June 5, 1918

Dr. George Woodward,
   Krisheim,
     Chestnut Hill

My dear Dr. Woodward:---

I have just had a long chat with a young man named Marinovitch, who was a member of the escadrille with Houston. It seems that the colonel in charge of the French Mission had written to the commander of the escadrille to send Houston's bag and other personal effects in to me, and Marinovitch brought in a suitcase in accordance with this instruction. He also told me that a trunk had been sent to me and would doubtless be received at the usual rate of delivery in France, which is not very speedy.

I send you herewith a list of the contents of the dress suitcase. I have this case now in my room at the Y. M. C. A. Secretaries' Club, and it is my idea to hold it here until we know definitely about Houston's fate. If, however, you would prefer that I send the bag home at once, I will do so by one of our returning secretaries.

Marinovitch gave me a long and intimate account of Houston's life over here. He told me that he had met him first in December when Houston entered the escadrille; that he was a most daring aviator, thoroughly skillful in his mastery of the plane and absolutely courageous to the point almost of recklessness. For instance he said that Houston would frequently go out on solitary trips which of course means that he was without help in the event of attack. His desire to get some Boche planes was very great. It was generally felt in the escadrille that he had secured a plane sometime in February or March, but although obviously disabled, it came down within the enemies' lines and Houston did not get the proper credit for his skillful work.

Marinovitch also told me that last week Houston had been officially cited for his courage and had been awarded the Croix de Guerre. I have had this information confirmed from military authorities and I extend to you and Mrs. Woodward my sincerest congratulations. It does not often happen that a citation for courage is authorized after the disappearance of the man, and I think that there are only two or three cases of the kind on record. I will procure for you an official copy of the citation and also the Croix de Guerre with the palm as I understand that in the event of the disappearance of the aviator the family are entitled to claim the same.

I have heard of a case recently in which an aviator was taken prisoner and no word reached our side of the line for three months. I have also heard of another case in which the word did reach our side within two weeks. Marinovitch tells me that recently a German aviator was taken prisoner and upon searching a list was discovered of allied aviators who had been killed by the Germans, and Houston's name did not appear on the list.

I send you the details of this evidence because I know that you will want to know everything that I do.

Marinovitch's mother is now living in Paris. She is a Russian. His father was a Servian prince. Although he is but nineteen years of age, I was very much pleased with his courage, and personality and general attitude toward life. I gave him fifty francs worth of cigarettes and chocolate to take back to the escadrille with the compliments of yourself and Mrs. Woodward, as he told me they had received very few supplies since they were in the battle which has been pending for the last two months. I also took him to dinner with me at the Cercle Literaire et Artistique, and I am glad to have had him for my guest.

With sincere regards,

                   Yours faithfully,

12 rue d'Aguesseau,
Paris, August 31st, 1918

Dr. George Woodward,
   709 North American Building,
     Philadelphia, Pa., U. S. A.

My dear Dr. Woodward:--

Marinovitch has just been in to see me and I have delivered to him Houston's field glasses. I also gave him for himself and his mother one of the boxes of candy which I had collected from Morgan-Harjes Co. Marinovitch has now a record of having brought down sixteen German planes; he has received the Cross of the Legion of Honor; the French Medaille Militaire; the Croix de Guerre with nine palms for citations, and has just been given a month's leave of absence in England. I told him to stop here on his return and I would give him a fifty franc package of cigarettes for members of Escadrille No. 94, and I will send the same by him each visit that he makes to Paris in your name. He tells me that the last cigarettes were much appreciated as they came to the corps when they had had practically nothing in the way of extra supplies for a long time.

Marinovitch tells me that in the recent allied victories they have covered all of the ground where the escadrille was encamped at the time of Houston's disappearance and that some of the members of the escadrille had found Houston's plane which is now within the allied lines, in a rusted and broken condition. They made vigilant inquiry for a grave or for some information concerning the aviator, but thus far this inquiry has not borne fruit. As soon as it is possible I will go up to this region and see if personal inquiry will bring any information. I am afraid, however, that the lapse of time indicates that little exact information will be obtained unless it should happen that Houston was wounded and is now in one of the German hospitals.

I will send you every scrap of news as I receive it. I have given Marinovitch a strong invitation to visit me in Philadelphia and I feel sure you will want him to visit you too. He is an excellent young man. Just think that four years ago he was a school boy in England and that he has now made this record of service although he is as yet under twenty years of age.

With sincere regards to Mrs. Woodward and hearty good wishes, I am

4, Rue Tronchet
August 30th, 1918

Dear Mrs. Woodward:--

I've just been to see Mr. Edmonds and he gave me the glasses you so kindly offered me---I value them greatly as a "Souvenir of Houston."

Ten days ago we had one of our escadrille pilots brought down in flames between Montdidier and Roye and while looking for his body came across a motor of a Spad that had been lying there for months. I was not in the bunch that found it, but they took the number and when we looked it up in the books we saw it was Houston's. I was going to go out next day and investigate and see if there was a grave or anything there, but unfortunately we had to pack up that night and left at daybreak for another part of the front. The motor was near a little village southeast of Montdidier and I have asked the authorities to make investigation.

Thanking you for the glasses, and sorry not to be able to give you any more information,

Baron Fersen, referred to several times in Houston's letters, came to this country as the head of a Russian Mission during the summer of 1918.

