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.

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. 

April 5, 1945 Thursday

France

Dearest Marjorie,

The idea came to me that it would be possible to keep a diary while I am in the hospital. But, on the other hand, it would be a pretty colorless affair. I have done less in the last week and a half than I have ever done in that length of time in my life. The other hospital was a beehive of activity compared to this. Probably it isn’t the hospital, but my position as a bed patient that makes the difference. Anyway, even if I do nothing worth writing about, I still have the urge to keep a diary. It’s hard to figure out just why. The books say it is an adolescent characteristic, but as far as I can see, all I have left of adolescence is an occasional pimple. And I most likely wouldn’t have those if I washed my face as I should! I think the diary urge is there because I like to feel as tho I knew what I am doing, and writing things down forces you to think more clearly. Another good reason is that my memory for times and places is always in a comfortable fog, but if there is a place for me to look up details of memories that doesn’t bother me. 

In a place where I have trouble holding on to my pay data card, it is easy to see how long I could retain a real diary. So for the time that I am here, I will incorporate a diary with my letters to you. That’s no great innovation. My letters usually amount to that anyway. But I’ll be a little more conscientious about it now. 

By the way, are you keeping a diary now? If you are, will you put an entry here and there about what I am doing? Then I can “catch me up” when I can keep a diary again. Let’s see Sept-Nov = Trip over and Tidworth; Nov = Normandy – St. Mards; Dec = Baccarat – Urbach; Jan = Mulcey – Herrlisheim – Hosp.; Feb = Hosp. – Cites des Charbonnages; March = Trier – Speyer – Hosp.

Today I rolled over to eat breakfast at about 8 o’clock. The reason I got up so early was that the tray was shoved under my nose and I had no alternative. After breakfast I lay back, fatigued, smoking a resuscitating Chesterfield. Hardly had I finished the second one when the wash pan was brought around and I gingerly shaved. After that effort I did snatch an hour or two of rest and brilliant conversation. Then the mail clerk brought the mail – not incoming, that’s not for me, but mail to censor. My share comes to about 20 letters per day, and usually I finish that before the doctor makes his rounds. Today I had a few left when he came, but he only asked me if I had any complaints. I said no, and he passed on. Tomorrow I’ll see if he will take out the stitches.

I read for the rest of the morning from “Thunder Mountain.” This was interrupted by dinner – brought on a tray of course. After the meal, more conversation, and finally the rest of “Thunder Mountain.”

That about finished my activities, except for writing to you. Supper came and interrupted me for awhile. Then a surprisingly heated but intelligent conference on international organization was held spontaneously in the ward. 

The lights went out at 10 o’clock, but we talked on ‘til around 11. Then I said a few words to you and went to sleep.

That’s my day – and they are all alike. Pretty strenuous, but I bear up under it all.

‘Bye now, Hon; I love you every minute.

All yours,

Wallace.

April 4, 1945 Wednesday

Dearest Honey,

How is my Bunny tonite? All nice? I bet so, how could you be anything else? This is your wandering husband, who wanders and wonders just how long it will be before he can see how nice you are again. ‘Course I know all the time, but each time I hear from you or see you I am surprized just how nice you are. Haven’t done either for some time now, so I like to think of the surprize I have in store for me one of these days.

I guess this paper about completes the rainbow for me in the past few days. The Red Cross gives it out, and altho it is weird, it is all that is to be had.

My adventurous spirit came to the fore today. I was determined to find out a little about where I am. Altho I am still not permitted to ambulate, my leg feels very good. It is not sore now and I can bend my knee quite well. I feel as tho I could walk, but the doctor won’t let me try. So today I defied authority and took off on my crutches. I went all around this floor, and then threw caution to the winds and went down the stairs! There wasn’t anything down there but the first floor, but it gave me a feeling of great accomplishment. This hospital is on the site of an old French army garrison. There isn’t much in one building. The authorities make it difficult for me to spread my wings, by not issuing me even a bath robe while I am a bed patient. I should be able to shake that classification in a day or so now. I imagine they don’t want me walking for fear of breaking the stitches. There aren’t many this time – just a few at each opening.

