October 22, 1917.
Ah, ----[D]:
Once more I take my pen in hand to lay at your feet the burdens of an
overwrought (how is that word spelled?) mind, said burdens being caused
by a most unpleasant captain. Just because I was in Paris for a day and
a half without a permission, he handed me eight days of jail, and today
for nothing at all he hauled me out in front of the entire division
and got quite angered when I told him in extremely broken French that
I hadn’t understood a word. But as the jail doesn’t mean anything and
doesn’t have to be served, I am not worrying very much. The afternoon
is misty and there isn’t a chance of flying, so he takes particular
care that nobody leave the _piste_ though there is absolutely nothing
to do there, no chance to get warm or comfortable. Which at least gives
me a perfect alibi for poor penmanship as I’m sitting in a machine and
quite uncomfortable.
Thoughtless creature, so much like the rest of your sex, why did you
not tell me where Albert was to be over here, or what he was going to
do, or what service he was in, or at least that he was in France? I
cleverly deduced the latter from your letter, but did not know where to
find him. When I got your letter I was at Pau, not far from Bordeaux
(Didn’t I write you or postal-card you from there?). Afterward at
Paris, I talked to a few very dressed up ensigns with wings on them
somewhere (Walker is the only name I remember), and they told me that
---- was near Bordeaux and in the same group with themselves. So if,
etc., I might have gone to see the Big Boy.
Yesterday I went to see Billy and another classmate in an artillery
camp the other side of Paris. They are officers of the U. S. A. and
live as such, which incites in me much envy as I am still a mere
corporal of France and treated with no more than my due--not quite as
much I sometimes think. That was the expedition that brought the jail.
Lots and lots of people are getting over here now. I’ve seen Heyliger
Church and Kelly Craig who are about to become aviators somewhere.
Porter Guest just became breveted (that is, a licensed pilot) and was
considerably seen in Paris shortly after--no end of college friends are
over here and even an occasional American girl is seen in Paris. No
friends as yet.
Your letter--I asked at Morgan Harjes about Miss ---- and found that
she is at the front in a hospital, so I can’t very well find her in
Paris. I’m sorry as I would very much have liked to. What one might
call permanent people are very nice to know in Paris. I don’t know
anything about the front yet, but if I’m near Miss ----’s hospital,
will try to get acquainted.
What you said about ---- and his going, I can pretty well appreciate.
There isn’t a thing in the world to worry us unmarried and very
independent young men over here. If something happens to us, it will
bother you all back home a great deal more than us. It’s very, very
true that women have the heaviest and worst part of war. I had to
write a letter the other day to the mother of a pal over here who
shot himself when out of his head. A fine pilot and an exceptionally
charming fellow, how I pity his poor mother. It’s almost unbelievable
the number of women one sees in black here in France. Thank God, it
can never become that bad at home, for the war will never get so close
to us as it has to the French.
I haven’t the inspiration to compose an imaginative aeronautic thriller
today about the experiences of a boy aviator. Since last writing, have
finished Nieuport at Avord, went to Pau and there did acrobacy, came
here to Plessis-Belleville and started Spad, now await assignment to an
_escadrille_ which ought to come within a week. Haven’t broken any wood
since Blériot days, but have been a bit more rational and done about
average good work. The preliminary training is over--combat training
doesn’t amount to anything till we get to the front. I’ll be on a
monoplace machine surely. So in my next you can expect to hear mighty
tales of combating the Boche at a high altitude. I’m beginning to hear
that it’s nothing but a lot of routine work, few combats and pretty
soon a frightful bore: I refuse to believe it and hang on to romance
for all I’m worth.
Give my regards to a whole lot of people and tell them I haven’t quite
given up all hope of a letter though almost. My friends as a group are
not very strong on letter writing. There are only a very few shining
exceptions like yourself and verily they do make of me the heart glad.
But enough of this, ’tis bootless, so I sign myself,
Thine as of yore,
STUART.