TRANSCRIBED FROM THE DARDANELLE POST-DISPATCH MAY 30, 1918 P. 1
Veterinary Detachment, 131st F. A.,
Camp Bowie, Texas, May 8, 1918.
Dear Dad:
I read your letter coming across the drill ground from supper, or, to use army slang, “chow,” and, as I have told you before, a letter from home is like a photograph of some one you care a great deal about: it can not always be bought with gold and silver.
There are times when we who are soldiers have an unnameable emptiness somewhere around the heart that is closely akin to loneliness or, perhaps, “homesickness;” yet not one of us would willingly admit that it was the latter. Still, you must remember that most of us are boys, lots of them younger than I, and we can’t become hardened to the old ties that an army camp of all things might cause, and I venture to say that at night after “taps” has sounded and the camp lies still and quiet save for the steady tramp of the sentinel on his beat who guards and protects us while we sleep, many a boy between his blankets is thinking of things way out beyond the camp, things as far removed from war and bloodshed as the heavens are from the earth. If he thinks as I—and I am sure he does—he pictures on memory’s canvas scenes back in his old home town, and makes plans for what is to take place after the war.
But after nine months of army life I am beginning to love it, and each day I find things more interesting and satisfactory, and there is much to amuse one if he looks for it.
Of course, some day we know that our hour of departure will arrive and we shall go forth to teach some people (who have gotten entirely too ambitious and greedy) a lesson that they shall always remember and tell to their children and grandchildren for ages to come: that is, providing there are any of the above mentioned people alive when America gets through chasing them across the Rhine.
I look upon this going out as a big adventure, Dad, with the end uncertain as all big adventures are: yet, I believe that when the time comes I shall feel just as eager to go as any of the others, and stake my chances on coming through a winner. If I lose, then I will have had the big adventure just the same. Even at that, what could be better than to have you know that I did what I could: was just unlucky at the end. I am glad that I was able to live in this age, and while I am but an atom in the great molecule of the army—and an atom is ten hundred thousand times smaller than a soap bubble’s thin wall—yet, if the atoms give way and shirk, then the molecule will become unstable, and in this age of the “survival of the fittest” an unstable molecule will, like the soap bubble, burst easily.
Well, lest I go too deeply into the realms of chemistry to show you these things I shall change my topic of written conversation.
Our Regiment has been leaving Battery at a time all this week for the artillery range, thirty-five miles from here, but even at that distance we can hear the guns very plainly. The boys are crazy about target practice, especially at night, when they practice barrage fire, and have gas attacks.
There was an accident today at the system of trenches just outside of the camp. The 141st Trench Mortar Battery were firing their guns at an attacking Regiment of Infantry in a sham battle when one of the guns exploded and killed a Lieutenant and five enlisted men and wounded three others.
Dad, if the Y. M. C. A. men ever come to you for a donation don’t turn them down for they have a warm place in our hearts.
Jimmie wants me to go somewhere with him, so will stop, or he will run me crazy with his “Hurry up, Doc. It’s getting late, you can finish that tomorrow.”
Love to Dot and Jack and much for yourself.
Edwin.
P. S.—Forgot to say that we had prunes again for “soupy,” I mean supper. One boy said: “you can’t tell the age of a prune by its wrinkles.”
NOTES: Edwin W. Farrior was born in Dardanelle, Arkansas on March 13, 1894 and died in Phoenix, Arizona on May 1, 1977. He is buried in the Greenwood Memory Lawn Cemetery in Phoenix. He enlisted at San Antonio, Texas on June 2, 1917 and was discharged on June 20, 1919. He was serving in Battery A, 2 FA, Texas National Guard. He departed Hoboken NJ on July 13, 1918 onboard the Siboney. He was serving in the Veterinary Detachment in the 131st FA, 36th Division. He returned to the US departing Brest, France on May 20, 1919 onboard the Finland. He arrived in the US on May 31, 1919 at Boston, Mass. He was serving in the 113 Mobile Veterinary Section.