Today was P.X. day, so I am now supplied with enough candy and cigarettes for a while. I have just finished a full pack of Phillip Morris’ and I found out why most people don’t like them. They give the impression of being very, very dry and after a few they leave a bitter taste in the back of your mouth. I am fairly certain I noticed a real difference in taste – in fact, it was hard for me to smoke the entire pack and I rushed back happily to a Chesterfield.

Today I started a full-sized novel – “Thunder Mountain,” which is a robust, escapist story that holds a lot of interest with its well defined characters.

Will you excuse me, dear, if I close a little early tonite? I started writing late tonite and “lights out” is creeping up on me. As always, you will be the subject of my “dropping off to sleep” thoughts. You seem much closer these days – because I can write more consistently, probably. Remember I always love you more than anyone in all the world, Honey.

All my love,

Wallace.

April 3, 1945 Tuesday

Dearest Honey, 

I did some interesting reading today. First I finished “Brainstorm” by Carlton Brown (a condensation, of course). That was practically a case history of a recovered insane man. Gave the background and possible causes of the onset, described the depressed phase and went into great detail on the manic phas that forced him into a state hospital. The phases were separated by weeks, so I don’t know whether it was a true manic-depressive case on not. They did not name it, but mentioned cyclothemia a couple of times. This man thought that he was a “jitterbug Christ” and reached the height of his delusion at the World’s Fair. He didn’t have real illusions, but was hyper-sensitive to normal happenings, translating them all in terms of his own dreams. He gave a story of the state of the asylum that didn’t sound too good, and told of his slow, difficult recovery. Have you, by any chance, seen the real book? You’d enjoy it, Hon. 

Then I found an article in a Life magazine about “psychosomatic medicine,” which is simply the study of emotionally caused physical disorders – peptic ulcers, asthma, high blood pressure, etc. It wasn’t too new, but I learned that they use sodium pentathol in the army to study psychiatric cases. That’s the same drug they have used on me frequently as an anesthetic during my various operations. The doctor here said they did use it in different quantities on cases where emotional blocks prevent memory of battle experiences, etc. It makes a rapid psycho-analysis possible by breaking down a patient’s resistance to memory. It does produce a very pleasant, dreamy sleep. I have told you about it more than once, haven’t I? Something like hypnosis, the doctor said. Again I was surprized when it said that 40 to 50% of army disability cases are of “psychosomatic” origin. That is a good new word to express the mind-body relationship that psychologists always plug. 

It seems awfully good to me, Hon, to find even that much new material on psychology. It is easy for me to think in the vocabulary such books use, and it is very interesting. It is easy to drift off into baloney and pseudo-science in that vocabulary, but if you keep yourself in check it is the best method of describing human actions. Psychology is a hard subject to keep solid, but it is a little better than a purely philosophic approach.

Dear, I hope every day that your days are going as smoothly as mine. It is a big relief to me to be able to think about you any time I want to – and that is most of the time. Up front you can only think about home, which is you, for seconds at a time. Then you must force your thoughts back to the situation. Here I think of you and love you very sincerely and very deeply all the time. ‘Nite now, Bunny, sleep good and lean on me if you’d like to – I love you,

Wallace.

April 2, 1945 Monday

Hello Honey,

This stationary isn’t very fancy, but you know how things are in this line in the E.T.O. I feel lucky to have anything to write on – my only source of notebooks for official business has been the German army. They have a big supply of very fine quality notebooks. Much better than our own, and each non-com and officer has one or more. Stiff covers, lined, very good deal. 

I seem to be coming out of my lethargy automatically. Spontaneously today I did quite a lot of reading and wrote a letter to the folks. It is rather fun to see just how much you’ll do without forcing yourself at all. It sure has been good just to lay around and have a completely natural rest. Soon I may work up to orientation lectures, who knows?

A new warrant officer moved in to the bed next to mine last night. He had some Belgian francs with him. I have not been in Belgium, Hon, but I begged some of it from him and will send it home to you to add to the pile of things you must have already. By the way, I wonder if you have yet received the box of Paris souvenirs, and also the box of coins, I have sent you. Probably not. I understand it takes quite a few weeks for them to get to the States. To completely jumble the sense of this paragraph, I’ll end it by saying that I have been in Luxembourg, which is a romantic little state.