As Houston made Baron Fersen's apartments in Paris his headquarters while on leave, and as he and the Baron were thrown quite intimately together, we include the following letter:

New York, Dec. 12th, 1918

Dear Dr. Woodward:---

One of the reasons why I still believe that some day Houston will come back is that it seems to me impossible that such a fine character as his came into this world just to be wiped out without ever having had more opportunity to express itself in practical help to humanity's evolution.

I have known Houston more intimately than most people did. I was fortunate enough to penetrate into the sacred chamber of his soul, and the treasures I found there were such that I decided to ask him to collaborate with me after this war, in the various humanitarian reforms on which I expect to be able to work in Russia.

Houston was an exceptionally gifted man, but I believe only very few knew the depth and seriousness of his thought and aim in life. Most people only saw what he showed on the surface, but his real nature, so fine, so noble, so generous and so intelligent, was hidden, unknown except to few, and I am glad to pay in this letter tribute to a friend, of whom I am proud that he is my friend.

April 13th, 1918

Dr. George Woodward,
   Krisheim,
     Chestnut Hill

My dear Dr. Woodward:--

In a recent paper I learned with much sorrow of the report "missing" concerning your son Houston. I write you a note telling you of my sorrow, for I regarded Houston or "Woody" as we called him as a warm friend.

It was my privilege to meet him in France and to know him better as a member of the same ambulance section, old 13. While we were doing our heaviest work at Thuizy and LePlaine he was a mighty good worker and soon won his way into the good feelings of all the older men.

I enclose a photograph of the section taken at Champigneul where we were en repos. You can find him in the group.

Please pardon me if I am intruding by writing this note, but I do it in a spirit of sympathy. Look forward to the best---he may be a prisoner, but if not, he died doing a man's job.

I am glad to say I return soon.

January 21st, 1919

My dear Mrs. Woodward:--

I am taking a belated opportunity to express to you the very great sorrow that Houston's death has caused me and to extend my sympathy to you and Dr. Woodward.

My fondness and admiration for Houston began at our acquaintanceship on the "Chicago" and increased during our career together in the ambulance into a very firm friendship of which I shall always be proud.

Houston made friends quickly in Section 13 by his generous personality, but when the section ran into very hard work during the offensive at Mont Cornillet, his friendships were cemented by a very great admiration for his tremendous and untiring energy, which he devoted with all his soul to the performance of his duty as ambulance driver. His comrades and officers were all quick to appreciate such enthusiastic zeal which enabled him to accomplish so much more than the rest of us. He was always ready to forego his turn to rest if it were possible to carry one more load of blessés. His courage, which appeared at times to amount to rashness, was in reality prompted by his desire to throw everything he had into his work without thought or desire of reserving himself. It was this same quality that led him to join the flying corps. It was apparent to Houston, as to all his friends, that aviation was the service that he was exactly fitted for, and the only branch in which he could do his utmost share in the war, and although he was well aware of the danger connected with this service, he was always impatient of any suggestion that consideration of his own safety should enter into his decision to fly. He simply knew that he could accomplish more by joining the aviation service, so he joined. He would have been the last person to have considered himself heroic.

I understand that when last seen he was in combat with a German plane, and I am sure that such was the way he would have chosen to meet his death.

I am unable to express in words my fondness for Woodie, but I can say simply that he was my closest and truest friend while I was in France, and I feel that his friendship and the memories of him will never be forgotten as long as I live.

The following is an extract from a letter of Miss Elizabeth Frazer, a correspondent of the Saturday Evening Post, furnished through the courtesy of the editor, Mr. George Horace Lorimer:

Paris, December 29, 1918.

"I have just received your letter of December 6, and in the afternoon went out on the search of Mr. Houston Woodward. I put a tracer on at the French Aviation Headquarters, the American Aviation H. Q., and the Red Cross. I think extremely doubtful if we can get hold of the French Infantry records of the French army around Montdidier in April, which would be the only method of learning exactly what German troops were opposite them at that time. Those reports are extremely confidential, even now, depending on the reports of French spies, results of raids, etc., and it would take more influence than I possess to reach them. But as soon as I receive the present address of the commandant of the Spad 94 squadron, I'm going to write him about it. "I should say that the Red Cross has already a correspondence and complete dossier on this case ---a portfolio of several hundred sheets, and they seem to have gone into the matter very thoroughly I read over that dossier yesterday, and it embodied reports from his commander, a sergeant, the British Red Cross, the Spanish Embassy, the Berne and Geneva prison authorities, and dozens of private confirmatory sources---and they all led to just nothing at all; the fact that he was lost in the mist and nobody could tell whether was alive or dead. The Germans, apparently, according to the Spanish report, have no record of his being taken prisoner."

Houston was always a very good correspondent from his early days. Believing that an example of his earlier letters will be interesting to his friends, we have selected the three following.

Sunday Eve.,
March 8, 1914

Dear Mother:--

Well, here I am again writing my regular Sunday letter. It seems months since I last wrote you.

Only ten more days, and I will be home again, to stay for two weeks this time. This last term has gone the fastest of any since I have been in the school. I hope the next one goes as fast.

I received a privilege last week, so am allowed to study in my room any time at all. I do hope that I average 80 for the month, but I will have to work like everything this coming week to do it. Our exams are all this week, too.

In rummaging over some old papers this morning, I found a theme which I wrote last year, and which I got 100 on. I re-copied it, touching it up here and there, and am going to hand it into the Oracle. I want to make the board this month, and to do so, have to have six stories done by April first.

I am glad you people enjoyed Forbes-Robertson. Although you may not think so, I was really very anxious to see him, but did not want to see him twice.

