Ah, —{4}:
Once more I take my pen in hand to lay at your feet the burdens of an overwrought (how is that word spelled?) mind, said burdens being caused by a most unpleasant captain. Just because I was in Paris for a day and a half without a permission, he handed me eight days of jail, and to-day for nothing at all he hauled me out in front of the entire division and got quite angered when I told him in extremely broken French that I hadn’t understood a word. But as the jail doesn’t mean anything and doesn’t have to be served, I am not worrying very much. The afternoon is misty and there isn’t a chance of flying, so he takes particular care that nobody leave, the piste though there is absolutely nothing to do there, no chance to get warm or comfortable. Which at least gives me a perfect alibi for poor penmanship as I’m sitting in a machine and quite uncomfortable.
Thoughtless creature, so much like the rest of your sex, why did you not tell me where Albert was to be over here, or what he was going to do, or what service he was in, or at least that he was in France? I cleverly deduced the latter from your letter, but did not know where to find him. When I got your letter I was at Pau, not far from Bordeaux (Didn’t I write you or postal-card you from there?). Afterward at Paris, I talked to a few very dressed up ensigns with wings on them somewhere (Walker is the only name I remember), and they told me that — was near Bordeaux and in the same group with themselves. So if, etc., I might have gone to see the Big Boy.
Yesterday I went to see Billy and another classmate in an artillery camp the other side of Paris. They are officers of the U. S. A. and live as such, which incites in me much envy as I am still a mere corporal of France and treated with no more than my due—not quite as much I sometimes think. That was the expedition that brought the jail. Lots and lots of people are getting over here now. I’ve seen Heyliger Church and Kelly Craig who are about to become aviators somewhere. Porter Guest just be- came breveted (that is, a licensed pilot) and was considerably seen in Paris shortly after—no end of college friends are over here and even an occasional American girl is seen in Paris. No friends as yet.
Your letter—I asked at Morgan Harjes about Miss — and found that she is at the front in a hospital, so I can’t very well find her in Paris. I’m sorry as I would very much have liked to. What one might call permanent people are very nice to know in Paris. I don’t know anything about the front yet, but if I’m near Miss —‘s hospital, will try to get acquainted.
What you said about — and his going, I can pretty well appreciate. There isn’t a thing in the world to worry us unmarried and very independent young men over here. If something happens to us, it will bother you all back home a great deal more than us. It’s very, very true that women have the heaviest and worst part of war. I had to write a letter the other day to the mother of a pal over here who shot himself when out of his head. A fine pilot and an exceptionally charming fellow, how I pity his poor mother. It’s almost unbelievable the number of women one sees in black here in France. Thank God, it can never become that bad at home, for the war will never get so close to us as it has to the French.
I haven’t the inspiration to compose an imaginative aeronautic thriller to-day about the experiences of a boy aviator. Since last writing, have finished Nieuport at Avord, went to Pau and there did acrobacy, came here to Plessis-Belleville and started Spad, now await assignment to an escadrille which ought to come within a week. Haven’t broken any wood since Bleriot days, but have been a bit more rational and done about average good work. The preliminary training is over—combat training doesn’t amount to anything till we get to the front. I’ll be on a monoplane machine surely. So in my next you can expect to hear mighty tales of combating the Boche at a high altitude. I’m beginning to hear that it’s nothing but a lot of routine work, few combats and pretty soon a frightful bore: I refuse to believe it and hang on to romance for all I’m worth.
Give my regards to a whole lot of people and tell them I haven’t quite given up all hope of a letter though almost. My friends as a group are not very strong on letter writing. There are only a very few shining exceptions like yourself and verily they do make of me the heart glad.
But enough of this, ‘tis bootless, so I sign myself,
Thine as of yore,
STUART.