Now to review my reading for today. It has been weasel-reading, I confess. That is, it was all from a magazine “Omnibook,” which contains condensations of real books. As a rule, I don’t enjoy condensations, and don’t consider them valid or valuable reading. But I did have some fun with them today. I read “China to Me,” by Emily Hahn. She certainly was quite a character. Wrote a book about the Soong sisters, married a Chinaman and had a child by a British officer, only to accept repatriation to the U.S. on the Gripsholm. She was an uninhibited sort, anyway, and a typical international character. No observable moral code, no strong convictions, but brilliant and realistic. Freedom from conventionality was her most admirable quality.

Then I breezed on to “Lost in the Horse Latitudes” by the author of “Low Man on a Totem Pole” [H. Allen Smith]. That brought me a few good laughs. I think the humor suffered from the condensation, tho, because it seemed awfully forced in the version I read. Both Smith and James Thurber write very much in the style of Robert Benchley, but neither one can touch him, in my opinion.

Finally, I found a condensation of “Brainstorm” by Carlton Brown. I have not finished it yet, but it is the most interesting of all. It is the story of a man going insane, and his experiences in recovering. I’ll tell you more about it when I have finished it.

Say, Hon, first you know you’ll be reaching the end of your current activities. Oh, not too soon, but with spring well here, can summer be far behind? You will have your degree, I presume, and school in Westmoreland will be over. What then? We know the hue of my future – O.D. for some time yet, I imagine. So will you forgive me if I think about your future? I like to think about it because the opportunities are unlimited. You can do just about anything you really want to. You might be able to travel some, or study music some more, or even get with that book of yours. Of course, having Grammie to consider might be something of a limiting factor, and also consideration for our bank roll – but as long as it is going the right way I don’t want you to think of that too much. What would you really like to do? That’s what I’d like to have you do, Hon. Even drinking root beer on the Russells’ lawn sounds good to me. Very good, in fact. It’s nearly time to think about getting those battered lawn chairs out. And the croquet set – remember when I hit you in the head with a mallet? One of my romantic memories!! I promise never to do it again, Hon, if you’ll only play with me again. I love you even if I do make such unconscious attempts at manslaughter.

‘Nite now, my Bunny,

Here’s dreaming of you,

Wallace.

April 2, 1945 Monday

France – Hosp.

Dear folks,

This letter should prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that my heart is in the right place as far as writing to you is concerned – and perhaps it will make up for the occasions when I was apparently neglecting you. 

I am still enjoying a completely useless life as a bed patient. All my meals are brought to me on a tray and a nurse rubs my back every other day. Many other luxuries are tendered me, too – those are just examples.

Soon, no doubt, I will start moving around more, since now the stitches are in. As soon as they are removed, a little exercize will be in order. 

The British are changing their time today. They were already on daylight saving and now they are going even further – they just won’t know what to do with all their daylight. That has caused a little confusion in our routine today, but I think we’ll make out all right.

The walking officers in this hospital are waging a feud with the assigned officers here. It seems that Patient Officers have been barred from going to the movies nights and also from going to the Officers’ Club here. That very naturally burned them up, so they have been putting notices on the bulletin board, advertizing “parties” to be held “For Patient Officers Only.” They put on a big campaign for a “party” held last night. The announcements sounded very exciting. They described in glowing words the attractions – fruit juice, music, news comments by William Joyce (Lord Haw Haw), etc. Of course, it was our regular evening’s activities, but several nurses tried to crash the gates of our “exclusive” party.

What do you think of the news? It certainly sounds good, but I have grown to be a skeptic on such things. Ever since I left the States I have been censoring mail in which the end of the war was expected in a few days. It always takes longer than optimistic Americans expect.

Hope you folks all had a lively and pleasant Easter. Did Carlton get enough Easter eggs? I remember I never used to. ----

With Love,

Wallace.

April 1, 1945 Sunday

France, – Hosp.

