Somewhere in France January 2, 1919
Dear Leo
It is hard to explain the mental hardship and aggravating feeling that a fellow has to endure while his people at home await word of his safety. Here I was disgustingly healthy and in the best spirits but no way of communicating with you.
For nineteen days we tramped from the front until we struck a place where we had an opportunity to send a cable. let's forget that.
More than a week since I returned from my furlough am ready to go again at a moment's notice. I certainly enjoyed the stay it was so different from the environments and treatment we have been having in France. It was not very pleasant to return to the billet, the drill, the mess kit, the beef stew. It is so monotonous, the days vary so little that I can almost tell you what I will do January the thirteenth, or a month from today. It seems that our stay in the country is indefinite. I doubt if we will be back in time for Washington's birthday. Don't let me interfere with you having his birthday, he is accustomed to having one yearly. Yesterday having leisure time I investigated about the German aeroplane for Nathaniel. The stores seem to be all sold out.
With love, George
Somewhere in France January 12, 1919 Dear Folks,
As the time passes slowly I am growing impatient. My mind and goal is home. Nothing interests me, nothing agrees although conditions are different, far better, than they were when we were in the lines. The billet is warm, the mattress is soft, filled with plenty of hay. The food is good and more than enough. Candy, chocolate and crackers are obtainable at reasonable prices, with all that nobody is satisfied. How can they be? They are all on pins and needles awaiting the order to move. Never before were we so anxious to hike as at present but only in one direction:
HOME
For several days I have not been with the company, am acting as assistant to the supply sergeant. It is not an honorary position but it is a little different than the ordinary grind, more interesting and on my own time. Apart from all this there is absolutely nothing to write about. For more than ten days our mail was held up, making it still harder to reply to letters that I didn't receive. It is ten o'clock in the morning, the usual rain is playing outside, there is no place to go and the nasty weather keeps you from going there.
Here's hoping that I write my last stampless letter in about a week.
With love, George
Somewhere in France January 22, 1919 Dear Folks,
Little activity at the front, no change in position. We are holding our own, awaiting impatiently an order to advance toward a sea port. Jewish communiqué.
The above paragraph answers everything. We spend our days drilling with our minds about 4000 kilos away. Little excitement and little of anything else.
Yesterday our regiment performers performed for us in a town about three miles away. The walk was very invigorating, the brisk evening air made us step lively with pep and snap. The show was better than they ordinarily give there has been an attempt of originality instead of the poor imitation of celebrated vaudeville comedians.
The date of our home going is the daily topic discussed by all officers and privates alike. Daily there is new "dope", new rumors from good authorities. Somebody heard from a fellow who knows an orderly who feeds the general's horse. However, the day for our moving is approaching shortly. All indications are that we will move somewhere in about three weeks. Allowing several weeks in an embarkation camp and two weeks for the journey across we should be home by April 1st or in the vicinity. Am craving for mail from the States, don't neglect me assuming that I am on my way home. Write me, don't forget my address.
Regards and love to all George
Somewhere in France February 18, 1919 Dear Rebecca
Our plans were shattered yesterday, when an order from divisional headquarters was read to us stating that the New York papers were erroneous in their dates of our sailing. "This division will not embark prior to April first" were the last encouraging words. What's the use, it's not in our power to do anything towards hastening the return of the boys. We are still in the army and made to feel it every minute of the day whether we like it or not. The disciplinary measures are more stringent than ever before owing to the indifferent attitude show n in drills and formation. Our immediate (company) officers realize our predicaments, analyze our positions and feel with us in every move that we make. They do their utmost to better our conditions to keep our billets warm and to make life in general as comfortable as possible. It is of the higher authorities that I speak, the "dug out kings", the men who are wearing decorations for sacrificing canned meat and eating only chicken etc. Wail till the men return, wait till we have our say in politics, just wait and see ----. This is the smallest, extra small town in captivity. It consists of one chateau built about six years ago, it has modern improvements, including garages, stables, gardens under eye glasses and everything a man could desire. The rest of the town is made up of a dozen or perhaps twelve mud holes with two cafes and one department store so called because when you inquire for a little trivial article, you depart quickly. The ink here is the worst I used in a long while, the call it anchor, that's why it is watery or --- The paper runs a close second. This particular pad that I am using while the fellow who owns it is away, is one of the many that were issued us the day before our trip from our former area. Ten months in France we were compelled to buy or resort to other honest means of getting stationery, but a day before moving, two after outgoing mail was stopped, pads were issued. The newspapers probably had pictures showing the boys in the A.E.F. areas receiving stationery with a note from the editor to note the cheerful countenances etc. ----- I used mine for drying my mess kit while others made the place comfortable, sure, we had a stove, also wood when we collected enough money.
Am still trying to obtain some real nice toys for the children, some day perhaps, in Macy's.
With love, George
Somewhere in France February 14, 1919 Dear Dave,
I just got a crazy notion to write you of my trip from La Chapelle en Blezy (in blazes) to Beaumont (on the bum). It is raining, the company is at ease passing the time away as best they can. Sunday morning the bugler was hoarse, there was a string missing and he blew reveille internally. Several boys knew it was time for reveille but it was no business of their to awaken the sergeant, what do you say Dave? I think that nobody can pronounce the word "reveille" properly, that's why they blew it. but I am getting off the topic -- Only four platoons were absent at the command "fall in" but it didn't matter, the officers were also playing reveille at attention.
