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.