 2 hours of combat, another a day and a half, etc.. Yes, I have bounced, too, but I’ve never stayed in less than 10 days of an operation. These old R.O.T.C. men, tho, are like me in their background, so we get on fine. We have had some dandy discussions about history and politics. Probably that’s typical of men just out of school. At least, the usual run of officers do not talk seriously about much except tactics and love. 

You know how we all feel about losing FDR. It’s about the worst thing that could happen, I feel. Just hope his plans were far enough along to be carried out by the ones that are left. Makes you realize how many things are still left to do, doesn’t it?

I got out of the hospital area yesterday and went to the town of Commercy. Like most European towns, it seemed about ¾ dead, but it was a good break for me. 

Somewhere along the line there must be a sackful of mail coming my way. I haven’t had any now for well over a month. I hope it catches up with me before I leave this place or it will be delayed for another spell and finally reach me when I won’t have time to read a bushel of letters all at once. Right now it would be a pleasure. 

The mail stoppage makes it hard for me to write anything concerning you folks because I don’t know what you have been doing since the middle of February. Be glad when I know Carlton’s latest adventures, also Bob’s. I hope he is being left strictly footloose and fancyfree. And I hope, too, that everything is the way you two want it.

Love,

Wallace

April 15, 1945 Sunday

Hosp. – France

Dearest Marjorie,

There is one thing about life here that I haven’t told you yet, but it is important enough to get me out of bed in the morning. It is that about every other day we have fresh eggs for breakfast. You might not think that is much, but these are the first fresh eggs I have had in Europe. Oh, a few times we have gathered a few from farms, but they haven’t been prepared well. Here we can get two big lightly turned fried eggs just the way they ought to be, with butter and salt and pepper. Voilà quelques chose! Some mornings I eat up to four of them, because you never know when the next ones are coming.

Yesterday was a full day for me. After my physio baking I went to the dentist and had my teeth cleaned. I guess it pays not to brush your teeth regularly – ever since last July when I had that wisdom tooth taken out I have been assiduously neglecting my teeth. This is about the first time I have had nothing to have done. The guy that cleaned my teeth did it without that machine brush, but he could do more damage shoving that little gadget with a mirror on it around than most dentists can do with a drill. He was a little rough, especially with his left hand. 

Speaking of left hands, I have had a chance to try mine out on a piano. Just for a change I tried out that little vamp which you may have heard me render – dum ta dee dee, dum ta dee dee, deedle dee deedle dee dum. It had the usual effect, but I could see that my left hand was not doing its usual job. The grandiose effect produced by doubling the “dums” an octave lower with the little finger was difficult to produce easily because the little finger is still numb and you can’t tell how hard you are hitting the note. Undoubtedly my amateur title won’t be effected by this, but I fear that a professional career as a pianist might suffer. Perhaps everyone would suffer if my piano career had been carried out. So it maybe best to let the career suffer instead. Besides, critics have said that my repetoire (if that is spelled wrong, please pretend it is an intentional mistake; just one of my little jokes) was too limited for a professional career. I have always held that one piece, say, well-played was better than thousands of mediocre recitals. Now I fear I won’t have a chance to prove this. Art’s loss must become something else’s gain. 

Yesterday I went to Commercy. A few officers rode in on a truck. I looked around for a time, had a glass of beer, and searched for something to buy for you. At the risk of being repetitious, I found some more perfume to send you. I like to get it, Hon. And this is better than the other I sent you. At least, it is a more famous brand, and it is very popular around here. I hope you will like it; it is the nearest thing to flowers I can send from over here. I don’t even know what this bottle smells like. It hasn’t been opened, and I don’t want to weaken it or anything by breaking it open. Everybody says it’s good, tho.

It has been almost a year now since I got a commission, almost two years since I went on active duty. That’s about long enough as far as I’m concerned, but a lot more is concerned than me. I want more than anything to get back to you so we can get on with our plans. However long it is, tho, my Honey, I will always love you and be willing to wait if it eventually leads back to you. I love you so very much, Marjorie.

Always all yours, 

Wallace

April 13, 1945 Friday

Hosp – France

Dear Marjorie,

Roosevelt’s sudden death has been the only subject on our minds today. We have picked up many reports of it going to foreign countries or broadcast from foreign countries. They all seem to be as full of concern as we Americans are. For it is an occurrence of importance to the people of all these countries. They have had as many hopes attached to him as we had. Alsatians have proposed to me that an American government should take charge of all the Rhineland, Alsace and Lorraine. They felt that only Roosevelt would treat them fairly.

