April 22, 1945 Sunday

Hosp. – France

Dearest Hon,

What do you think? A lone V-mail found its way to me today, so I spent most of the day reading it. You don’t know how good it made me feel. First word I’ve had from you for almost 7 weeks.

It is the V-mail you wrote directly to the hospital, and you were a little worried about the card that was sent to you from the “casualty” branch. I hope very much that any questions you had have been answered long before now in my letters. I didn’t want you to be left up in the air about me at all, Hon. The first letter, a V-mail, that I sent you was written from here after I had been evacuated over the long route back. I don’t know if I wrote it the 26^th or 27^th of March. If I didn’t mention my wound on the 27^th, it must have been the second or third one I wrote. The first one I wrote told just where I was hit and all. I also sent a V-mail to Laura and the folks and later on to Bob, telling them. 

Maybe the wording of the card upset you. It said “slight wound of left thigh and back.” That is right according to the medics, but misleading. The only wound worth mentioning was just above my left knee, which is technically the thigh. It passed thru the leg, making two openings, one on the right (inside) of my leg and one just on the left side of the back part. In addition to that, there were two abrasions on my back. Just slight cuts made by very small pieces of shrapnel, because I was so close to the blast – it could even have been the concussion that caused them, because it did blow me around some. For completeness, there was also a little puncture at the base of my left thumb (that fated left hand), and a piece of metal (which I sent you) in the calf of my right leg.

There, that should answer any questions you have about location. Everything but the main one was all well and forgotten long ago. That is O.K. too, just two lines about so long -------------- [a line about 1.5 inches long with dots on either side to show stitches]. It is a little hard to do a knee bend but I improve each day. I’m O.K. for duty as soon the doc gives me the word.

I hate to think of you worrying, Hon, and wish there was something I could do. It doesn’t hurt to get wounded, I can say that. None of them have given me nearly as much pain as you have, on occasion, on a blackhead raid! That is literally true. And rest assured I take advantage of all available cover at all times. There is no need to worry most of the time, and anyway, we’ve got so many more nice things to do that we haven’t the time for that. I love you and lean on you very much – you do the same for me. 

All my love, 

Wallace.

April 22, 1945 Sunday

Hosp. - France

Evening, Hon,

I think I have been anticipating the date on my last few letters. Got a day ahead of myself somewhere along the way. This is Sunday, and it has been a full day for me. With the schedule you are folowing it would be a holiday, but it was the most active day I have had for about a month.

Yesterday the Red Cross called and asked if I would serve on a committee to arrange an Enlisted Man-French Girl dance. I got two other officers to work with. All we had to do was take some trucks to nearby towns and pick up some French girls and a G.I. orchestra. Brought the load of giggles here and turned them loose on about twice their number of enlisted patients. Most of them were pretty rural specimens, but the dance was a big success. Lasted from 2 p.m. to 5 p.m., then my “committee” rounded up our charges and took them back to their home towns. The Red Cross was the guiding spirit. They do a fine job here at the hospital, and my opinion of the R.C. has risen again. Went to church this morning with a few of the officers. I’ve made some good friends here – my type of people, that is the kind I hope we know after the war. “Red” Anderson, Slim Snedicor, a young fellow named Lindstrom from N.Y.C. We went to a good service, and enjoyed our resounding bass to the hymns. 

I have been learning many things evenings lately in discussions with my own division’s assistant intelligence officer – an experienced government lawyer who was assistant to Biddle [U.S. Attorney General, 1941-1945], charged with all anti-propaganda and espionage work at the time the war broke out. He has been a finance lawyer in Berlin for several years, and was on the inside legal work in the old “Morro Castle” case, and the 50 cruiser-for-land-bases deal that Roosevelt made with England. He was in charge of filing FBI reports on Japanese citizens in California and had to OK personally the first 3000 arrests after the outbreak of war. His name is Pendergast. Intelligent and worldly, he can teach me a lot, and I feel free to ask him many questions each day.

I love you very, very much, Hon, and hope you love me, too.

Always all yours,

Wallace.

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.