Dearest Marjorie,

Happy Easter, Hon – or I might say Happy April, fool! But I won’t say anything like that. In our usually slap-happy ward there hasn’t been even one April fool’s joke. Just the usual run of G.I. humor.

Most of the men went to church today, but I haven’t got permission to leave the ward yet. In fact, Honey, I am in the same state I was last time. I haven’t a bit of personal clothing or equipment. I have been able to hang on to a few francs and my identification, tho, so I don’t feel quite as bereft as before. Besides, I am now adjusted to putting complete and infinite faith in Uncle Sam for all things. Whatever he doesn’t supply, the Red Cross does, so I have no worries whereof I shall eat or wherewith I shall be clothed. (I told you yesterday I was going to be a modern Christian!) Well, the Red Cross done noble again, and brought a nice Easter lily for the ward. It isn’t my idea of a real Easter lily at all. It’s orange and to all appearances the bloom is upside down, but that is what they said it was. The green looks like a lily, anyway.

A couple of my current buddies are being shipped to England, or the U.K. as it is known here. That’s United Kingdom, in case you know as little as I did when I left the States. They are more serious cases than mine. I can’t seem to get beyond Com Z – communication zone. Some real serious cases are Z.I.’d – zone of interior, which is the U.S. (of sacred memory). 

I can make a further report on my cigarette research. I can state positively that Chesterfields are a milder cigarette, but that they do not retain their shape and tightness of packing as well as Luckies or Camels. However, there is too little difference among the top popular brands to warrant being arbitrary in choosing any one brand. There is a notable difference between the top ones and such weeds as Raleigh’s, Chelseas, etc. I haven’t given Phillip Morris a valid test yet.

Under each bed in the ward there is a cardboard carton. It is used to hold clothing that is brought in, but as I have said, I have none. So I drew a big Chesterfield box that I had no use for. Just now, with no more results than a very dirty look from the ward boy, I took my jack knife and cut out one side of the box, to use as a writing board on my own bed. It will enable me to write any time without waiting for the wooden board we usually use. I tell you this only to show my amazing initiative. I shall now do all my writing to you on a two-inch high sign proclaiming that Chesterfields satisfy.

On Easter I am always reminded of the Dahl cartoon that showed a news photographer snapping the Easter parade – a rich man, a deb, a socialite family, etc., all formally and colorfully dressed. Finally an ordinary “average” man comes along in a business suit and says to the photographer, “Never mind me, I go to church every Sunday.” Also do you remember the “New Yorker” cover with a religious frame of trumpeting angels, with saints et al looking toward the center, where in a bursting halo stood a silly little Easter hat? [April 4, 1942] I liked that. 

Aside from these few incidents and thoughts my Easter has been uneventful. Pleasant, tho. I shall look forward to the letter you will probably write me about your activities today. Did you go to a sunrise service? Sing in the choir? Eat ham and eggs at my folks house, maybe? In any event, I have had a nice picture of you in a fresh spring outfit doing something enjoyable. Hope the day was a good one for you, my dear, and that we never have to spend another one apart. Easter season means a lot to us personally because of past events and by right we should pass it intimately together. I love you as if we had spent today together, renewing our promises.

All of my love,

Wallace

March 31, 1945 Saturday

Dearest Marjorie,

You will have to forgive me if I’m not my usual sparkling self today. I was operated on as per schedule this a.m. They use a local anesthetic but augmented it with about the strongest sleeping pill you ever saw. Consequently I have had to pull my eyelids open ever since I got back, and I can still feel the effects of the drug.

The operation was a success, and my leg is sore as a son of a gun right now. I expected that, tho, and it will last until there is more than the stitches holding the thing together. The doctor said I was very inconsiderate to pick those particular spots to get hit. It was hard to work on it – being on the backside of the knee. I had to be on my stomach part of the time and on my right side some.

