Pvt. W.D Johnson Jr. 34945847
G Co. 26th Inf.
APO # 1 c/o Postmaster
New York N.Y.
Jan 23, 1945
Somewhere in Belgium
Dearest Mother & Dad:
When I wrote Louise yesterday I asked her to call you all & tell you she heard from me as I didn’t think I would have a chance to write again for several days. But I had a chance to write again today.
I often wonder if you all don’t swap information on my letters. Somehow repetition is distasteful for me, particularly since I usually have a certain time I can write and I write you all & Louise at the same sitting most of the time. After writing both of you, I have realized that from time to time I say something or pass out some little dot of news that I failed to mention in the other letter. So don’t either you all or Louise get your feelings hurt and just arrange to swap data (if I ever say anything worth swapping).
Needless to say, I’m disgustingly healthy and therefore on my way back for another curtain call. It’ll be a relief to be rid of this infernal rear-area hanky panky and get back on the line where you are converted over night from an anonymous bovine in the lowing herd to a man again, and where the veil is lifted from the officers’ eyes and they actually see you, and by furtive looks and gestures (unseen of course by the higher brass – or rather I should say the “book” lovers & authorities on military discipline) convey to you that they consider you a human being after all, especially if there is a dangerous patrol or some other little chore in the offing which could hardly be performed by a mere discontented cow. But I haven’t suffered too much (if any) on this trip through the mill.
After a short hitch in the army you learn that, after all, anonymity is your only hope of salvation therefrom. So I’ve caught a few details as my name came up on the roster, but aside from that I’ve just blended into my olive drab background and remained inconspicuous by doing what I was told, asking for nothing and otherwise not calling attention to myself by going A.W.O.L or engaging in fisticuffs, or otherwise endeavoring to express the unrest in the average G.I. soul to the be-brassed hierarchy.
Judging from conditions over here I have conjured up a mournful picture of want in the dear ole U.S. I can see you, Dad skulking behind a mail box on Dexter Ave waiting for some twice – blessed individual to cast aside his inch cigar butt. I can see you growl like an angry dog with a bone when Judge Jones barges into your hiding place and seeks to oust you or share it with you. You are implacable but are finally induced to let him stay when you learn he is on the trail of a cigarette butt, and there is, therefore, no real conflict in interests. By common agreement with the more dignified townspeople and the police the area in front of the liquor store is reserved for the young lady smokers of the city as the traffic there is so much thicker as to insure any modest maiden a good haul of butts with a minimum of exposure to the embarrassing but altogether needful pastime of smoke-gathering.
Here we just do without. The shortage, world-wide, is due no doubt to the baleful look on the European gamin’s face and the frosty pinch to his runny little nose when he holds out his wee hand and says with a catch in his voice, “Cigarette pour papa?” The G.I. is notoriously everything you can imagine – and big hearted along with it! Obviously the Camel or Lucky is a better commodity in trade than the flimsily printed t.p. which passes for money over here. So, the Army makes it hard for a fellow to embellish or intensify his bad habits and it may even mean that I will eventually quit smoking (which I don’t in the least suspect!).
Speaking of money, I’m enclosing a French 5 franc note worth (according to Morganthau and the other Ponzis who control the GI financial destiny in Europe) about 10 – one thin dime, but actually worth somewhere in the vicinity of 3 . Note the cute water mark in the blank space when you hold it to the light!
This French money must have been designed to facilitate the fleecing of the hapless tourist who before the war was beguiled by pretty posters into wanting to fall into one of the things that passes for a toilet (when I mount, I always expect a trap door to fly open and a pair of arms to whip out and give me a shoe shine!) or experience the full thrill of relieving the bladder in plain view of the entire French population. The money, (notes) while retaining much the same rectangular shape vary in size from the 5 franc piece to a document half the size of a newspaper. When you buy some – thing and get change for a hundred franc note, the counter looks like you’ve just finished wrapping a Christmas package and left seals stickum and all laying where you let them fall. I’ve seen a 1000 franc note as big as this notepaper opened up, and I shudder to think what I would do with a ten thousand franc note were I ever so unfortunate as to acquire one. The money is beyond the possibilities of the ordinary billfold – and I haven’t even mentioned the myriad little lead and zinc (or aluminum) coins which infest the pockets after a purchase. If I lived here I think I would carry a satchel like the ice man used to carry and I’d let my children sort it at night.
Well, folks, I hope to be back where I’ll get some letters from you an a day or so. It sure is good to hear from you, and its lonesome when I can’t get your letters. Anyhow I hope you are fine, because I am, and don’t worry about me – I’m having quite a tour at Gov’t expense and a lot of fun along with it. So just pray for the end of the war and hang onto your faith and all will be well.
God bless you both and here’s love from David Jr