I shall close and mail this letter now, and at the first convenient opportunity shall begin the next. I foresee that my letters to you will be practically a continuous performance. Love from
Dick.
From Private Samuel Pickle to His Brother
Plattsburg Training Camp.
Sunday, Sept. 10, 1916.
Say, Tony, what a mutt I was not to get myself jabbed for typhoid before I came here! It would have been worth the money. Today my arm feels like a hornet’s nest, with roots up into my shoulder and down my ribs. And my head is light and wavy—that’s fever. I saw one guy keel over stiff when the doctor stuck him, and the poor corp of our squad says he’d swap jobs with his rear-rank man if he could only feel like a boy again.
They feed you here with food that’s like ourselves, coarse and plentiful. I’ll never again call sister’s doughnuts sinkers; wish I could see any kind of a doughnut. The table china is delicate French—nit. The waiters are in livery. The man with a long reach will grow fat while others starve. Take care not to spill anything; it may fall into your hat that hangs under the table. Iced tea should be iced and should be tea; milk should be milk. When you see a thing that you want, ask for it; the platter will get to you even if the food don’t. Elbows on the table are comfort but bad form, same as at home. The men that stay longest at table take pains to tell you that they eat slow. Eat first whatever is handiest when you sit down; why be idle while your soup is coming?
It’s considered impolite to drink at the company spigot, but there’s no rule against cleaning your teeth there. The best way to rinse your stocking after soaping is to hold it over the nozzle like a bag, and squeeze it while the water runs through. It takes so long to get hot water here that you’d better learn to shave with cold. I never before made my toilet out on the sidewalk, but a fellow can get used to anything.