France, July 22, 1944
Darling:
...Yesterday I had to visit all the units again, to get statements for my report. The regiment is in contact with the enemy, so such trips always have their skin-prickling moments. I got back pretty tired about 7 o'clock, just in time to get a phone call from the CO of one of Sirrine's battalions, also in the line, requesting me to come up to discuss personal problems of his body-guard, a fine young fellow who had simultaneously received word that his sister, an army nurse, and a brother, a flyer, had both been killed in the So. Pacific, and that his remaining brother had been critically wounded with another division here in France.
While up there, I hit the favorite hours for Jerry's activities, and, frankly, pretty nearly had the pants scared off me, with samples of shelling, mortar-fire, and strafing. I got back at midnight, having driven the jeep myself all day (my driver being on guard) slipping and slewing through mud axle deep whenever I got off the surfaced roads, which was frequently. I hate to admit it, but after a day like that, I feel my years. Yeah, man! War is a young man's game!...
News on 90th has been released. Maybe you know something now of what the boys have gone through: constant contact with the enemy since D-Day. They've taken their losses, too. Somebody says "Old Bill got it today." "No!" you say. "Son-of-a-bitch!" And you go on about your business, with a little more emptiness inside, a little more tiredness, a little more hatred of everything concerning war.
There is a certain cemetery where some of my closest friends in the division lie. I saw it grow -- shattered bodies lying there waiting for graves to be dug. Now it is filled. The graves are neat and trim, each with its cross. Occasionally I visit it when passing by. Always there are flowers on the graves: Sometimes a potted geranium has been newly brought in; sometimes there is a handful of daisies. The French people, especially the children, seem to have charged themselves with this little attention. Our bombers are roaring overhead just now, in the hazy afterglow of sunset. In a few seconds I'll hear the crunch of bombs -- a good-night kiss for the Nazis. There they go!
The war news is good; but we're fighting over optimism. I suppose people at home are elated; the boys up front are still in their fox-holes.
I'll try to write at least a note every day or so. Take care of yourself. I'm fine.
Love,
John
