I was thinking the other day that the war has probably done little for me except to readjust my sense of proportion. You know I was always prone to be a bit too tolerant. A man who spoke good English or was amused by the same things that drew a laugh from me, or one who showed that he wished to cultivate me, always found a warm, not to say ready, response. The last year has changed that somewhat. T has brought some ten hundred new men into my field of acquaintance. It has proved that, after all, each of them has something likable in him. It has shown that the value of a man depends mighty little on such surface showings as these, and it is the height of immaturity to base judgments on such trivialities. Altogether it has been experience that is likely to stand me in good stead when I come back to life again.
I agree that the coming of Wilson was a great event. Paris seemed to think so too. It was gay and gorgeous, star-spangled and shouting. I saw Clemenceau, Pershing and Wilson. The scenes were an improved duplication of armistice day but a bit less spontaneous, for it was all premeditated.
Bad news. On measuring our room it was found to be 6 ½ by 7 feet. It seems that there is some kind of wise sanitary provision that every individual must have floor space that comes in square feet and room volume in cubic feet. Perhaps in our room it got mixed, but at any rate, after a deal of calculation, they said there were too many in the room. I counted the bunks, which tallied two, correctly enough, and asked how they proposed to remedy it. That was a poser; but after a few minutes figuring they seemed to feel that it would help some, if one of us moved out. So some day soon, Frank and I must draw lot and tote lugs.
On Friday, the 13th, I had been 6 months in overseas service, so I am now entitled to a gold V-shaped chevron near the bottom of my left sleeve. I hope I never get a second one.
Next post December 22.
Letters from Sidney Friend During The Great War 