I am surprised to find that I am interested in your birds. Having been home and seen the trap, and "bob-tail," and the cardinals, I was really quite interested in reading your letter about the new cardinal pair. The buncoes and sparrows don't appeal to me much, but I really am fond of those cardinals.

Maybe Mr. Taft doesn't think much of me now. Mr. Dallas was visiting me the other night, and he said that he inquired of Mr. Taft how many points to charge me for going home so long. Mr. Taft replied, "I don't want to charge him any, but I suppose I have to as a matter of form." Mr. Dallas then said that the "king" had remarked that I had taken a big improvement and was coming along much better than he had thought I was going to. Believe me, when the rex says that kind of a thing about a boy up here, there's something in it.

Bishop Lloyd came up here today for confirmation. There were only four to be confirmed. I did not get an opportunity to speak to him, although I wanted to. He preached two of the very best sermons I have ever heard in all my life this morning and afternoon. I could listen to him easily for an hour every day in the week. I think he is the finest preacher I have ever heard.

As I told you when home, we are to have self-government next term. All the upper-middlers are to room on one corridor. This necessitated some doubling-up, so I am going to room with Frank G-----, a very nice fellow from Fall River. I had preferred to room alone, for I think that it is more practical, but as it would cause complications I doubled up. I was really very lucky in getting G-----, for he is the best fellow of those who are doubling.

Please let me know how you feel about my theatre-going this vacation. There are several boys who would like to come down to see me, but I don't think I shall ask them if you don't want me to go to the theatre much. I don't know how they feel about it, but I know I shouldn't want to visit out much if I couldn't enjoy the pleasure of seeing the theatre. I can't see much objection to seeing shows during vacation, even if it is Lent. You speak of depriving yourself during Lent, but by gee, I work self-sacrifice over-time up here at school. How would you like to be made to go to bed early every night, get up early in the morning, eat an ordinary breakfast, work your head off for five hours straight, eat a plain lunch, work another hour in detention, then work at exercises all the afternoon, study from 5:30 to 6:30, eat a coarse supper, and then work yourself dead from 7:15 to bed time, and then when you go home for a rest and a good time be forced to lead a quiet, hermetic, depriving, sacrificial life? I deprive myself of more pleasures in one day up here than you people do in a week. I don't get grape-fruit, cocoa, and chops for breakfast, I can't ride in an automobile any time I please, go wherever and whenever I want, have a lot of kids to amuse me, read for pleasure, eat good meals and hear music, play pool, sit by the fire, loaf, and be my own master. Of course, that's what I came to school for, but I don't think life from January 6th to June 22nd should all be a bed of thorns, and it seems to me that vacations ought to be just as happy as possible and as theatres are almost the brightest spots in vacations, why---but I'll let you dope the rest out.

I didn't mean to spend so much time arguing, but I wanted to have you see the matter the same way I did.

I haven't much time left, so I shall have to be brief.

There are several matters I wish you would have attended to for me. In the first place, please have a bottle of toothpowder, and my shaving set which I left in my bath room, sent up here immediately, for I need both badly.

Please have my mandolin brought in to Weyman's to be repaired. This is the most important of all.

Advise Stanley to look up all those records I sent him.

Enclosed are two bills which fall outside of my allowance.

Please ask father to send my March allowance. I am practically square with my bills, but have just bought a new suit for which I have to pay.

I hope you people are not still sore at me.

Well, it is almost time for bed, so I shall have to close.

Au revoir for ten long days.

                               Very lovingly,             

HOUSTON

Wright Hall, Yale College,
October 25th, 1915

Dear Father:--

There will probably be a lot of mistakes in this letter, as this is the first time I have used this typewriter. My roommate has rented it for this term.

I am sending a couple of clippings from the New Haven papers. They are quite typical, and occur with disgusting frequency. Can you blame the college for being sore at the papers here? The papers are all headlining the little rough-house we had the other night and even the New York papers are giving accounts of it. The trouble is that the mayor of the city was one of the people who got mobbed. He was handled pretty roughly, so was kind of sore about it. No one knew it was the mayor when they did it. I was right beside him at the time, because he had grabbed a student, and several of us were making him let go. A Junior grabbed him by the legs and threw him down. That was all there was to it. I thought of swiping his collar as a souvenir, but thought it would be a poor stunt if the fellow didn't have much money. Now I wish I had since it was the mayor. The fellow who had him down sat on his chest and was tickling him. It was really awfully funny, and the poor mayor was so mad he couldn't talk smoothly at all. The account in the papers was perfectly absurd and disgusting. "Wild student outbreak"---"Whole police force needed to quell Yale outburst," and expressions like these were used by the papers. It wasn't a riot at all, just a good-natured rough-house.

It has grown quite cold suddenly. I have put on an undershirt. I only have two, so will have to go easy with them.

The first bunch of warnings has been issued, and it was a relief not to have my name on it. I find it awfully hard to work in the evening here. There always seem to be thousands of things to do.

Got your telegram. Don't lay any plans for my coming home Saturday night. I hate to take a cut for Sunday Chapel. Would rather save it till later. If my Stutz is there I might, and I may anyway, I don't know what I'm going to do, but you would better not count on my showing up home that night.

Everything is same as usual. Tonight I have to go over and act as clerk for three hours at the gym, helping sign up fellows for the Yale Battery.

Lovingly,                

         HOUSTON

Tobyhanna, Pa.,
August 6th, 1916

Dear Mother:---

I guess I have never let so long a time go by without writing, but it couldn't be helped. Soon after writing that last letter I received a big and unexpected promotion, which you apparently didn't understand according to your last letter.