Tomorrow is Easter, so yesterday and today I have been checking over the Easter story in the little testament they gave me when I left O.C.S. It is a beautiful story and gives you a lot to think about. Of course, as a psychologist, you have to give the whole thing a figurative interpretation. Nevertheless, the substance of Christianity is very sound and lifting. It goes much deeper than the physical activities described. I imagine someday I’ll become some sort of modern Christian. At least, emotionally. It is a mystery religion and therefore very nebulous. But it is based actually in truth and love and sincerity, and goes to surprising depths. It goes too deep and is too involved in allegory for me to accept completely. But it does have very basic realities when interpreted thoughtfully.

I imagine you have something new for Easter. What is it? A complete outfit like that robin’s egg blue one you got one year, or one of those high, turban-like hats I saw all over Paris? Spring is really your time of year, Hon. It gives you a chance to wear all those bright, neat, and shapely outfits you design and look so well in. Spring and you go very well together, if you will pardon my poetic thought. It is the time of year that goes best with your character and appearance. Clean, new, promising, cheerful. Wish I could spend it with you. Well, anyway, Bunny, we have a nice future to think of – may it come soon.

I can see that I am making handsful of mistakes today. Please blame it onto the sleeping pill. I write a few lines, then fall back and snooze for a time. Then I wake up and write a little more. The body is very reluctant to write, tho the mind is anxious to. I like to write down just what I think as it comes. Sometimes before emotional blocks or some such have made it hard for me to write haphazardly, but I haven’t noticed that since I have been in the hospital this time. I feel as tho my mind had been freed from something that had been holding it back. Perhaps it was the little shock of the Herrlisheim deal. That was horrible in a very big sense, and I can see how it would cut off normal thoughts for a time. It was a rough thing to accept. Now it is a little further away, bright spring weather is here and I have had time to think it all thru. Consequently I feel in a very spring-like mood now. As tho things were starting over. Things look fine, and tho maybe I feel more incentive to work for other people, I am still interested in my own future. 

Music does a lot to make a mood, and no doubt the well-chosen songs I hear over the radio have helped to make me feel good. Anyway, I certainly have an extremely refreshing and gratifying case of spring fever. I love you completely and happily and my Easter wish is that you feel the same way about me. 

Every bit of my love,

Wallace.

March 30, 1945 Friday

France

Dear Ma and Pa,

Instead of giving stock market reports on “Radio Luxembourg,” the only station I can get on the little radio near my bed, they spend whole programs giving reports of the height of the Rhine at every city along its length. Each day I listen carefully to every rise and fall of Europe’s “Ol’ Man River” for no good reason except that it makes me feel like Mark Twain.

I love the monotony of life here at the 58^th General. Each day is just the same, and being in bed most of the time even cuts down my usual local reconnaissance. So I just lie here and write letters and meditate. I haven’t even felt the urge to read much. I am too busy sleeping and appreciating the comfort here.

My big job yesterday was to clip my moustache. Cut it down from a big Groucho Marx affair to the more chic Clark Gable type. That makes it hard to spot from a distance again. Perhaps, it’s best that way.

“Good Friday” today. I remember Churchill said “pessimistically” last fall that the war might last until Easter! Well, any nation with sense would have quit by now, but it seems that we’ll have to “move in” on Germany rather than get any formal surrender. That takes time, and when papers say “no organized resistance” that doesn’t slow down the speed of shots from isolated guns at all. I am continually upset over those “no opposition” reports. It’s true enough for the “big picture” but unfortunately individuals have to face a “little picture” that may be very difficult.

Every night we listen to a stimulating talk by Lord Haw Haw. His twist of the news is very amusing. His logical manner and serious concern over the plight of the English is really something. His patient sarcasm is about the funniest thing we get on the air. It seems very peculiar to me to listen to regular German programs and to their programs given especially for us. Also we pick up programs we put on for the Wehrmacht. They are all very good programs with nice music and subtle digs. It’s like waging a war of spitballs right along side of the real stark thing. The front line life and these programs are miles apart.

Well, Doc said he would sew up my leg tomorrow. These wet bandages are fine – the soreness is gone and the penetration looks clean and neat. 

Keep the pot boiling on the home front, people; I know I’ll get your letters sometime, so I’ll assume all is O.K. with you until they come. What are Carlton’s latest adventures?

Your loving son,

Wallace.

P.S. Thank Aunt Flossie for her very welcome cards and letters to me.