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June 8th, 1919 Dearest Mother: Advance GHQ is no more! We were all hoping that when that day came around our term of usefullness as occupiers would come to an end also, but it seems not. We are headed now to Coblenz, where it is rumored that we lose our Cadillacs and become classifiers of automobiles at a big reception bark there. The boys are all about as cheerful as a set of long starved bears. The first thing that they did was to write a petition - (it seems to me that I recall something a bot a petition in other times) or a letter, and getting permission of the Adjutant General's adjutant to present same to Mr. Adjutant General himself. And so they did. AND later that same day a certain Col. Graham, C.M.T.O.G.H.Q. 3rd Army, telephoned us inquiring just why and how and when about it. It was all that Charley could do to persuade the colonel that it was all an accident, such as might happen in the best circles, but that's straightened out, and the company is saved from the horrors of becoming a labor outfit somewhere. So, just use another address for the next few weeks. Our company has changed its spotts, to change and misspell one of the old favorites, and instead of being a wierd thing know as Company "U", we are now honoured with 831. Perhaps my next Sunday yell may be all different once again, but that address is the nearest approach to accuracy that we have on file. now that all of the generals and colonels and other necessary evils our headed towards base ports, there is not so much need for our type of voiture. I imagine that all of these cars will be sold over here, and if so, I should like to be able to go into the used car market myself. Of
course anything like that is forbidden, but it would be interesting, and I could make that desired twenty nine million buying cars at the government's own price and selling them the next day to the thousands or hungry eyed dealers. 'T would be a great little game. Another sorrow; my nineteen year itch, or scabies, or what ever it is, has come to life again. It's an awful war these days; not a reason in the world for a resurrection, and yet here it comes! Like the coming stay in Coblenz-Neundorf, we are all hoping for the best and that it doesn't last too long. More than three weeks of the itch is guaranteed to land the afflicted in the nearest mad-house. That about sums up the total of news this time. We still carry on; the boys have individually come to the office to tell Charley and I just what brand of idiots they were - and we agree with them. As mess and police officer, I spend my waking hours playing penny anty (that doesn't look just right) and figuring how to load four tons more or less of food and kitchen tools into Cadillacs and still have mushCadillac left. Also, between session, I reread all the old books and magazines that are around. Which reminds me that I have no thanked you all for the papers and Posts. They certainly look good to one away from home. The Red Cross and the [Y.M.C.A.] have closed up shop in Trier, so there is no way of getting anything at all to read any more, except through home mail. Once in a while I endeavor to wade through a German newspaper, but it's an awful effort. Mark Twain certainly hit the spike on the top side in regard to Deutsche Zeitungen. Most all of them are called "Times", but the name has no meaning. Noon. Must eat. Did Berthold ever get any of the package I sent him?
After dinner. We certainly are starving. Listen to this for a menu: The enlisted mess: Mock turtle soup Radishes Green onions Steak French fried potatoes Catsup Butter Bread Apple sauce Chocolate And the officers' mess: Fresh green stuffs (per above) Roast loin of pork Mashed potatoes Gravey Sage dressing Rolls Butter Bread Coffee Peach jam Cake Apples As a mess officer, I claim the brown derby. Modest. This after, I intend to take a trip to Saarbrucken. it's quite a nice enjoyable ride, and I expect to enjoy myself in spite of the itch and heavy underwear. Which reminds me again; if you all can figure any way to put a suite of BVD's in a letter - why, shoot 'em along, and charge them on account. If I am due to spend another summer in Europe, I don't see why I should do it in heavy wool things that weight a ton and raise the outside temperature some several degrees. Me for comfort. ("same old Bill. That's me all over, Mabel - comfort") There being only two other Jameses at our mess, some of these insolent shavetails are calling me Jimmy. Others "old man Henschel", and a lot of unprintable minor insults. That's about all. We all hope for a better letter next week - you and I both. Mother's of May 21st came this morning, pleasing me a lot. Love, wie immer, et toujours. Ned- ([ms illegible: 1 wd] our little top sergeant with one envelope)
From the service of James E. (Ned) Henschel, Co. B Reserve Mallet--French Army, American Field Service, Quartermaster Corps, General Hdgts., and Motor Transport Co. 831.
|Date||June 8, 1919|
|Year Range from||1919|
|Year Range to||1919|
Henschel, James (Ned) Edward
World War I