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Two letters Rosieres, France |
| Dear Bess: | January 26, 1919 |
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Your good letter of January 6 came last night and of course I was as happy as could be. Now of course if you'd rather he married in Trinity Church at Independence, Missouri, I am perfectly willing. I just couldn't see how I was going to wait until I could get to Independence if I ever got to America again. But I understand that they expect to send all organizations to concentration camps and muster them out as a whole and I've an idea that my chances of getting away from mine at New York would be very slim and I'd better let you make whatever arrangement you choose to--but don't make any delay. I get such a longing to see you sometimes that if such a thing were possible I would desert and stowaway home at once and quickly. I have been rather sorrowful the last day or so. My Battery clerk died in the hospital from appendicitis. I know exactly how it would feel to lose a son. He was the most agreeable Irishman with a sweet tenor voice and an excellent soldier. He ran my office and kept me from paying out my money for the government. He was one of the reasons that my organization is a success. When the letter came from the hospital informing me of his death I acted like a real baby. I had no idea he was at all badly sick until that letter came. I certainly hope I don't lose another man until we are mustered out. We finally moved and are now living in a dirty little village about four kilometers north of Bar-le-Duc. We moved out of camp on the morning of the twenty-second and slept outdoors that night. It was as cold as the dickens but I had so much cover on my bedroll that my arms would get numb from the weight. Got into town on the afternoon of the twenty-third and got all billeted before dark. I have two rooms, my two lieutenants and myself. One of them has a fireplace in it like old man Grimm tells about in his fairy tales. You build a fire in the center and sit inside the fireplace to keep warm. Out in the room it's about freezing all the time. The old lady we stay with is very good to us, cooking pommes de terre frites, or French fried potatoes, and stewed Belgian hare. She's very careful that we don't burn our candles two at a time. They are our own but are so expensive in France that she doesn't like to see them wasted. All French women are thrifty. Be sure and keep writing. I'll write you a better letter tomorrow. I love you Always, Harry |
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Rosieres, France |
| Dear Bess: | January 27, 1919 |
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. . . I was out on a maneuvering problem today along with Major Miles, Captain McGee, and Lieutenant Younger. My part was to pretend that I was a Battery. I guess they give us those things to do to keep us from going dingy and also to have some legitimate employment for the oceans of staff officers running loose. Staff officers, you know, are purely ornamental and utterly useless as far as I can see. They are mostly lieutenant colonels and majors and fresh young captains. They sit close to the throne and promotion comes easy to 'em whether they know much or whether they don't, and mostly they don't. Most all of 'em are either West Pointers or from Dea' old Yale or H'va'd don'tche know. I've an idea if the army shuts up shop and there's no demand for bartenders, and cafeterias run the supply of waiters up, that these poor ginks will actually have to do some useful work or other. That is if the government doesn't decide to keep on taking care of them. For my part I wouldn't trust 'em with a pair of mules or any surplus cash I happened to have, because they'd either let the mules run away or sell 'em and I know what they'd do with the cash if John Barleycorn were handy. I most sincerely hope you are well by now and have gained as much weight as you desire. I don't care how thin or how much weight you have, I love you just the same. Keep writing to Yours always, Harry |
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