France

June 29, 1944

Dear Grace,

Your letter came yesterday. Many thanks.

I am writing from my "private" room in a French farmhouse - a fairly capacious closet. It has a window, table, old trunk, and a litter of shoes under the table. Just enough space is remaining for my bed roll which has caught up to us for the occasion.

Most of the shoes are discards, but they appear to be saved for future use. There is a new-looking pair of women's dress shoes, brown with a white edging and new rubber soles and heels, but for the most part the others are old, dust-covered and shabby. Some bear signs of three or four lives, particularly the tiny shoes, which belong no doubt to the little boy Charles who lives here. These shoes are mostly resoled with wood to which are attached bits of rubber. Then there are a quantity of wooden shoes, some unfinished wood, others painted black to look like leather. There are several pairs of men's shoes and a pair of boots, all belonging, no doubt, to a man of the house who is not here. His whereabouts is something of a mystery. There are pictures of him in French Army uniform about. Whether he is a prisoner or is dead we do not know. No one has ever inquired.

One of the astonishing things about the war is that civilians live right in the front lines and pay almost no heed to the metal messengers of death which fly past their very door and sometimes in it.

Just the other day one of our officers stopped at a farm house to see if they had any eggs. A half dozen French people poured out, waving an American flag and carrying bottles of cider and Normandy champagne. They ushered him into the house to see the event - a new baby born the day before to a young French couple. The girl was about 18, the boy about a year older. The baby had been delivered by an American Army doctor. Anti-climax was that they named the baby "Jack". The officer expected something rather more romantic.

All along is this curious mingling of domesticity and war. Outside the house is a strutting white rooster lording over his harem of black and white hens. A mother hen leads her brood of baby chicks around the yard, shooing them into the barn upon approach of heavy feet. A little tan and white dog (mongrel) lies in his tiny house and eyes us curiously. Ducks swim calmly on the static (and frequently stagnant) pool in the yard. Occasionally there is a wild whir of wings as the older ducks fly past the window to light in another pond at the other end of the courtyard. A young foal bewilderedly follows a dark brown mare while new-born calves stand stupidly about in the nearby fields.

Overhead an occasional Jerry shell shrills by on its long journey to the rear. Once in a while there is a krr-rump of mortar shells landing. Then our own guns shake the house as they roar in angry answer and off in the distance we hear them hit with the devastating smash of a pile driver.

Oddly enough, in spite of shot and shell, many areas are relatively untouched by the war. When no guns are firing, the scene is peaceful enough to make me want to do a water color of it. Opportunities are boundless but time is not.

Some of our soldiers are teaching young Charles to talk English. He's about five or six years old and learns faster than we do French. He was very shy at first but now has loosened up quite a bit. You should hear him count up to ten. Like many Frenchmen, he wears a blue beret, a white scarf and wooden shoes, which clatter noisily on the stones in the yard and the concrete floor of the house.

Oddly enough, the woman steps out of her wooden shoes whenever she goes up the worn stone stairs. Those stairs, incidentally, give you a nasty jolt. Two of them are worn lower than the others. One is about half way up, the other a third of the way from the top. As you start up or down your foot hits these worn hollows and you drop with a jerk that snaps your head on the neck and your teeth bite at each other. Very unsettling.

Love,

Bob

June 30. Missed the mail because I got called away before I finished this yesterday. This will probably go out tomorrow.

Sure wish I had my camera and there weren't so many restrictions on it. There were some wonderful pictures to be had in England and now here.