The breakfast was better than usual, the cooks cleaned the kitchen and anything they couldn't carry they donated to the boys, they are nice that way. Then came an order to roll packs and police the area. In short order everybody was ready to move. The grounds outside were scoured and every little piece of paper buried in the mud so as not to be seen by the inspectors. Eleven o'clock we bade farewell to the billet, the table, the chair, the straw, if they only look under it they will find all kinds of stuff --- the company was formed, arms stacked and packs laid smartly against the wall. The whole populace (both of them) turned out to see us off. It was a very touching scene, some cried because we still had eight francs left in the company, others looked "beaucoup fatiguez" having been up all night counting the "Jacks and Franks". The woman who owned the billet that we abided in (some English) was the most disappointed in town, she put in a bill for several panes that were missing in the fenetre and received the full amount. Of course, they were missing but they were A. W. O. L. when we came there. She regrets she didn't put in a bill for a soft parlor set which was also absent and would harmonize with the stable surroundings.
Am keeping the company in the cold. We stood there about an hour until the town mayor went about to scout up damaged property and to see that all places were properly cleaned whether we used them or not. 'They are nice that way". He carries a book containing estimates also bills already signed and receipted by the owners. They purposely carry the wood outside so that the boys can borrow it and use it. "They are nice that way."
At about twelve o'clock sharp, we slung equipment and amongst and amidst the clamorous cheering of the Mad-moiselles and other pomme de terrenians, we slid out of the town that sheltered us for ten weeks and did us good ----
Although a heavy pack and a snowy road, the morale was high, the boys sang, fooled, we were heading for home and this was our first leg of the journey (I hope they amputate a few of the legs). At six o'clock we spied smoke across the hills, our good old United States locomotives were warming up, getting their rations to carry us to our destination.
The company was formed, the guns stacked once more, the packs piled close by and the mess kits were ordered out. A hot meal was waiting, looking for customers, it consisted of hash (what that consisted of, I don't know) a sandwich, bread and cocoa or coffee, no not the same pot, also a package of cigarettes made out of old pool cues because they had no tips.
Am now eating, will write second part tomorrow.
George
Article #2 FROM AN ACTING PRIVATE We certainly enjoyed the hearty meal that was donated to us by the generous triangular society although they claim to be on the square --- We finished the chow, licked off the silverware wherever it was necessary, wiped the mess kit with the slicker while the fellow wasn't looking and replaced it in its pouch until further use.
It was growing cold, night was coming on, a north wind was blowing from the north (where did you think it would blow from?) darkness was setting in but the moon was doing guard duty and it lived up to all standards and regulations, was full and everything.
For an hour after the meal we moved about the stacks trying to keep warm and pass the time away as best we could. War songs, army ditties and good music resounded from all parts of the field. Harmony reigned, we were homeward bound and didn't care who knew it.
About 9 o'clock an order was given to sling the baggage. We followed the officers along the poorly lit station where stood our "chevaux pullmancars". "Twenty nine" (not ages) the guy hollered as he tapped me on the back. I was the last one to enter the crate. "Make yourself comfortable" was the command but before we could ask how, the fellow who said it disappeared. Being veterans at the time, having ridden in similar coaches several times in France also having been steady customers to subway ruses we immediately set to work to facilitate matters and to give each man breathing space. All packs were suspended from the roof of the car, hooks, nails, rings were used for hanging all other equipment. All you had to do was to attach your pack to a ring in the wall, tie a rope to the pack, swing the rope across the car to another ring, fasten it to some other fellow's furniture, lean two or three rifles up against it so that the rocking of the train does not unfasten it and all that remains is to sit up all night and watch it. When this all is completed and you heard a sight of relief the other fellow (it is always the other fellow) remembers that he didn't take out the jam from the pack you can picture and imagine what follows - yes, also an argument until some private pipes up meekly, "You guys start a row over every little thing." Yes, he also forgot something in his pack and is preparing for the battle. The train is not moving and doesn't expect to for some time but al the unnecessary equipment is off the floor and the boys are spreading the two bales of straw to make beds softer. Just then the top sergeant came in, that is he stayed out, you could come in but he instructed the sergeant of the platoon to send five men for rations. I was the first to volunteer - I gave my instructions to my bunkee (there was another fellow I used to sleep with but I didn't pay him back yet) how I wanted the bed arranged and with the four other men report to the supply sergeant. Listen, kid, I wasn't stuck on carrying the eatables but I thought maybe peut etre the sergeant would make a mistake when he counted the cans of jam but did he? no, but we borrowed one while one fellow argued with him about nothing. "You dropped a can of beef!" a fellow hollered as I passed by, I knew it, but I didn't hear him, who cares for canned garbage, only, if we don't open them now, we get them some other time so we manage to spoil them. A book on how canned meat can be done away with without eating, written by the dough boys and dedicated to the officers, can be obtained in D.S.C. department of this publication on receipt of a verbal note from any constant reader.
