It was plain that she expected Frances to come, being so domestic, and so old-fashioned-womanly. But Vera, you know, in spite of her suffragism and her feminism has always been kept by her father from having anything to do, and so she had nothing to occupy herself with just when she needed occupation most. So she declared that she must go, and of course Frances let her. “But you know,” said Frances to me, looking up from her sewing with a little twinkle, “I know Vera will be in hot water with the old Colonel from the first, she is so out of sympathy with war, and the military life, and all it has (or hasn’t) to offer women.” That’s her sex independence, you see.
Vera can’t know that you’re there. She went just before you so suddenly made up your mind to go, and Frances hasn’t written her of your going. I told her I shouldn’t tell you, and begged her not to write Vera. And unless Vera recognizes you, which isn’t likely, she will know nothing of your whereabouts.
It is odd that David Farnham is in your squad, and amusing that I should have seen his mother only yesterday. She never was so proud of anything in her life as of the fact that he is at Plattsburg. So she has become a perfect nuisance to her friends, talking of him so. I met her at a Bridge, and she was crazy to see me, David having written her that you two are together. So she got herself put at my table, and our two partners were furious, because the game dwindled away to nothing, she talking of David all the time. You would have thought that he was the whole army and navy of these United States. I was at first quite frightened that she would ask me your opinion of his fitness. But not at all; that was quite settled in her mind. She talked about his deciding to go, and how he made her see that it was the best thing for him and for the country—and there is a story to that, because it was her husband that insisted on her letting David go, when she would have kept him. And she talked of his equipment, how horrid it was that he couldn’t dress like the officers, especially his legs, they are so handsome; but he wasn’t allowed to wear puttees or leather leggings, but must wear those canvas things. And she gave him everything new; she even mentioned those French silk pajamas that so amuse you. And then she was indignant that he was not at once made a lieutenant, or something. And the men in his tent, except you, Dick, are of no social standing whatever. Of course she hadn’t heard of his being called Lucy. She was so satisfied that I wanted to tell her. Do write me more of him.
Lovingly Mother.
Private Godwin’s Daily Letter
Before morning drill, Friday, Sep. 15, 1916.
Dear Mother:—
Our good Lucy is a different lad from the one that landed here a week ago. Did I tell you that he has come to the heroic resolution to clean his own gun? I suppose the strongest factor in that is his detestation of Randall. It’s quite common here for fellows to get the regulars to clean their guns, and there’s more to be said for that than for many other indulgences: at least it’s better for the rifles. The regulars drive a good little trade of this kind, and David has twice sent out his piece to be laundered, as it were. But I know that he perceived that the sentiment of the squad is against it, and I think he’s sensitive enough to understand the reasons. We’re all here to learn to be soldiers, and taking care of his gun is a pretty important part of a soldier’s job. And then we’re an economical crowd. David and I are the only ones in the squad that didn’t have to pinch a little in order to get here; even Corder spoke recently of the expense as something unwelcome. So it’s really rather bad form to pay for outside service. Yet for all that, David couldn’t quite bring himself to do the dirty work.