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.

April 7, 1945 Saturday

Hosp. – France

Hello, Hon,

Big day today! In addition to the usual routine, I snuck (passed [sic] tense of sneak, of course) out to the Red Cross this afternoon and saw a movie. It took loads of cooperation from ambulatory patients, both in planning an alibi and in executing the project. They volunteered enthusiastically and it was pulled off without a hitch. I’d like to tell you the name of the show, but I never knew. It was a sentimental little musical. Not much good, but it was good enough to make me miss you like everything and draw analogies between us and the hero and heroine. Seems as tho every movie does that to me, and makes me wish our happy ending would hurry. Is it a good thing I don’t see many movies like that? I don’t know. They make me yearn for you and miss you very sharply – but it isn’t good to get too sentimental in a situation like this. You feel better just thinking logically. First Lieutenants get all gummed up like that.

Wrote a letter to Laura today which should reach her about her birthday. I couldn’t get to a P.X. to buy her a gift. If you have time, it would be nice to send her something from “us.”

Sometime in his career every G.I. sends home to his sweetheart a plan for their dream home. It is a warming thing to do. It is possible that, being a teacher’s family, our home will not be permanently located very soon, so we might not get a chance to build a dream home early in our career. Having ideas tho makes it easier to approximate what we want, and who knows when we might actually be in a spot to build a home of our own? The funniest things can happen to people!

So, with that much introduction, let me present:

Preliminary Thoughts on Dream Home*

by RUSSELL

*Heavy debts go to several G.I. Dream Home ideas.

Fig. 1 – ground floor

That living room is the “piece de resistance.” The fireplace is a big one, and the steps down would be nice. The B[reakfast] nook would work, don’t you think? I don’t know whether the library is well placed or not. The glass porch would go good, and windows are sprinkled around where needed. 

Fig. 2 – second floor

This is a balcony that overlooks the living room, making it a real high room.

The glass porch is on the second floor, also, one above the other – this may be screened in up here. 

The study room is to work in when too much is going on in the library.

The absence of a bath room reflects my travels in France. Maybe the small bedroom would be better as a bath room.

I thought about a patio, but that would involve a completely different style house. I don’t know what style this house is. Could look pretty modern from the outside.

There is a “big picture,” Hon; furniture and other details will have to be worked out by better brains than mine. That is, if any better brains were interested in paying attention to it.

I love you from top to toe, Hon, and am much more interested in having one room and you than any mansion. A mansion added would be only a minor improvement.

All my love, 

Wallace.

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.