TRANSCRIBED BY LINDA MATTHEWS
Veterinary Detachment, 131st F. A.,
Camp Bowie, Texas, May 8, 1918.
Dear Dad:
I read your letter coming across the drill ground from supper, or, to use army slang, “chow,” and, as I have told you before, a letter from home is like a photograph of some one you care a great deal about: it can not always be bought with gold and silver.
There are times when we who are soldiers have an unnameable emptiness somewhere around the heart that is closely akin to loneliness or, perhaps, “homesickness;” yet not one of us would willingly admit that it was the latter. Still, you must remember that most of us are boys, lots of them younger than I, and we can’t become hardened to the old ties that an army camp of all things might cause, and I venture to say that at night after “taps” has sounded and the camp lies still and quiet save for the steady tramp of the sentinel on his beat who guards and protects us while we sleep, many a boy between his blankets is thinking of things way out beyond the camp, things as far removed from war and bloodshed as the heavens are from the earth. If he thinks as I—and I am sure he does—he pictures on memory’s canvas scenes back in his old home town, and makes plans for what is to take place after the war.
But after nine months of army life I am beginning to love it, and each day I find things more interesting and satisfactory, and there is much to amuse one if he looks for it.
Of course, some day we know that our hour of departure will arrive and we shall go forth to teach some people (who have gotten entirely too ambitious and greedy) a lesson that they shall always remember and tell to their children and grandchildren for ages to come: that is, providing there are any of the above mentioned people alive when America gets through chasing them across the Rhine.
I look upon this going out as a big adventure, Dad, with the end uncertain as all big adventures are: yet, I believe that when the time comes I shall feel just as eager to go as any of the others, and stake my chances on coming through a winner. If I lose, then I will have had the big adventure just the same. Even at that, what could be better than to have you know that I did what I could: was just unlucky at the end. I am glad that I was able to live in this age, and while I am but an atom in the great molecule of the army—and an atom is ten hundred thousand times smaller than a soap bubble’s thin wall—yet, if the atoms give way and shirk, then the molecule will become unstable, and in this age of the “survival of the fittest” an unstable molecule will, like the soap bubble, burst easily.
Well, lest I go too deeply into the realms of chemistry to show you these things I shall change my topic of written conversation.
Our Regiment has been leaving Battery at a time all this week for the artillery range, thirty-five miles from here, but even at that distance we can hear the guns very plainly. The boys are crazy about target practice, especially at night, when they practice barrage fire, and have gas attacks.
There was an accident today at the system of trenches just outside of the camp. The 141st Trench Mortar Battery were firing their guns at an attacking Regiment of Infantry in a sham battle when one of the guns exploded and killed a Lieutenant and five enlisted men and wounded three others.
Dad, if the Y. M. C. A. men ever come to you for a donation don’t turn them down for they have a warm place in our hearts.
Jimmie wants me to go somewhere with him, so will stop, or he will run me crazy with his “Hurry up, Doc. It’s getting late, you can finish that tomorrow.”
Love to Dot and Jack and much for yourself.
Edwin.
P. S.—Forgot to say that we had prunes again for “soupy,” I mean supper. One boy said: “you can’t tell the age of a prune by its wrinkles.”
NOTES: Edwin W. Farrior was born in Dardanelle, Arkansas on March 13, 1894 and died in Phoenix, Arizona on May 1, 1977. He is buried in the Greenwood Memory Lawn Cemetery in Phoenix. He enlisted at San Antonio, Texas on June 2, 1917 and was discharged on June 20, 1919. He was serving in Battery A, 2 FA, Texas National Guard. He departed Hoboken NJ on July 13, 1918 onboard the Siboney. He was serving in the Veterinary Detachment in the 131st FA, 36th Division. He returned to the US departing Brest, France on May 20, 1919 onboard the Finland. He arrived in the US on May 31, 1919 at Boston, Mass. He was serving in the 113 Mobile Veterinary Section.
TRANSCRIBED BY LINDA MATTHEWS