August 6, 1918

It is very quiet here. The long range gun has begun again for the first time in about two weeks. It never hits near here, but we hear it. Occasionally it kills a couple of women and children; great achievement, isn’t it. Kultur gains a lot by shelling two or three little kids playing in a park. Makes one wish he were in the infantry where he could at least get a pop at some of the Boches.

I don’t know whether you follow war news or not. In the states I didn’t, but here it is the biggest thing there is. At any rate, next time you see a map with the Soissons, Rheims and Chateau-Thierry on it, take a good look at it, and see what great work was done in the recent drive. The line used to be a triangle from Soissons to Chateau-Thierry to Reims, and the Franco-Americans have made it a straight line from Soissons to Reims in about two weeks.

Of course, by the time you get this, the drive is ancient history, but it is very vivid to me now. Your newspapers have it as soon as ours to here, so I am not violating any secrets.

Saturday night I had a real home dinner at the house where my pupil says: “Hit ees ay pain,” meaning; it is a pen. The dinner was the kind that begins with four kinds of hors d’oeuvres and doesn’t end at all. Along about 9:30 they had what is called: “un petit canard” – a little duck. They pour a little rum in the bottom of a glass and put a lump of sugar in it. After the sugar has absorbed it all, they eat the sugar. Just about then I decided that this dinner might be a continuous affair, so I got away. Not before I’d had a jolly good evening, however.

Sunday was wasted. The weather wasn’t very good; and I was on duty anyway. For about a week now it has been showery all the time. That may be the regulation French climate, but I hope not.

I am still taking meals once in a while at the homey little café around the corner. It is very pleasant. They make no secret of liquor here; there is no side entrance effect; the whole thing opens on the street with a big wide door, and there are chairs and tables on the sidewalk; women go in alone and no one thinks anything of it. In a word, it isn’t a saloon – it’s the French equivalent for what you might call a public house.

Next post August 8.