It happened this way. I decided I was going to make the most of this opportunity this summer here in camp. Although I never thought we would go to the border, I felt sure the training would be intensive enough to be of real value in the army life later. Accordingly, I threw everything into it, and worked like the deuce every minute of the day. I was pretty soft at first due to previous loafing, and so was very tired for a few days, but soon got over that and hardened up like a bull dog. Between my hard work, and trying to cultivate a military carriage, I made such a good impression on my officers that when Colonel Danford instructed the captain of every battery to recommend a man for position of top sergeant of Headquarters Company, and, ex-officio, drum major, Captain Moretti recommended me.

I was given the job, and I hate to think of what followed. I had been having an awfully good time as a member of the aristocratic privacy of Battery B. I had learned lots, and had a certain amount of time for recreation. The work had been very hard, but I like that, so it added to my enjoyment. As soon as I was made first sergeant, however, everything was changed. The man whom I replaced had been inefficient, and had left the papers in a terrible mess. Seventy-five per cent of the descriptive lists were missing, the morning reports were a terrible mess, there was no duty roster, and everything was a general hodge-podge. The company was made up mostly of wops and other foreigners who had been enlisted to bring up the strength enough to leave New Haven. These men were all under my direct supervision, and thrown in also was that awful band.

All in all, it was the most riotous, mutinous crowd of rowdies you have ever seen. It was an awful big undertaking for a person who had had no previous experience in handling men in the military life, but it was certainly a wonderful training. I started right in to drive those men, and drive them I sure did. It was very interesting work. Some men you could ask politely once and they would do as they were told immediately, while others you would have to curse at like everything before they thought you meant what you said, and then it would be necessary to nearly threaten to lick them before they would do it. The man ahead of me had been rather lax, but believe me, I shot discipline into them.

The worst of it was that being top sergeant I had to be a model, and conform with every rule myself, which wasn't so pleasant. I was very tied down, and responsible for everything and everybody. I always liked to be irresponsible, it is so much more fun, but I couldn't be then. Anybody in the army will tell you that my job is the rottenest job in camp. It was especially so in Headquarters Company due to the captain we had. He is a noted ----- Professor, but a rotten army officer. I don't believe he ever saw a uniform before he came here. Jack Hoyt, our lieutenant, had to resign because he couldn't get on with him, as did also several non-coms. I was thoroughly disgusted with the man before I had seen two days under him. He was like a child lost in the woods, absolutely lost when it came to performing his duties, and was only getting in deeper. I was up till eleven or later every night, and rose before five every morning, trying, to systematize things and straighten them out. Finally I just decided things couldn't go on the way they were, as nobody was learning a thing, and I made up my mind that things were going to be run in a military fashion, or I was going to get out. Everybody advised me to resign because I was doing first sergeant's work, the drum major's, and also the lieutenant's, as they hadn't yet appointed one. Anyone of these three is a job in itself, so you can see what I was up against.

Things at last came to a head, I had a scrap with the old man, and applied for a resignation. I got it, and so am now a corporal, and a much happier man, with time to myself, and time for drill and military instructions, which I never had as sergeant, and which I came here for. That is the story of my sergeancy. It was one big horrible nightmare.

Everything has been going beautifully ever since. When I got out everybody congratulated me, and only this morning Dick Richards, who succeeded me, said he would give me a lot to take the job back again. I wouldn't undertake it for $500. It is a rotten cross between an office clerk and slave driver. I lost five pounds the two weeks I had it, and grew dark hollows under my eyes from lack of sleep. I had plenty of pep and drive left, but it was killing me. Since swinging the pick and shovel again and going through stiff calisthenics I have once more rounded into shape, and am thoroughly enjoying life.

Three Sundays ago I ran up from Philly in my Stutz with another fellow, went to Church with Uncle Sam and Charlotte at St. Martin's, and had dinner with Uncle But and Aunt Marion at Glen Summit. Two Sundays ago I took several fellows to the Summit for dinner, getting back just in time to lead the band at Guard Mount.

Yesterday several of us spent the day at Buckhill Falls, having dinner at Mrs. Harris'. I never spent such a fine week-end. There were girls from Brooklyn, Philly, New York and Baltimore, and, believe me, they were there. We could hardly tear ourselves away and flew back, arriving just a second before taps sounded. I'm going there every chance I get after this. The Stutz makes my life army de luxe, and it certainly is a fine life. I had a wonderfully thrilling ride Saturday night. We went to Scranton for dinner, had a bully good evening, and left for camp at 1:20 in the morning. Johnny Overton was the only one who started out with me, but we picked up three others there. Well, my brakes are worn through, the mountain roads around Scranton are awfully crooked, with very sharp corners, and a precipice continually on the off side. I was in a hurry and it was a very foggy night. I cut loose with the old Stutz, and although it was so awfully thick fog you actually couldn't see the road, I averaged about forty nearly all the way home. It was terribly fascinating. I had to sense where the road was, it was utterly invisible through the fog, and the only way I knew I was coming to a corner was when I saw we were about to go in a ditch, so I would throw the wheel over. The fellows were all praying, and were terrified. Finally they gave up, and just sat back with their eyes closed, not daring to look out. When we finally arrived in camp every one of the men shook my hand in turn, and said they had never seen anything like it before in their lives. I would rather get away with a feat like that than own a candy shop. It doesn't sound like much, but I'd like to see you drive a car forty an hour in a blind fog over an invisible road you aren't familiar with. generally very hot here in the day time, and very cold at night, sometimes getting down to just a trifle above freezing. I am thriving finely on this life, and take to it like a duck to water. It is pleasant anyway, but with my Stutz here and available two or three times a week, nothing more could be desired.