The death of Roosevelt won’t interrupt the prosecution of the war, but could be a real blow to post-war planning. Probably there will be plenty of shuffling around before the new character of the government becomes crystallized. The policy will depend upon the type of advisors Truman chooses. I can’t help but feel doubts until Truman does something by which we can see what he stands for. It all throws a big question mark into world affairs just when they seemed to be shaping up well. With the loss of a great leader, the initiative is put back into the hands of the citizens. That is as it should be in a democracy.

Today came my first treatment at physiotherapy. Just baked my leg under a lamp while I layed on a comfortable mattress. They also gave me lengthy instructions on how to walk. There is nothing the army won’t do. Imagine teaching an infantryman how to walk! I have been doing a sad job lately, I will admit. I displayed courage above and beyond the call of duty by asking for a dental appointment this afternoon. It was like attacking a town with no gerries in it. He gave me a perfect tooth card, or the equivalent thereof. Tomorrow morning they are going to clean them for me. That’s all.

Since I have been in Europe I have met almost no people from N.H. [New Hampshire]. I had wondered if I was the only one in the army. I’m not. There is a boy named Sweeny here from Jaffry (How do you spell that, anyway?). A doctor’s son, went to Yale as a pre-med. He is an officer in another armored division, not much wrong with him. Have met a good many people from other parts of New England, too. Quite a change from the Western & southern twelfth.

That mailman is very, very low in my book. I have been here long enough to get some letters. They are all I need to put me in top shape. It’s been an awful long time now and I want to know how you are very much. I hope my letters are coming thru O.K., Hon, and that you know how I am. Particularly I want you to know that I love you, and need you, and think of you more than I can ever say.

All my love,

Wallace.

Illustration

1. 9 A.M.

2. 12 Noon [muscle]

3. 1500

4. 1800

Explanation – Well, for one thing I skipped this page and rather than send it blank, here is a “visual diary” of my activities when I was a bed patient.

O.K., I should have left it empty.

April 12, 1945 Thursday

Somewhere in (muddy, haha) France

Page “1”

My darling angle,

How is my little darling today fine i hope i am O.K. my darling. I can’t think of nothing else to do so I will right to my darling angle. (That’s you, my angle, haha)

I will ans. your letter of April 1, 1945. i am sorry i did not write you yet, but you see, angle, i am in a hosp. and i am very busy and could not right even if i wanted to. Of course, naturally, i don’t want to (oh yeah?). They have some nice little French girls in this hosp and they are pretty nice (ha). Are you mad, my darling angle? i hope not, my darling, because it is only a joke, see? I love you madly, madly and yet so very madly. French girls aren’t haf as much fun as you, angle, and i haven’t met one yet as nice as American Girls. They are awful, my darling angle.

Darling, i didn’t mean that thing you said i said in your letter of April 1, 1945. Anyway, angle, if i did it would be kinda hard on account of i am in the infery and the infery don’t get to places like that very often. Believe me, my darling angle, you are my only wife and I am glad of it. If you do not believe me, that is just one of them things and there is plenty of nice little French girls in this hosp. (ha, ha)

Well, darling, i can’t think of nothing to right today because i do nothing and nothing ever happens. The war is going pretty good and will be over in a day or two, so maybe i will see you again pretty soon, my darling angle. I love you madly, madly and yet so very madly.

Your loving husband,

Cpl. Johnathon T. (Sqirt) Jones, 3336172

I LOVE YOU ANGLE

hug, hug, hug & kiss, kiss, kiss

This is not true battle fatigue! It is only the result of censoring a stack of mail. It makes you feel like that, so here is a version of the average soldier’s letter home. No, it isn’t the average – the average isn’t too bad, but there are enough like this to sour one on letters in general. The average is quite sincere and reveals the stress the war is causing. Letters like these come so frequently that you overlook the better ones. Some are six times better than I could ever write.

Love, 

Wallace.

April 11, 1945 Wednesday

Dear Marjorie,

I did not write at the usual time last night, due to a sudden urge to take a walk in the hospital area. It was a “Junior Prom” type of evening. Quiet, clear, and a nice fresh scent of spring flowers in the air. The season here is far in advance of the usual time-table for New England. The trees are green already, and all the early flowers are budding. The sun is warm during the day, and evenings are only a little cooler. 

Last night I found out just how pleasant it was outdoors. I took off my stiff legged gait and strolled. That was possible because yesterday morning I got a new outfit. It’s that “awful” G.I. stuff, but it is much better than pajamas. [switches from pencil to ink] In addition, I began to eat at the officer’s mess. That gives me a chance to take a short walk to each meal. The walk I took last evening was enjoyable, but inevitably it made me a little lonely. Even despondent, in a quiet, almost pleasant, sort of way.

