TRANSCRIBED FROM THE PARIS EXPRESS AUGUST 8, 1918 P. 4
Sunday, May 12, 1918,
Dear Mother:
Received a letter from you yesterday. It was a belated one that told me about buying the honey, a later letter told me that you could MISSING TEXT order, so we’ll just let things go until Uncle Sam gets ships enough to float a few packages across the pond. I don’t need anything very bad anyway.
This is Mother’s Day over in France. I even suspect Fritz of celebrating it. We had a little war about daylight, then we either went to sleep or wrote letters home. We are so peaceful that we are not even hunting “cooties.”
It rained last night and then cleared up and it was as clear and bright a day as you could wish; orchards in bloom, butter cups in the meadows, dandelions on the hill, French doughboys picking fat snails off the rain soaked hedges. The birds are singing joyfully and spring winds washed by last night’s rain sets you all atingle, makes you feel like knee pants again and bring you memories of spring back home. Strange birds are singing songs, we’ve heard before, all about their nests down in the orchard. I would like to go to church down at the little brown stone church in the valley with it’s red tiled roof ashining up out of the green, but the “padre” has gone to war years ago and the alter cloth is covered with dust. There is a bit of mud on the floor before the Virgin Mary, where perhaps some tired boy paused on his way up the long and winding road to the battle line, he had knelt and remembered his God and his mother, just as I followed his example today.
Week later.
I’m on detached service away from the battery, still in a gun crew, but a larger gun, and it was made long before I was born. I’m having a lot better time than I had when I was with the battery. The change is interesting and there isn’t so much work. I had been away from the battery for the past two months and got my mail about two weeks ago for the first time. It may be two months again, before I get another mail. There isn’t much use to answer any special letter.
The picture of the kids is good but where in the U.S.A. is that house?
Our division name is “Yankee Division.” We are Yankees and are mighty proud of it. I like “Yankee” better than “Sammy.” You don’t need to guess that the very best division to be in is the Yankee Division and the best regiment is the 101st. We can always feel like the folks back in Boston are looking out for us in every instance possible.
You can tell Ted McGehee that he will get the chance to come to France soon enough. This war is good for years yet. There is not any wild hurry about this war. We do thing patiently and slowly. This is a war that is not to be won in a day. I don’t know what to think of you wishing the war was over. We have no intention of hurrying the thing up, and I resent your speaking of an early end. I think you are trying to drive us, which is against union rules. Why hurry, you are putting yourself out of a job, and if we do things in the good old I.W.W. way we may be able to make it last till 1920. Another thing you must consider, I have not got my “croix de guerre” yet so give us a little more time.
It is a hot spring morning and we loaf around in the shade as much as possible and wonder what we’ll have for dinner. We had beans and coffee for mess this morning. I weigh 154 lbs. against 119 a year ago. This is an awful war. I fear I look like a beer drinker.
Over in the valley to the north is fritz; over in the valley to the south an old grandfather is patiently filling shell holes against the day when the war is over or the battle line moves north. Another older farmer is plowing land MISSING TEXT de terre” (potatoes) and along the end of his furrows a barb wire detail is building entanglements. As we go to our kitchen for mess we pass through a vineyard some hard working French farmer planted years ago. The loose surface stones had been neatly piled and the vines trimmed. Now there’s many another stone to pile and many a shell hole to fill and the vines are almost all dead. Down in the valley is an American reaper and binder stopped in the middle of the field, old straw is still in it, an unbound bundle of wheat. The machine is old and rusty and the one-time peaceful wheat field turned into a battle field , I wonder the story of it. Did the old farmer start out at sunrise one morning in fateful 1914 with no thought of war to harvest his wheat and perhaps say about 10 o’clock, did a flying squadron of French Cavalry ride grimly through his wheat to meet the green-gray clad Uhlan invaders in his neighbor’s vineyard on the crest above him and did he load his best bed and the stove and chickens and perhaps a pig on his best cart, while his wife drove the cows along behind, as they went down the long dusty road that leads south and to safety. Just as myself have seen.
I feel that the best way to take this war is to just forget. Don’t bother about “Keeping the home fires burning,” we are soldiers, nothing more, and the less silly sentiment we have the better we’ll fare. I don’t fancy Fritz wastes much time on sentiment.
I saw seventeen German prisoners the other morning a few hours after they had been captured. They looked very cool and business-like, though they were awfully tired and sleepy, having been through a night of fighting and a gas attack. They were well dressed, most of the uniforms looked new and fairly clean. It was, of course, torn by the barb wire slightly. They wore heavy leather high-top boots which were in good condition. They were mature men, all older than I, and something that may surprise you, they didn’t look to me as though they had ever missed a meal. I’m just telling you this for fear that you folks back there would get the idea that to finish this war will be a before breakfast job. Of course there is no doubt about the final outcome.
Sent you a box of junk. Be sure to save it. A fancy German time fuse, German rifle shells, a rotating band-that’s the thing that makes the shell spin, also some shrapnel balls.
Harris Burrow
Say, for the love of Mike, if you ever print any of my letters don’t sign my name.
NOTES; Ruben Harris Burrow was born on February 13, 1897 in Oklahoma and died on June 18, 1944 at San Francisco, California He is buried in the Golden Gate National Cemetery at San Francisco, His military headstone identifies him as an Oklahoma, Cpl. 101 Field Arty. 26 Div. He was living in Franklin County Arkansas when he joined the service.
The letter was originally published in the Ozark Spectator, Franklin County, Arkansas.