We shall probably be dismissed about the first of September. If so, will I have time to join you all for a couple of weeks in the West before you return home? I would like to visit you a while there.

I am in charge of quarters, and have spent nearly the entire day in writing letters, most of them to Buckhill. You can't imagine what a wonderful crowd there is there, and a uniform gets away with murder. We have had lots of fun parading the streets of New York, Philly, Scranton, etc., in our uniforms. Everyone steps out of the way for us, so we stand as tall as possible, throw out our chests, and walk as if we owned the whole blooming shebang.

Well, although I haven't written you for a long time, I have other letters to get off, and don't know when I shall get another chance. I am very contented with life here, and am having an excellent time. All the rummies have been transferred from our company, and a fine crowd moved in, so life is exceedingly pleasant. I know you are having a wonderful time, and hope I can join you in September.

I saw in the paper that Stanley was one of the best shots at Plattsburg. That's fine, and he will use it to the utmost in claiming that he isn't a parlor snake. Well, I have been top sergeant in the most famous militia in the country, but I must confess I prefer being a private.

With lots of love,            

HOUSTON

"S. S. Chicago,"
March 1st, 1917

Dear Mother:---

The submarine peril is naturally the uppermost in your mind, so I will begin with that. Well, to tell the truth, it really has been quite exciting these last few days. We have been running out from New York with every port hole on the ship boarded up at night, including both public rooms and cabins. The lights on the promenade deck were painted bluish-green and only half of them lit. A long canvas strip was spread the length of the deck, covering the rails, another similar strip running from rail to ceiling of the deck. In other words, the entire promenade deck was completely canvased in. These were the chief precautions till we reached the danger zone. No wireless messages have been allowed to be sent, as they would betray our presence. Our position each day was not disclosed in any way, but our mileage posted. The average run per diem was approximately three hundred miles, so you can see it is a very slow boat, about fifteen knots under favorable conditions.

We entered the danger zone at seven yesterday morning. I was so thrilled that I got up early. It really was pretty interesting. Two men are stationed permanently in the crow's nest to watch for submarines. A lookout is placed in the extreme bow with a horn to give immediate notice of mines, and we ran slower all day. Five ships were sighted early in the morning, including the Rochambeau on her way back to New York. Signals were exchanged with the latter by means of wigwagging and telescopes. Nothing in particular happened all day. The French naval gunner we have on board stuck to his three-inch naval rifle all day, but didn't have occasion to use it, though he did train it several times on barrels which some people swore were mines, though I didn't think so at all. Immediately after nightfall the boat was stopped, and we lay to all night, merely going ahead fast enough to keep her pointed right. We made about thirty miles between sundown and sunrise; so you can see we weren't breaking any speed limits.

About twelve o'clock there was great excitement. I ran into several of the boat's officers and crew having an excited parley in the foyer, and cursed myself out for not understanding French better. The purser said, "Il ne parle pas français" when one of the crew pointed at me. I had played bridge with the purser, so he knew my knowledge of his language. I wished they thought I didn't know English! Something was evidently up, for the men were very troubled and excited. A boy upstairs who knows French had been listening, and learned they had lost a key pertaining to some part of the wireless and another one which had something to do with opening the flood cocks. You cannot imagine the excitement and rumors which instantly stirred all the passengers. From somewhere everyone suddenly appeared on deck. The wireless sending-apparatus was disabled; we therefore couldn't summon help. German spies on board had somehow signalled the enemy's submarines, and had received a wireless that German cruisers had broken loose and were searching for us, and the boat couldn't be kept from falling into their hands because we couldn't open the cocks. Such and many others were the stories that flew all around, and even were believed by some people. Several had their life preservers on, and many spent the night on deck in steamer chairs with their life-belts close at hand. I was worried, myself, about the wireless-disability story, and felt rather uneasy till about two o'clock when I went up into the bow and found that they had relit the mast-headlight, which hadn't been burning previously in the evening. Although the Captain had posted notices forbidding noises and lights of any kind outside, I figured that if we dared show our mast-headlight there couldn't be much danger from submarines. So I went below and enjoyed a good long sleep till luncheon today, getting awake in the morning long enough to eat a little breakfast.

That is about all there is to say about the submarine question. There is some danger, of course,---about one in fifteen, I have estimated. These estimates have been very amusing. When I said about a week ago that our chances were one in fifteen, a lot of people said it was only one in fifty or even one in a hundred. The last two days most of these people have changed to one in ten, some even to one in five. After these last two days, and particularly last night, I think it is not hard to pick out who will make the different degrees of ambulance drivers.

Our passage as a whole has been very comfortable and pleasant. The boat is absolutely all that could be desired, but it is so abominably slow! Great heavens, sometimes you want to get out and row, it seems to be going so slowly! It is exceedingly sea-worthy, however. When we were about half-way across we ran into quite a storm. The wind registered eighty-two miles an hour, and the waves looked to be between twenty to twenty-five feet from trough to crest level. Standing on the boat deck, I took several pictures through a crack in the canvas of the boat with her nose completely under water, and with the spray and waves blowing so thick across her that you could not see anything of the lower part of the mast, or of the bow, the deck, nor anything ahead of you in fact. It was all just a mass of white spray and water. That storm proved quite thrilling. Part of the rail in the bow was washed off after being broken away by the water, and the wind was so high that the boat often stood stock still, and several times actually seemed to be going backwards. Once I honestly think it did go backwards a foot or two, judging from the foam on the water. The whole thing was quite a lot of fun, and very few people were seasick. I was wondering what our good old Polly would have done in the storm. Would she have turned a back flip, would she have let the waves roll over her and stagger ahead, or would she have been battered and crushed to pieces, split apart under the terrific strain, and gone down? I also wondered how a destroyer would have behaved. I have something to say to you a little later about destroyers, ---I won't worry you unnecessarily now.

