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.
No comments:
Post a Comment