I’ve just skirmished about and found me a writing desk – a four sided box which is on my lap and does very well. That’s the way in this army; the best rustler gets the best home. Our diminutive room is pretty homey and unless it gets too cold I shall keep it. I am comfortable now, perched on my bed with tobacco and lighter within easy reach. Speaking of lighters, that one you bought me has been the butt of much highly-colored language from me, but Frank took it apart and got to work, so he carries it now. I have two or three others, and of course usually have to borrow a match.
My French family? I don’t see much of them. They’re all right, but! The daughter is stupid and none of them is any too interesting. Kelly and Will Read and I are going out there tomorrow. They usually have company that is more interesting than they themselves. Lots of people are like that.
At first, with all sincerity I echoed Haywood Broun: “Tell them back home that there aren’t any good-looking women in France.” It is the kind of sweeping statement with which a small mind is so apt to generalize from its own limited experience. Of course there are many, but I hadn’t seen enough. Hence I labeled them all “not pretty”. Set your fears up again, child for there are some heart-jumpers here, though I’ll say the average is lower than in your United States. Besides this is a warm Latin country where to talk to someone you don’t know is not to break all the rules in the “Swell Swains’ and Maids’ Manual.” If I should ever see anyone that looked sufficiently interesting to warrant the trouble, I warn you that, as per your letter of sanction I shall make her acquaintance. I have the letter here so that I can silence Frank’s reproaches.
I have been spending most of my time with the French man who wants to learn photography and the French woman who wants to learn English. That left just two nights in which to take care of all my correspondence and personal chores and so forth. It is interesting and instructive and all that sort of thing, but it’s too much. I’m going to manage to have about four evenings to myself hereafter.
And so you think I am living in the present and growing bigger. Yes I’m living in the present if you mean reading war news and war maps, and writing captions for war photographs. I am growing bigger in the sense that I am meeting new people of my own kind and of a different kind too. It is comforting to hope that what you say is true. As yet I can’t see it. Maybe you’ll notice it. Bu I am still the same. The “army attitude” which worried you so much has slid by. I haven’t got it. Experience there is none. An office is an office all the world over. So is an editor an editor and a writer a writer.
My job consists of looking over all the photographs that come in, choosing those of news value, getting the important facts about them and concocting a caption that newspapers will print. Then the pictures go to the states and we hope the faithful plodders at home appreciate it all, when they see “Committee on Public Information” under the pictures in their Sunday papers. As I’ve said, it is agreeable work.
I’m content, but not what you’d call exuberantly happy. If the work we do here is important, as they say, it is no doubt as valuable as that of the man who totes a rifle. But it’s damn sight less exciting. However, I’ll think a lot before I try to get more thrill by going out in the field.
Please take notice that on August 29th my promotion went through. I am now a private first class, whatever that is. It must be a very responsible job, because it brings in $3.60 more than my present monthly stipend. I don’t think the censor would appreciate the humor of it as much as I do to I’ll save the whole story till some other time.
Since said promotion which was announced yesterday, my shoulders have squared back and my chest expanded, so that when I weighed today (the first time in France) the scale said 61 ½ kilos which is 135 3/10 pounds. The life and rank of first class private agree with me. If the war lasts long enough for me to become a corporal I may get fat.
Next post September 20
Letters from Sidney Friend During The Great War 