As to the crowd on board, the least said the better. If we had another week to put in I think riot would run riot towards the end. I am rooming with one of the nicest fellows on board, a Harvard ex-sophomore, from Chicago, Garret Foley. I like him immensely, but I am afraid he is a little over-aristocratic. We arranged to room together almost before the ship left the dock. Some of the other fellows are mighty nice chaps, there are a few first classers like Jimmy Develin, but the rest are absolutely impossible. A few are downright muckers, and how they ever got into the ambulance I don't know. They'll disgrace America, disgrace the ambulance, and least of all, disgrace themselves. I hope they get fired the first week before they have a chance to disgrace their country. We have been on the boat so long now, and have had such little exercise that everyone is beginning to get a bit pettish and touchy. This anxiety sets everyone's nerves on edge, anyway, and on all sides little signs of friction are beginning to appear. I have enjoyed the trip tremendously, myself. To sleep all day till four or five, read, play cards, or talk in the evening is the usual program. I have become fairly proficient at bridge and chess for lack of anything better to do, but am glad we have only a day or two more.

The Captain must have become a little bolder tonight, for we are running full speed. The canvas screens are down, however, and the lifeboats half lowered, almost ready for the passengers to climb in from the promenade deck. They have been this way for two days now. They now say we won't get in till Saturday afternoon about three. That will make nearly two weeks aboard the boat. No wonder everyone is stale. I suppose it will take all day Sunday to run up from Bordeaux to Paris. They say the trains are very irregular now, and the ride sometimes takes as much as twenty hours. There are several Fords on board consigned to the ambulance, and I would like like everything to drive one of them back to Paris, but I imagine they will send men down from there to run them back. The roads are said to be fine, running through Tours and Orleans.

You know I almost forgot that I was a man. I didn't realize until late in the afternoon of the 27th that it was my birthday. The first thing I did was to buy a box of cigarettes and a bottle of Pol Roger, 1906. That was all the celebrating I did outside of a few chess games. Jimmy Develin and I both had our birthdays on board and are going to hold a little coming-out or coming-in party in Paris. Jimmy is an awfully nice fellow, I wish that all the Harvards were as good. Speaking of that, when it comes to Harvard and Yale, give me Yale. Believe me, I don't know whether all these fellows are typical or not, but they certainly wouldn't get away with a thing at Yale, and they aren't any too harmonious among themselves.

Well, I hear cards calling me. I mail this tonight. If we get sunk you never will get it, but if we do go down, blame Wilson if he doesn't declare war. Personally, I don't think there's a submarine within miles, and am going to bed without worrying. If people would only realize the futility of worrying! If we get sunk, we get sunk, and if we don't, we don't, and no amount of worrying in all the world will alter the situation in the least, and I can't see why people make themselves uncomfortable about events beyond their control. The Captain is the only man on the boat who has any excuse for worrying, and he, poor soul, probably does a lot more than his share.

Half-a-dozen of the ship's crew have been on boats before which have been sunk. Our cabin steward was made a German prisoner, and released upon giving his oath not to take up arms against Germany. The gunners are praying that we see a submarine, as they get a tremendous bonus if they keep one off or else sink it.

I have become firmly convinced that I was dead right in leaving college to come to France, and please don't think you made a mistake in letting me, for---well, you would always have regretted it if you hadn't!

I expect to cable you care of Bonnell from Bordeaux, but Heaven only knows how often you will hear from me after that, as I am such an abominable writer. I did have a code arranged by which I could let you know various things while at the front, but decided it was hardly worth while. There is one thing I will do, however. We aren't allowed to say at what towns we are, so I will let you know in this way. Whenever I begin a paragraph with a ^ without putting any letter above, the first letter of every word that follows will spell the name of the town or district where I am stationed; thus, ^ come home and maybe Paul and George not expecting any visits, etc. This sentence clearly spells "Champagne." I will put the date thus if I use the trick, and will put the sentence in the first 3 paragraphs---5/7/17. Look for the date. In your first letter say "Your car was sold today" if you understand.

Am stopping now. You know where to write.

Very lovingly,            

HOUSTON

Palm Sunday, April 2nd, 1917

I am sorry that this is the first letter I have written you since coming to France, but, strange as it may sound, it is my first opportunity. I was busy absolutely every minute from the day I stepped foot in Bordeaux to yesterday, the 31st of March, when I left Paris for the front, exactly four weeks after landing. I can't begin to tell you of all I did during the month, but will try to tell of the chief things.

You already have my letter describing the journey across. The ride up the river to Bordeaux was perfectly beautiful. Nothing like it in the United States. Everything so neat and nice, with here and there quite a large and very well-kept estate. Had dinner at the Café de Bordeaux, and rode in a first-class compartment with Jim Develin all night up to Paris. We were the only ones at first, but at Poitiers many others climbed in, so we had to sit up all night. It was a very interesting crowd, mostly soldiers, of course, and we had a very pleasant trip. It's surprising how well one can talk French if one has to.

