TRANSCRIBED FROM THE DAILY ARKANSAS GAZETTE DECEMBER 16, 1917, P. 32
France, Nov. 19, 1917
I have a little time this morning and I can’t think of a nicer way to employee it than writing to you. A lot of new officers joined our company, and as it is on fatigue (street mending, ditching, etc.) and as I am one of the “old vets,” I have to stroll around occasionally and see that things are moving O. K. So here I go—Well, Moz (mother), I have received your No. 1 and No. 3—poor No. 2, I don’t know where it is, I almost feel like sending out a scouting party to look it up, and I’m afraid I will have worn out No. 1 and No. 3 reading and rereading them before No. 2 finds me.
Blake—you remember him—the friend I had at Fort Roots. Well, he is stationed in the next village. Heard I was here and came over yesterday to see me. Granville Burrow is over there and he heard Paul Remmel was here and came over to see him, so we had quite a party. Of course, I have met a lot of dandy fellows since I parted from them at the port of debarkation, but there is nothing like being with the old home crowd. They have all been up with the British, and of course they would tell a story about their experiences, and I would tell one—we were all at different places—and occasionally someone would saw in right in the middle of a story—and begin to talk about Little Rock and Roots. Of course, we would want to bat him in the head, but didn’t because even though we didn’t like to admit it—that was the part of the world we were all thinking about . . . We wound up talking about home, spareribs, sweet potatoes. Oh, it was a great party.
I wish you could see the street in front of my door—it is like a sea of mud, about like thick cream and about two inches deep. It is on a rock-paved street—that is the reason it don’t get any deeper—our gang is sweeping it all off and we are going to haul rock and raise the whole street about three or four inches.
Moz, I don’t know of anything I need specially—tell all my friends not to bother about me except to write, write, write, write everything, whether “old Rose” gave the usual amount of milk this morning, if the biscuits were burned on the bottom at breakfast—tell Cliff to write about duck hutning, snipe shooting and the like—but I know I have some stories about “Hun hunting” that will back him off the board if I could only tell them, but not a chance.
Save all the papers about the first fight between the Americans and the Germans. It is my platoon that mixed. My men are rearing to get at them again, but I don’t think there is a chance for a long, long time. You see in a war like this everybody has to have a chance, and when there are so many it is an awful long time between turns. I don’t know what the American press is saying about it, but don’t worry, we did wonderfully well when you consider the fact that they outnumbered us six to one.
I don’t see how some of these poor old souls keep on living—old women half blind and stooped with the weight of years without a soul to call kin. All they have of their men folks are pictures, yet they seem cheerful enough. To me they are wonders. There is an old woman with two daughters in this village who were held prisoners by the Huns for months. You should hear the old woman’ story. It alone is enough to make me glad I am here. It chills the blood in your veins and makes you feel like you don’t give a rap which way the wind breaks, so long as you can get a few Huns in the swap.
I have had so many interruptions it is most dinner time, so I will knock off until afternoon or night.
Well I have just had a good dinner—steak, stewed tomatoes, macaroni, baked squash, good coffee and bread and butter. Our mess is in the home of an old couple who have seen better days. For the use of their stove, dining room and kitchen we feed them, and it is they who supplied the squash we had for dinner. We have a cook and a waiter from our company, so you see we are a long way from living like tramps.
There is a lot of little Belgian orphans in this village. They are supported partly by the French government and partly by charity of inhabitants. Our division is making plans to give them a good Christmas. Poor little chaps, seem happy enough, but lots of them are so young they hardly know where they came from.
Took dinner with Captain Bubb—he was adjutant at Fort Roots last summer—a few nights ago. McGoodwin is in his company and was there, of course. He is fat and saucy, thank you.
Thanksgiving will soon be here, have a big feed and be very thankful, as I am, for our many blessings. I understand we have a boatload of turkey coming over. Hope the Huns don’t sink it.
Heber
NOTES: Heber McLaughlin was one of the first American soldiers to be involved in combat. This letter was written about two weeks after he was wounded in the head. The editor of the paper states that some of the personal information was edited from the letter.
TRANSCRIBED BY MIKE POLSTON