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.
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