We had breakfast Sunday morning at 21 rue Raynouard. It's a very large house. The ground floor is planned like this:

There are old gardens, enormous lawns and paths. I never saw such an enormous place in the middle of a city before, except the girl's place in Baltimore. But it was altogether too damp and uncomfortable there---beds too short and hard, and all that sort of thing---so I spent only five nights there during my month's stay. The Hotel Continental was my headquarters in Paris, it was so much more pleasant. I slept there, and ate at the various cafés. I only had half-a-dozen meals at rue Raynouard---whenever I went broke---but they weren't bad. My Paris life I'll just speak of lightly. As for working so hard in a machine shop, as I expected, the only times I ever saw a Ford were when I took the A. A. test and then the official test for the license.

The most interesting thing we did was to go to Bordeaux and run fifteen chassis up to Paris. The first day out we went through a beautiful country, but the Fords, being brand new, weren't in a very good mood for enjoying scenery, and the dust made a very effectual screen in case any spies wanted to know how many cars were in the convoy train. We couldn't make Poitiers the first night, and didn't care to stop at Angouleme, so compromised and put up at, or rather put up with, ----- for the night. We were to rise at six in the morning, but of course the Government had to select that morning as the one on which to move the time ahead an hour, so we rose at five and started at eight. Lunched at Poitiers, and spent night at Tours. Visited the Cathedral, cinema, and other places of interest, and slept in a bed which must have been a hundred years old, but its age was beginning to tell on it, and I was afraid it would collapse at any minute. Lunch next day was at Chartres. Beautiful Cathedral and good café, but didn’t like it much otherwise. In the afternoon on the run to Paris we had snow, hail, rain, and everything else imaginable. Sitting on soap boxes as we were, the protection from the elements wasn't the best, but, as usual, when anything isn't as it might be here, c'est la guerre. How good the Café de Paris seemed that evening for dinner!

There's no use describing anything else. I'm at the front now. Sorry I can't tell where. Just arrived this morning after spending the night in a town ten miles behind the lines. I had heard about the rotten food one gets here. For lunch we had hors d'oeuvre, tripe and kidney, fresh bread and butter, lamb, potatoes, beans, several kinds of wines. Not so bad. I brought along a little gasoline (essence here) stove, so will have hot chocolate every afternoon with toast and butter. After lunch a fellow received a call to go up for some blessés. Went with him, and saw first glimpse of real war. It wasn't any different from what might be imagined. Dead horses in the ditches, screens along the road where we were in sight of the Boches' trenches, shell-craters in the fields and filled ones in the road. The French 75s were opening an attack over the crest of a hill on some Boche battery which was trying to blow them up. Off to the left were clouds of white smoke--stuff which proved to be a gas attack. We got our gas masks out, but didn't need them, as the wind wasn't blowing in our direction enough. The whole thing was novel to me, but it looked as if war ought to be pretty good sport. No shells fell very close, only close enough to be heard faintly, so I can't say I have received my baptism of fire yet. It rather makes you want to be out there on the line with the boys instead of merely running an automobile around back out of danger. The men in the trenches were all covered with mud, and looked pretty wet and cold. Poor beggars, life is pretty wretched for them. Their dugouts are very comfortable, though; warm, dry and quite pleasant altogether. I couldn't look around much, as the blessés had to be hurried back. One trench was about seven feet deep, with wicker-like sides and board floor, a very thorough structure.

Mail's going soon. Can write frequently now, and will,

Much love,            

HOUSTON

P. S.: The money I cabled for is for a new company run by excellent men and will be tremendously successful, It is to treat peat in a certain way which will make it an excellent substitute for coal---a priceless and unpurchasable article now. The French government is helping, the inventors have been excused from the Army to work on it and the government laboratories have given an excellent report on it. If successful I will make a great deal of money, if unsuccessful the loss will not be a lot.

I have met the most interesting people: inventors, scientists, officers, government officials. The most interesting was Baron Fersen. His family were intimate friends of the Czar's, and have many presents from him. His apartments were different from anything I have ever before seen, as were the reindeer-skin clothes he wore when at home. The foremost portrait painter of Russia was visiting him, and using one of his rooms as a little studio. When I go in the Foreign Legion I think I will have her paint my portrait in my aviation uniform. She is a princess of a house somehow opposed to the late Czar. Paris is without question right now the most interesting, cosmopolitan, and also pleasure-seeking city in the world. I moved in awfully high-brow circles. Never spent such an interesting, valuable, and instructive month in my life. Can't begin to tell all my experiences there. One day for tea at the Ritz I was in a party in one corner of the room comprising English, French, Serbians, one Italian, Russian, and another American. Every type in the world but the Central ones is represented generously in Paris. It is a wonderful show to sit outside the Café de la Paix and see all the officers and soldiers of all the warring nations walk by. It was a lot of fun swanking around the boulevards with riding boots, kid-leather coat, malacca and ivory cane and other accessories. Our uniforms are very good looking when made by a good tailor. This P. S. is almost as long as the letter.

Easter Sunday, 1917

Dear Mother:--

I have just got your two letters of March 18th, 22nd and 23rd this afternoon. I am very much ashamed of myself for having written so little, but I do seem to have been terribly busy.

It is just a week ago today that I arrived at the front, but last Sunday was the only day of service to the trenches I have seen as we have been on the march with our division ever since. I say "on the march," but actually we have travelled only three days and "rested" six, which makes more than a week, but the travelling was done between five and nine in the morning, so can hardly count.

