I went to dinner last night at Streiffs’. Our mess is at 6 and I went straight from it to their dinner. I think I did credit to both.

This morning I got up at 9:45 and am hungry. Probably I shall not eat until 3 o’clock. You see it is like this. Joe Pepino and John Cesario waylaid me last night and broke the news of another Italian affair today. We are to go to Nogent (about 6 kilometers from here) and meet Mme. Bellamy’s sister and b-in-l and have dinner, music and dancing. I think I’ll tell you about it after it has happened instead of before.

Did I write you about the Theatre du Grand Guignol? I guess not. Wednesday night Jim Bennett, Jack and I went. It is a little and beautiful theatre down in a back alley in Montmartre, where they present a Washington Square program. It was fine. Some day I’ll tell you all about it. Jack is now behaving himself so I am going with him again. He and Billy and I are going to see a lot of shows.

Damn – the lights are out!

What a country!

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Next post February 4.

It is laughable. The News Dept. now has orders to go on making enlargements from negatives suitable for news use, but under no circumstances to distribute any. Can you imagine the New York Times gathering news, ads, stories, features, editorials, in short getting out an issue all printed and ready for the newsdealer, and then going no further. That’s our shape now. We are ordered to let our news pictures pile up in the desk drawer.

Doesn’t it seem sensible to deny, in the face of this, the application of the News Dept. for return to the states? Yet they did. You see our major is all for the major, and he has more money and influence than he ever had as an optician on the Pacific Coast. If his force here decreases, it hastens his home-going. That’s all. I don’t pretend that he’s the big power, but he is so “slick” that he can out-talk the big birds and make them come round. He’s got them convinced that this whole place here is more important than even the Army of Occupation.

It is pretty comfortable in the office here – warm and friendly, for we have a fine time now that there’s little to do. Just now we had a good laugh. There is a motion picture projection room here, where they run the films we take. The operator was running something without looking and the first thing someone wandered into the projection room to find a two-hour picture being run and not a soul watching. They’d all got up and gone out, probably to get a drink. We went in to tell the adjutant so he could enjoy, as we did, this sight of the efficiency of the place, but he merely said, “Huh!” and went on teaching his dog to lie under the desk at the command, “Couches-tod.”

About the middle of November, Mme. Bellamy gave me a little 1919 French diary. Right then and there I wrote and showed her “Jour de depart,” on Friday, May 30^th. It was a wild guess, for at the time the armistice had just been signed and there was nothing to base a calculation on. But it was a good guess, because I think now that we’ll pull out of here not much later than Decoration Day. Of course we may not be home by July 4^th, but whatever we do we will be on the way some day! And as long as we must remain I want to be right here. I have no desire to go to some muddy camp. Nor do I envy Frank his job of photographing the Argonne Forest with numb fingers. I much prefer Billy’s warm fire, before which I am now sitting, in a vain effort to combat the dead, grey cold of “Sunny France.”

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Next post February 2.

It is 7 o’clock in the evening of the coldest day yet. The water has just started to run again and the lights are preparing to go out. They always are, in this half-country. Nothing is warm any more. What’s the use of such a place?

I am waiting for a couple of the chauffeurs who live in the next room, and for whom I have promised to do some interpreting.

Nine-thirty now. The interpreting is over; it seems they wanted to move out of the chateau and are looking for an apartment. No luck tonight.

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Next post February 1.

Of course there are one or two interesting things to report. For instance, there was an especially fruitless plenary session of the rumor conference. It was decided that

1. We are going to pull out of here Feb. 15.
2. We have enough work to keep us here until June 1.
3. Pathe wants its place back by Mar. 1
4. We shall all have another service stripe before we leave France.
5. X. offers to bet 500 francs that we quit Feb. 26 at 3:37 P.M.
6. The general says the last soldier must be photographed getting on the boat.

There you have it. It is much more heart-bowing and hope-strangling than it sounds.

More news. This morning early Frank Phillips left for a trip over the old Argonne front taking pictures. He’ll be gone at least two weeks. He is tickled to death, because he has been in that dark printing room of his for seven solid months, working like the very devil. He certainly needs the change. By the way, he was insulted with a promotion, too. They made him a first class private.

Daddy Mauldin came in for the first time since he went out nearly seven months ago. He has had an easy time of it doing identification work. He looks fine.

Sunday morning I had a very enjoyable time. I visited a man named Hageman, who is the official interpreter for the S.C. Photo Lab. He is an American who has lived in Paris for more than 15 years. He is a “militarized civilian” meaning that he is a clerk, still a civilian in a military status. I don’t know why he is in the army at all, but he is a very interesting person. He used to teach singing, he used to paint, he still is a collector of antiques, especially in iron.