In a day or two I will start physiotherapy. That’s all I need now. The muscles are stiff, and won’t stretch out as they should. 

Today they are having a formal inspection at the hospital so, inevitably the patients take second place, while they clean up the wards. It seems to me that the attitude of the officials at this hospital is not as good as that in others. Most everything is more the detachment and the reputation of the hospital than for the well-being of the patients. That does not go for the medical treatment at all. That is of the best. But the entertainment & morale sections endure patients rather than work for them.

The usual custom is to begin a letter in ink, run dry, and finish in pencil. It is only to flout convention that I reverse that order today. No use being narrow. Might just as well run out of lead occasionally as to be forever running out of ink first.

So long for a short time now, Honey; I am planning to write again today to settle my conscious [sic] about not writing last night. You know I think of you all the time and love you more than all the world. You are always my wonderful wife.

All my love,

Wallace.

April 10, 1945 Tuesday

Hosp. France

My dearest Marjorie,

Well, here’s Dinah Shore’s program! I have heard it several times in the last couple weeks, and each time it recalls happy thoughts of last summer and you. She sang “I’ll Walk Alone” one night. She can sing our theme song better than anyone, and even tho it is off the hit parade now, it’s still our theme song. I’m lonely, but it isn’t at all unbearable since I have you to have faith in and rely on. And I have all the faith in the world, Honey.

Today I branched out to the barber shop without the aid of crutches. I casually roll along with a cane now. A cane makes you feel like a millionaire somehow. You can get such majestic flourishes with it. The bandage make me walk with a rather stiff-legged stride on the left side, but I have all the power of a bull moose in each step. How do I know how it got there? And I can’t prove it, you’ll just have to believe me – it is undoubtedly the power of a bull moose.

Covered some more of Hitler’s early life and the start of National Socialism. There was considerable material on the German underground efforts to maintain the power of the army as a political force. Valuable as a pre-glimpse of what probably lies ahead for us now. If German nationalism of the last war produced such vicious unseen growths, it’s certain to be even more sinister now. For then, only a portion of the population had that fanatical form of patriotism that fosters secret organizations. Now, all of Germany is as steeped in it as Hitler and a few soldiers and students were then. With the practice the Germans got in the early 1920’s they may pop up with something new and mean in fifth column work, and since they have so many people to join in it. The French did some neat underground work, and they did it after a time when their national feeling was extremely low. The Germans have seen the French work, and are themselves so groggy with nationalism they will have even more incentive. 

Today a captain from the 12^th came into the ward as a patient. He is a headquarters man, but is seemed good to see anybody from the outfit. He had some news of the outfit but nothing at all personal about the men I know. They are making plenty of time. 

My goodnite wish tonite is that you are just as happy as you can be and that you love me just the way I love you.

All my love, always,

Wallace.

April 9, 1945 Monday

Hosp. France

Dearest Marjorie,

The Russian campaign against Vienna at least has one good result. It put “Tales from the Vienna Woods” on the air much more frequently than usual. Almost irony to play it at a time like this, isn’t it. But you can’t let war stop all the delicate things. It’s doing a good enough job as it is. It is very sobering to consider objectively the scope of the war now. Look at us, after six years of war in Europe, jumping off on bigger and bigger attacks every day on wider and wider fronts. And after this, another big scale affair to finish up in the Pacific. It’s staggering when you consider the small unit actions involved. Each company fights enough to feel it is winning the war by itself, but thousands of companies are in it, even thousands of divisions. When you think of the destruction of lives and property in all that, it isn’t hard to imagine H.G. Wells’ version of the fall of civilization. Europe at least is in a decline it can’t shake off in years. Churchill speaks of the tremendous job of rebuilding bombed England. Why, England is a peaceful countryside compared to large parts of Europe. What can you expect from the next generation of Europe after a childhood spent under conditions like these? It’s hard to see how the tremendous hatreds being built up can ever be reconciled. How can the French ever forget their treatment under the Germans, or the Germans forget what is going on now. Especially when every family has lost so much.

In spite of morale considerations you can’t laugh off a thing the size of the war, especially as it begins to seem certain that the thing will go right on to the last pocket with no end until one side is annihilated. There’s nothing to do but keep pushing and hope like hell that we have strength to reach a complete victory fairly soon, and that somebody will be able to make something of the pieces that are left. If it goes on too long, there just won’t be enough pieces left, not matter who “wins.”