Now was the problem, how were the four of us to get into the car when the rations blocked the door and there was absolutely no room inside? Ah, oui, said the sergeant in his best Sunday French, "I will distribute the food, each man will eat as much as he wants and whenever he wants without disturbing anyone but the occupants."
It was the best plan in spite of the fact that a sergeant proposed it. Each man received a loaf and a half of bread, a can of beans, a box of nitgootismir and two cans of tomatoes amongst three and some jam. The bread was put in the helmet, the canned beef served as a pillow as soft as hard tack, the tomatoes were a nuisance, there was no place to put them, finally they were stored in the extra pair of shoes that were tied to the pack which was tied to the rope which was fastened to the other pack that was supported by rifles --- when all this was accomplished and the empty wooden boxes were extricated (maybe its the wrong word) from within and dropped smartly and in a military manner without awakening the MP on post, the quintet or rather the five of us edged into the car. It was not too light, only two candles burning and they were halves. I announced my presence and my partner answered at the same time pointing to a space about two inches by twelve, "You sleep here, the bed is all made up" (he should have said made down). Its very difficult to climb into one of those beds, you step on half a dozen corporals who immediately plan detail for you when you reach the destination, they are nice that way, they remember you, and so do you --- I removed my hikers, that is the only clothing with the exception of my eye glasses that I remove on pleasure trips when I couche in box cars. Little by little I squeezed into the straight jacket, I turned to the fellow along side of me and asked very politely for him to move about an inch, he couldn't he was supporting the rifles that were leaning against the rack, you know -----
Silence predominated, all arguments were off, everybody seemed contented. The day's march, the cold air, the straw, the blankets, the first opportunity for rest since early morning -- there in the car lay 28 human sardines done up in blankets, one sardine couldn't fall asleep, how could somebody's elbow was in my eye, he wasn't trying to take it out, no just to push it in a little further so that I may look deeper into matters. One candle extinguished itself, the other was burning low. Suddenly the train gave a jerk, ah, the engine has attached itself to the cars, a whistle and that's all I remember until -- well, I can't write when I ride, excuse moi, will you,
George
P.S. Look for the number on the page not having any blotter I had to wait for the ink to dry. What is the good of telling you this after you have finished the letter? Maybe it makes little sense if you shuffle them and as they come.
Somewhere in France March 2, 1919 Dear Folks,
This morning after many hours of preparation the company excluding a half dozen (including myself) left for a three day trip to a rifle range. I remained to assist the supply sergeant in finding how best to spend his time.
At one o'clock the company was out of sight, the town was quiet like a holiday in camp. Two fellows and myself left for an adjoining town where our divisional headquarters is stationed to try and rid ourselves of a few francs.
We walked about town from one store to another parleying in fluid French, obtaining everything possible. Suddenly it started to rain, we tried to get shelter and landed in a Jewish Welfare board, a place that I never knew existed in this part of the country. We found Jewish newspapers and other publications on the tables, the first word in Yiddish print that I had seen in a year.
The language was also "GEMIXT". Here and there a fellow broke out in Jewish assisted by calisthenics. A very comfortable room, several writing tables, a piano, two female secretaries and two male supervisors were the only furniture in the place. Half an hour later the rain abated, we started again to shop investing here and there in little souvenirs and little sweets to chew while on our way home. At five o'clock although our minds were set to go home, we stopped at a restaurant to partake in some real eatables. Our stomachs filled and our pockets empty we started for "HOME" and in a short while we were picked up by a passing automobile and landed within reach of our abode.
Now comes the story -- When I came to the supply room I found my barrack bag that I had turned in at Calais about ten months ago. How happy I was to see it, what fond recollections the articles brought as I extricated them one by one. Each one individually carried with it a story. For instance, this stationery was in a portfolio that Ezra sent me before I went away. Numerous photos of the men in Camp Upton, many of whom I will never see, several of whom remained in France. A bag that Leah made for me before my departure, never used because all our personal property was confiscated, we were allowed only what we could carry on person and how much can a fellow carry besides the regular equipment? Four sticks of shaving cream, enough for two years, have no use for it now but the name "COLGATE" made me happy. Several white handkerchiefs, imagine, white handkerchiefs, a freak of nature, a novelty, the whole battalion will be here to see them when I announce that I have such in captivity. And towels, clean and otherwise, and soap, toilet, washing and "GLOT" soap. What a happy hour I spent assorting the little commodities commenting, reflecting and looking back to the time when I was parting with them and thinking what I had endured, what I had gone through since. But that's another story --- Even the ink is Waterman's, somehow it runs more smoothly, you wouldn't think to look at this, but it's purely imagination.
It is eight o'clock the night rather dark, the town deserted, there is nothing to do. In a half hour if I can't find a fellow to play a game of pinochle or listen to my talk, I will be in bed ---. And let me tell you, while I am on that topic, I sleep in a beautiful room. Few men have that privilege, and I consider myself very fortunate in that respect.
Expect to write several more letters tonight so will close this one and start another, to another member of the family.
With love, George