I’ve never heard him sing, but I have seen one or two of his little sketches and know he is no mean hand. And I have seen a lot of his antiques and know that he knows what’s what. He invited Lt. Cushing and me down to his place Sunday morning. He has a little apartment by himself very tastefully, but comfortably fixed up, and in a nice part of the Latin quarter. We had a very delightful morning, letting Hagie do the talking, which he can do, while we smoked, which we can do. I had no idea there was so much of interest in old locks. Hagie has traveled pretty widely, it seems. He would tell of finding this lock in Germany not far from Munich, while that one he dug out of a pile of old iron at about 1 kilometer from the Danube. H knows his treasures like a lover, not like a museum guide. I was sorry to have to leave him.

Tonight I am to go around to Streiffs’ to see Mme. Bellamy, whom by the way, I haven’t seen in over a week. She makes pretty slow progress.

Sunday it started to snow here – the first of the season – and it never has let up entirely since. The result is a lot of slush and plenty of snow fights. You ought to see our mess line – we wait in the open air, if we wish, for the mess call to blow, and the purple, smoking words fly as fast as the white, freezing snowballs; it adds a zest and excitement to getting in to the meals. Also it gives us a chance to let off a lot of our feelings towards the frogs in what looks like harmless boyish frolicking. For it will never be known with what vim the memory of countless demands for “cigarette, tabac” makes us throw these pretty white things at the frogs.

It is perfectly useless chafing at the immobility of the Rock of Gibraltar. I hate the army, I hate the country. I cuss, I grow ill-natured, but what good does it do? I’m still here and don’t know when I’ll get back. If I didn’t hope, I’d probably turn criminal.

If I get to feeling about two notches worse, I shall get desperate and take to writing, and then look out! For if I should so far forget myself as to write something about the war, it will be a terrible denunciation of wars and armies and I’ll go to the pen for it. However, I may not get that bad.

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Next post January 31.

You asked me whether I was sick because I didn’t go to work. Absolutely not. I was just disgusted and comfortable. Also it was a good move, though I didn’t realize it at the time. It seemed to tell more effectively than words that I was dissatisfied, and I don’t doubt that it was the immediate cause of my promotion.

This promotion thing came through Monday but dates as from Jan. 1. It is sort of anti-climactical but nevertheless I’m not turning down the extra hundred francs a month. I skipped the grades of corporal and sergeant so now I wear the thing on my right arm; And they all call me sergeant. Ain’t it grand? See what you get by being mechant once in a while?

Monday night I went to see the opera with Mme. Bellamy, her sister and b-in-l. We wanted to hear Battistini, an Italian baritone, in Rigoletto, but he was indisposed. So we heard “Romeo and Juliet”. Preserve me! M. Daniel is Italian and, of course had no use for the tuneless mediocrity of the thing. I thoroughly agreed with him. But before I lose interest in French operas I want to hear more of them here. “Louise”, for example, “Thais”, “Samson and Delilah.”

The opera is a very beautiful building and worth seeing. They have two sets of opera here. One is called the Opera, the other Opera Comique. Just what is the difference I don’t know. In a general way, though the grand opera is at the Opera, the rest at the Opera Comique. The cast was very ordinary in voice, but good in looks.

Rumors say we’ll move from here by the end of next month, but I doubt it, as yet. Even if we did, we’d spend at least six weeks in some cold, muddy camp before getting on the boat, so I can’t possibly be in America before May 1^st.

At any rate, I am heartily sick of armies and war.

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Next post January 28.

This place is getting worse and worse, and it isn’t bad yet, as the army goes. Now they’ve put in a time-clock system, which is the crowning glory. It is a fact also, (to which I hate to own up) that they even have an efficiency expert. The only encouraging thing is that it looks as though they are really making some effort to get through here. Of course it will only get worse. We’ll go from here to some camp and rot there for six weeks, before we embark. Then they’ll dilly-dally a month or two on the other side before discharging us. Gosh, I hate the army!

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Next post January 22.

Sunday I took a little walk in the afternoon, though the weather wasn’t too good. In the evening I took Billy Hamilton down to the Theatre Palais Royal, a little house in a quaint and conventionally typical Paris street. The play was “Le Filon,” a very French farce-comedy, with the usual bedroom flavor, but well acted and amusing. The flavor, I might add, is not unusual in France; nor on Broadway. But over here the people live it into their lives. Thus it becomes equally important in plays, with slick business deals in our drama, and is equally true to life.

Bill and I had a good time together. He is a pretty keen and shrewd Irishman, with a rough exterior and an underlying sense and regard for the right. He looks and talks like a tough, drunken, fighting bum, and isn’t any of those things. H lacks education and polish but has a pretty good head. He can appreciate art and even drama of which he doesn’t understand more than about a fourth of the words, with a real sense of values.

Since then there has been nothing at all exciting. I should think a careful administration could avoid such blunders as this; The Stars and Stripes last week said that 140,000 had been sent home, while in today’s Herald Gen. March is quoted as saying that 96,000 have gone. Both include Jan. 10^th. Now what do you make of it? I have given up hope of any light on the subject. All we can do is wait till they move of their own accord, and in this letter during working hours – time for more of them time to read, to smoke, to talk – and nothing essential to do. And I still work harder than most of the people around here.

