Today has been another rumor day. Those coming back from convois sure have one hot line from the front. “William the Hun” has agreed, and the Boche have stacked arms and are doing the goose-step back to Germany. Would that it were true! Still, the way the Huns are going now, they haven’t time to goose-step, it’s more of a fox-trot.
I’m enclosing one ticket good for a visit from Santa Claus. Tell him to pack the cigarettes and gum with care. Don’t chase around to get stuff to fill the box—just pack it full of cigarettes and send it along. Don’t put in a Christmas card, it takes up room.
October 18
Dear Mother—
Once upon a time I went to church and they sang a song about “Rest, rest, for the weary.” When I get home, I’m going to climb into bed and let them sing me to sleep with that song. Weary! Sleep! I could make a hibernating bear look as though it had insomnia.
Did I ever write a letter in which I didn’t say “We have moved.” If so it must have been when little apples were made. We have moved! The way the Huns are going backwards, my next letter should be headed “Somewhere in Germany.” This move has been one for the better in regard to quarters. The Germans didn’t do much hating in this village. No doubt they didn’t have time. At any rate the houses are standing on their own feet and the roofs are pretty much all together.
Germany is down and out. Everywhere you notice and see it. The French are rubbing the defeat in. Before this wonderful drive you never saw a light anywhere. Now everywhere you see them. Autos go by with their head lights thumbing their noses. In the woods, in the field, in houses, and barracks, there is no attempt to conceal lights.
