Dear Roy:
I am writing this letter propped up in bed in the little hospital at Epernay and a young chatterbox of a fellow in the cot adjoining mine says that my breathing reminds him of a goldfish. I cannot seem to breathe with my mouth shut, but I tell him that he can’t keep his mouth shut either and that he has not my good excuse—for I was gassed.
The nurses and patients call him Archie, and he has a bullet which was lately extracted from his shoulder and which he says he intends to take home to America for a souvenir. He is wounded slightly otherwise and was operated upon (had his retreat cut off, he told me) and is in all ways a most diverting youngster, something like yourself, except that he rolls his R’s like rapid-fire artillery. He calls the nurses “cross red” nurses, and talks incessantly.
I became acquainted with him only yesterday and I fancy he will beguile my convalescence. Seeing him lying with his eyes fixed on the rafters, I ventured to say, “A penny for your thoughts.”
“What d’you think I am—a slot machine?” he retorted.
“Excuse me,” I said, somewhat taken aback.
“Perrfectly excusable,” he responded cheerily, and added, “Do you see that place where the rafterrs arre new—with the big irron nails?”
“I see the nails,” said I.
“You can’t drive a nail with a sponge,” he said, “no matter how you soak it.”
“Perfectly true,” I said, essaying a little pleasantry of my own, “but what has that got to do with the price of onions?”