Do you feel that I’m not so full of the beauties of France as I used to be? I do. I’m fuller of the shortcomings. That’s because it’s hard to enjoy a rosy sunset over the Tuileries Gardens, when you feel all the time that when you go home the chances are three to one that the electric lights will be out and the place in total darkness. It’s hard to appreciate the fragrance of the woods, when the consciousness obtrudes itself that the sewer under your room smells to heaven.

I guess the French are a good deal like me. If there were someone here to show them how to build electric light systems that wouldn’t go out of commission every few hours, and how to make water drop down a hole and go away, it would be well with them. As it is, they seem to have no sense of the practical; they struggle along with makeshifts much as I should throw my clothes on the bunk if there was no Frank.

The lieutenant who sits near me has just made some remarks that throw a little light on going home. He says we shall be here eight to ten months yet. That leads me to believe that we shall not, because if he says we are, we’re not. Sounds paradoxical, but he has a perverted and delicious sense of humor that loves to play little tricks like that, so I am somewhat encouraged.

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Next post January 17.

Speculation goes on apace, though we sit tight. There is no use being a straw on the current, going this way and that, with the flow of near facts. Yet one can’t be constantly in contact with them and suffer no change in course. Today we think we’ll be here till September, tomorrow signs point to May 1^st. Isn’t the best thing to do, to forget these rumors and just when I’ve decided to do that, I find myself beginning immediately to growl inwardly, because I am still here.

Today’s “Stars and Stripes,” the official paper of the Intelligence Dept., says that only about one twelfth of the A.E.F. has already been embarked on its return trip. There is a great deal left unsaid in that brief statement. But let’s cheer up a little – the weather will be fine when I do finally get back. That alone would make it worth while going home. At any rate, my motto, from now on, is “Westward, ho!” The sooner the better.

Do you remember how I used to wonder if I should find any chum in the army, or any friend? I haven’t. There are many people I can call my friends, right here. In fact, I believe I know more men, know them better and am known by more than the greater part of the fellows here.

This is a ridiculous day. About 8 batches of photos came up to be looked through. After ordering a few of them, I had nothing else to do. Can you imagine trying to pass a whole day doing nothing? It got so bad that I had to get up and walk around just to keep from going wild. Nobody was working. I don’t see how it can last forever.

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Next post January 14.

Nothing new to report, except that I am going to the opera Sunday night. Faust with Mme. Bellamy, her sister and the b-in-l. Also, if I can find someone agreeable I’m going to the Theatre Palais Royal to see a good comedy. It is an “intamate,” meaning small, theatre, and they say the show is good. It is called “Le Filon.”

One thing this war has shown (I daresay these “one things” add up) is that the modest violet is usually handed a nice large stone ’neath which to hide. The sunflower type usually wears the gold leaf on his shoulder. It is despicable, and profitable, to be a “mitt-glommer.” – army slang for a hand-shaker. It is also wise to talk big, because they and you get to believe it after a while. If it ever gets to the point where they call you on the big talk, you’re lost anyhow, and in no worse a fix.

Sounds hard, doesn’t it and disillusioned, as if I was losing faith in my fellow men. I am, a little. I used to have the sublime credulity (I’m too hardened now even to admit it was faith) of a youthful idealist.

The army is at once a queer and a good place in which to dream. So is Billy’s Y.M.C.A. Just at present there are five people here besides me, all talking and laughing, and Bill is picking awful oily sardines out of a can, with a large pair of pliers. So taken all and all it isn’t such a good time for writing.

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Next post January 10.

Yesterday I got up at 11:30, a disgraceful hour, but it was warm in bed and it seemed good to be able to sleep without fear of bugles. Went to Streiffs’ where I seemed to be expected to spend the day. I did. It was the Fete des Rois – some kind of survival of a religious holiday. Part of the festivities includes the cutting of a piece of cake in which are two whole beans. Those who get the beans are the King and Queen, and each chooses his queen or king, so there are two royal pairs. Of course I got a bean, which I dropped into the wine glass of the woman next me to indicate that she was the queen of my choice. The sad part is that whoever draws the bean owes the crowd a bottle of champagne. I still owe it.

After considerable music and dancing, I got home at about 10:30 and just flopped into bed.

What are we doing now? We’re cleaning up. They haven’t finished taking pictures, you know. In the first place, there is the army of occupation, every division and corps of which has its photo unit. They are not sending in an awful lot, however, thank goodness. Then there is the old S.O.S. which means everything not in the fighting line, and which goes merrily on, war or no war. There seems to be no end of loose strands and odds and ends of things to be photographed all over. In addition, there is a unit appointed to cover the peace conference; it hasn’t taken a thing yet, but it points out that we’ll be here until that is over. Then every officer in the A.E.F. seems to feel that he is entitled to a personal collection of the photographs taken during the war, and we are obliged to fill their requests. So we have lots to do yet, none of which seems to be necessary.

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Next post January 8.