They say that a tug boat, or some kind of a water animal, is going to brave the dangers and carry mail across to the folks at home. I am therefore stealing a few moments from my soldierly duties to throw a bit of ink. I’d much rather take the place of this letter and let them ferry me across instead, but as we are elected to be a part of the clean-up squad, it can’t be done.
It is sad but true, but we are a part of one of the French armies of occupation and are now “Nach Berlin.” We are making the grade by the instalment plan—stop here today and move on tomorrow. Our job is carrying “Ravitaillement,” and we are just as busy now as we were during the days of shot, shell, and bomb. Just as busy, but it’s a great deal more tiresome without any excitement.
That is, it’s more tiresome for the drivers and some sergeants. The clerk’s duties are just the same, although I have been told that I’m to take over the mess and supply sergeant’s jobs along with what I am already doing, which is nothing at all. Guess they decided I was wearing out too many chairs, and drawing too many pictures for a “Soldat deuxième classe.” There was enough yelling with the old mess sergeant and I can see a battle royal ahead of me when I begin to dish up the chow. As for getting clothes, it can’t be done. Some of the men are running around in pants held together with wire, pins, and string.
It is going to be a cold winter, and I hope that those at the other end get a little pep and begin to unwind Mr. Red Tape.
All day troops have been passing here, going up; part of the army that we are attached to, so I wouldn’t be surprised if we were on the go again soon.
Have seen thousands of returning prisoners, refugees full of spirit, but so pinched and hungry looking, clothed in rags and even in the uniform of the Boche soldier. We fed some at our kitchen one night and they were starved.
In the town I sent my last letter from, the son of the people whose house we had taken over dropped in to look the place over. It was the first time in four years that he had seen his parents’ home. His mother, sixty-four, and his father, sixty-eight, were carried off by the Huns in February. They were expected back almost any day and he wanted to see what there was left. The house was in perfect condition and there were a few sticks of furniture about, but the Boche had taken the meat and left nothing but the bone. His parents were more fortunate than many, having a home with a roof, but even then it’s pretty tough for two old people to return to their home and find it stripped of the things they loved.
