Trench Fever

Dear Susie,

Your letter was tops, really. And you know when I say that kind of thing, I mean it, I ain’t a bimbo or nothin’. Letters like that make my day in this hell-hole, besides drinking Earl Grey noodle juice in the sick bay. I swear to god, the sick bay, the proper one outside of the trenches that is, is the only place a man can fight the war I was promised. Not this.

You’re looking great, by the way - you don’t have to worry about being some bug-eyed Betty or nothin’. The new hair and the dress make you look like a smarty, I really mean it. I know you think you’re some cancelled stamp, but it’s the farthest thing from the truth.

You remember the blue nose of a commanding officer I got stuck with, Parker? The egg of the whole damn regiment? He got gassed about a week ago - gonna be on medical leave for the rest of the war, how ever long that is. I’m glad he wasn’t bumped off and I would’ve given a month’s service pay to tell him to dry up, but getting gassed is one of the worst things that can happen to you out here - its a fate no man, no matter how much a blue nose he is, deserves. Word is that he hurls at even the mention of the word ‘mustard’. He wasn’t a limey, so he’s gonna have to deal with that at every ball game for the rest of his life.

The new CO we got, Rogers, shouldn’t have ever made it to the army - he’s a living, breathing pile of bushwa. At least Parker had a brain in his thick skull - Roger’s just has a bunch of hot air and ‘for rent’ signs. The most use we could get out of him is tying ropes to his ankles and make him the Human Zeppelin - at least we’d know he wouldn’t blow up on us unless he got shot down.

The guys and I had a good laugh at the soap you sent us - said I could wash up in the mud hole. They shut their traps when I pulled out the quality ciggies and chocolate. They didn’t mean to be insultin’ or nothin’, it’s just that soap and that kind of thing is dead weight over here.

I want to thank you again for your work hard at the shop and everything - makin’ army cars and all that, holdin’ my place until I’m home. You seem to enjoy it more than I ever did, and Pa said he may as well fire me and let you keep it. It’s not like I have a family to feed - you’re insured and everything.

Thanks for sending me the clipping about the battle - it’s hard to tell whether we win or lose on my end. Hell, there’s no way to tell - it seems to me that they just count body bags and whoever has the most loses, like some messed up game of Beggar or somethin’. I’ll show ya how to play when I come home, a limey taught me.

I’m runnin’ out of pencil on my end, so I’ll stop here. There’s whispers of a charge and I hope to God it’s not true - we’d get mowed down like grass in the summer. If you could send a pencil or two in your next letter, it’d make me smile. I heard the record ‘I didn’t raise my boy to be a soldier’ and thought of you and Ma.

Your brother,
Jim