It’s a monster of a war, but it is overlooking me pretty well these days. The big event for me today was to start a book “Der Fuehrer,” which (can you guess?) is the biography of Hitler, well propangandized but with some straight history as well. Next in order of importance was shaving in the lavatory, not at my bed. Oh yes, and PX rations came today.

I don’t need to say that my life here won’t be easy until I hear from you again. It’s been at least a month now since I had a letter. I know that they will come in time, and until they do I’m picturing you as pretty busy, but well off and greeting spring. The snow still can’t be getting higher and higher as spring gets nigher and nigher. Or is it? 

Gee, I love you, my honey,

Wallace.

April 8, 1945 Sunday

Hosp. France

Dear folks,

Sunday once more. I like Sunday, even if the only difference from other days is that meals are served an hour later as they are here. I guess it’s because you can get better music on the radio. Also you feel a little different.

Not much has happened to me this last week. I expect the doctor will take out my stitches very soon now. Until they come out, it is necessary to use crutches and stay in bed most of the time. It wouldn’t be impossible to walk but there would be danger of pulling the stitches. They are just above my knee and in back where walking would stretch them.

I spend most of my time reading and writing. Right now I am dividing my time between Carl Sandburg and Robert Benchley. One for when I feel sublime and one for when I feel ridiculous. Robert Benchley is more ridiculous that Sandburg is sublime, but I appreciate them both.

Yesterday I was smuggled to a movie. As a bed patient I’m not supposed to go, but I got a few good collaborators and managed to get by without trouble. It was just another musical show but a big break in my usual routine. 

You can see that things are moving pretty fast on the front now. I don’t know where the outfit will be when I get back, but it’s a cinch they are closer to the Russians than they are to me. I know I am a damn fool and don’t know when I am well off, but I still wish I was with my platoon. We aren’t always reasonable with the things we feel. I hate to think of old “C” company going places without me. You think about them all the time, and wonder how things are going. It isn’t just “college spirit” for the company. You get the impression back here that the infantrymen up there are the only ones really doing anything in the war. That’s wrong, but you get the feeling, nevertheless.

The “Goums,” natives of north Africa fighting with the French, are doing something, too. We have been with them before and what soldiers they are. Like old Indian fighters. When they take a town, the town doesn’t know it’s being attacked at all until all of a sudden the “Goums” in red fezes pop up all over the town and blow up everything all at once. They infiltrate into towns secretly and are not even seen until they are close enough to use knives. If you are on guard at night and feel a pair of hands gliding around your helmet, you don’t have to be scared. It’s just a Goum feeling the shape of your helmet to see if you are a German.*

Love to all at home,

your loving son, 

Wallace

*P.S. This didn’t happen to me, but knowing the “Goums,” I believe it.

April 8, 1945 Sunday

Hosp. France

Good evening, Honey,

Guess what happened today! It is with humble pride and genuine emotion that I report – your husband took his first step this afternoon. After struggling to a shaky standing position propped against his bed, he took a deep breath and wove an unsteady course across the ward to the bed of Captain Dodson. Upon arriving to the safety of that spot, his first words were “Keeriste, what a sensation.”

But to explain this radical and unprecedented flight [was] without the aid of crutches. It took an unusual set of circumstances to bring it about. First was the wager, then the doctor, then the 20 marks. Early this morning, after writing a letter to the folks, I made a decision that I must have my stitches removed today. To show I was serious, I bet 20 marks with Capt. Dodson that I would have them taken out today. So when the doctor came around I did everything but stand on my hands to demonstrate that the stitches were ready to be pulled. I didn’t think that standing on my hands would help any, you see, since the trouble is all in my leg. 

He took them out, fast and painlessly. He is an expert on surgery and things like that.

Finally, freed from the restraining stitches, I decided to collect my 20 marks on the spot. It was more to “accentuate the positive” recovery to still-stitched-up Dodson than anything else. So off I took on my own two feet and collected. You will see that it is an old 1914 mark, absolutely worthless. But it was a sweet victory. Now I am due for clothes, physio-therapy, and increased mobility.

The only other event today worth mentioning was the chicken we had for supper. I had about half a chicken on my tray – neck, breast, and wing. Very meaty and tasty.

Also I want to mention again that I am very happy to have the best wife in the world. There are those who have wives of their own who dispute that, but I tell them that I have lived with you, so I know. I say it jokingly but secretly I know it is actually true. Makes me feel contented and hopelessly superior to the ordinary mortals who have just ordinary wives. Over here, you know, everybody envies a married man, and all wish so much they had been married before they came. We showed them! 

All my love, 

Wallace.