TRANSCRIBED BY CAROLYN YANCEY KENT
Sunday, May 12, 1918,
Dear Mother:
Received a letter from you yesterday. It was a belated one that told me about buying the honey, a later letter told me that you could MISSING TEXT order, so we’ll just let things go until Uncle Sam gets ships enough to float a few packages across the pond. I don’t need anything very bad anyway.
This is Mother’s Day over in France. I even suspect Fritz of celebrating it. We had a little war about daylight, then we either went to sleep or wrote letters home. We are so peaceful that we are not even hunting “cooties.”
It rained last night and then cleared up and it was as clear and bright a day as you could wish; orchards in bloom, butter cups in the meadows, dandelions on the hill, French doughboys picking fat snails off the rain soaked hedges. The birds are singing joyfully and spring winds washed by last night’s rain sets you all atingle, makes you feel like knee pants again and bring you memories of spring back home. Strange birds are singing songs, we’ve heard before, all about their nests down in the orchard. I would like to go to church down at the little brown stone church in the valley with it’s red tiled roof ashining up out of the green, but the “padre” has gone to war years ago and the alter cloth is covered with dust. There is a bit of mud on the floor before the Virgin Mary, where perhaps some tired boy paused on his way up the long and winding road to the battle line, he had knelt and remembered his God and his mother, just as I followed his example today.
Week later.
I’m on detached service away from the battery, still in a gun crew, but a larger gun, and it was made long before I was born. I’m having a lot better time than I had when I was with the battery. The change is interesting and there isn’t so much work. I had been away from the battery for the past two months and got my mail about two weeks ago for the first time. It may be two months again, before I get another mail. There isn’t much use to answer any special letter.
The picture of the kids is good but where in the U.S.A. is that house?
Our division name is “Yankee Division.” We are Yankees and are mighty proud of it. I like “Yankee” better than “Sammy.” You don’t need to guess that the very best division to be in is the Yankee Division and the best regiment is the 101st. We can always feel like the folks back in Boston are looking out for us in every instance possible.
You can tell Ted McGehee that he will get the chance to come to France soon enough. This war is good for years yet. There is not any wild hurry about this war. We do thing patiently and slowly. This is a war that is not to be won in a day. I don’t know what to think of you wishing the war was over. We have no intention of hurrying the thing up, and I resent your speaking of an early end. I think you are trying to drive us, which is against union rules. Why hurry, you are putting yourself out of a job, and if we do things in the good old I.W.W. way we may be able to make it last till 1920. Another thing you must consider, I have not got my “croix de guerre” yet so give us a little more time.
It is a hot spring morning and we loaf around in the shade as much as possible and wonder what we’ll have for dinner. We had beans and coffee for mess this morning. I weigh 154 lbs. against 119 a year ago. This is an awful war. I fear I look like a beer drinker.
Over in the valley to the north is fritz; over in the valley to the south an old grandfather is patiently filling shell holes against the day when the war is over or the battle line moves north. Another older farmer is plowing land MISSING TEXT de terre” (potatoes) and along the end of his furrows a barb wire detail is building entanglements. As we go to our kitchen for mess we pass through a vineyard some hard working French farmer planted years ago. The loose surface stones had been neatly piled and the vines trimmed. Now there’s many another stone to pile and many a shell hole to fill and the vines are almost all dead. Down in the valley is an American reaper and binder stopped in the middle of the field, old straw is still in it, an unbound bundle of wheat. The machine is old and rusty and the one-time peaceful wheat field turned into a battle field , I wonder the story of it. Did the old farmer start out at sunrise one morning in fateful 1914 with no thought of war to harvest his wheat and perhaps say about 10 o’clock, did a flying squadron of French Cavalry ride grimly through his wheat to meet the green-gray clad Uhlan invaders in his neighbor’s vineyard on the crest above him and did he load his best bed and the stove and chickens and perhaps a pig on his best cart, while his wife drove the cows along behind, as they went down the long dusty road that leads south and to safety. Just as myself have seen.
I feel that the best way to take this war is to just forget. Don’t bother about “Keeping the home fires burning,” we are soldiers, nothing more, and the less silly sentiment we have the better we’ll fare. I don’t fancy Fritz wastes much time on sentiment.
I saw seventeen German prisoners the other morning a few hours after they had been captured. They looked very cool and business-like, though they were awfully tired and sleepy, having been through a night of fighting and a gas attack. They were well dressed, most of the uniforms looked new and fairly clean. It was, of course, torn by the barb wire slightly. They wore heavy leather high-top boots which were in good condition. They were mature men, all older than I, and something that may surprise you, they didn’t look to me as though they had ever missed a meal. I’m just telling you this for fear that you folks back there would get the idea that to finish this war will be a before breakfast job. Of course there is no doubt about the final outcome.
Sent you a box of junk. Be sure to save it. A fancy German time fuse, German rifle shells, a rotating band-that’s the thing that makes the shell spin, also some shrapnel balls.
Harris Burrow
Say, for the love of Mike, if you ever print any of my letters don’t sign my name.
NOTES; Ruben Harris Burrow was born on February 13, 1897 in Oklahoma and died on June 18, 1944 at San Francisco, California He is buried in the Golden Gate National Cemetery at San Francisco, His military headstone identifies him as an Oklahoma, Cpl. 101 Field Arty. 26 Div. He was living in Franklin County Arkansas when he joined the service.
The letter was originally published in the Ozark Spectator, Franklin County, Arkansas.
TRANSCRIBED BY CAROLYN YANCEY KENT