I suppose the chronological order is the best way to write this letter, so here goes, always remembering I can't mention names to please the censor.

Last Sunday I have already written about. Monday morning we spent mostly in packing, which took a longer time than usual because the section had been settled for about a month. The cause for our moving was that the division to which we are attached is being removed from a comparatively quiet front, where they have been for some time, to a very active front, which will mean heavy work and little sleep for us. We moved only about nine miles, arriving in the afternoon at a quiet little village about five miles back of the lines. The rest of the afternoon I very foolishly spent in eating petits gateaux, or little pastries, and drinking chocolate and wine, but learned a very good lesson about stuffing, since it used up all my vitality digesting the mass, and left me with a great and glorious cold, from which I am now completely recovered, however. I am very careful about my diet now, though, you may be sure. That night I slept with all my clothes on, including wet boots, inside an ambulance with only two blankets over me, so was very cold by morning, which also aided in my catching cold. Lesson No. 2. Since then I have slept very comfortably in my sleeping bag with coat and boots off.

Now that this finishes Monday, let me digress a little to speak of the sleeping bag. It is almost without question the most valuable thing I possess here. Inside its warm and waterproof covering I sleep between a quilt and four blankets, and am as comfortable as in my luxurious bed at home. It is really a wonderful bag, and never again shall I be without one if I can help it, while roughing it in the open. It is really wonderful what a difference it makes, and I can't speak highly enough of it.

Tuesday the third we spent in knocking around the village. It rained very hard in the morning, but I kept perfectly dry in the excellent raincoat I bought at Rue Raynouard, a sort of petticoat raincoat without pockets or openings of any kind except for the head. The village was full of Moroccan cavalry, splendid looking fellows, commanded by the French living in Morocco and Algeria. They are going to play a large part soon, and are easily the finest troops I have seen in France yet, considered as a body, that is. They sensibly wear the khaki instead of the light blue, and cut a fine figure on their Arabian ponies, with peculiar high cantels on the saddles. I want to procure one of their khaki steel helmets to wear instead of the French blue one, but I hope it won't be from a corpse that I have to get it.

In the morning also I found a regimental bootmaker and had knobs put on the pair of rubber boots I bought in Paris. They are excellent ones, reaching all the way to the thigh, and have heavy leather soles.

It cleared off after lunch, so took a short hike through the beautiful countryside, lying down to sleep between the rails of the very narrow gauge railroad which feeds supplies and ammunition from the bases to the trenches. We returned in time for our five o'clock chocolate, and at dinner learned that we would have to rise at three in the morning in order to start at five to go only some twenty miles or less. The regiment starts at seven when it moves, and we have to be well on ahead, hence the early rising.

It seems I never can finish a letter. I had better just try to write short ones and get them off instead of long ones.

We have been en repos for a week now. This morning we were ordered to move at eleven, then at three, then told we would not move at all. That is typical of the French Army. "Never obey an order, but wait for a counter order," is a common saying here.

I find sleeping in a barn is one of the most comfortable beds one can have. Every few days you have to loosen the straw, as it gets packed pretty hard, and also pile more straw or hay under the head and shoulders, but outside of that the bed needs very little attention. Where we were before was not quite so comfortable in the hay on account of the rats. Great big devils, not in the least afraid of you; in fact I guess we have the fear. I decided they wouldn't hurt me if I left them alone, but the rotters chewed up the chocolate I had in the pocket of my sheepskin coat at my head. The noise the chickens and ducks make at three isn't hard to get used to, but I do hate that squeaking cry of a big rat about three feet from your head.

At last I have hit upon the right combination in dress, and will always know exactly what is needed after this when roughing it anywhere. The first principal is to keep warm above all else. The second is to keep dry, and the third is to keep feet as dry and warm as possible. I suppose of course you know this, but I never realized its importance before.

America's entry into the war doesn't seem to affect anybody very much. I'm very glad Mr. Wilson finally came in, even if only for the killing, because now we can have an army and navy in the United States, although they won't help out any in this war, excepting perhaps naval patrol work.

The weather is fine today, strange to say. It rains five days of the week here and snows the other two; that is the recent record, at any rate. It was snow alone which held up the remarkable British advance in the Somme. Everywhere one hears great praise for the British now. They are fighting like a bunch of wild-cats. The Boches are giving themselves up like the cattle they are. Within a few days in the Somme battle recently the British took 11,000 prisoners, and that doesn't count the Boches they drove back into the trenches, not wanting to bother feeding them.

Hennie is doing finely. I hear from him now and then. The rear of his car has been peppered, and one man in his section had a three by nine piece of shell knock out the window-frame of his ambulance. It must have missed his head by less than four inches.

The Boches are firing on our ambulances now that the United States is in the game, so things are livening up. Piatt Andrew asked the chief of the automobile division to give the A. A. the most dangerous posts now. Two sections were immediately ordered to go soon to these same dangerous posts, and thank God good old Sec. 13 is lucky enough to be one of these two select, so voilà. I wouldn't be surprised to see some of the boys in the A. A. killed every once in a while from now on, but I don't want to be one of the unlucky ones.

Talk about hard life, self-sacrifices, tedious labor, etc., if this is it, give me those things the rest of my life. On my word, I have never enjoyed six weeks more than these last six in all my life. Paris is Heaven in my estimation. The front is corking good fun. It's a man's life, all right, but a jolly good one. I haven't experienced a bored or dull moment for six weeks and we've been en repos for nearly two weeks at that. I've been to ------, a pretty big town not far from the front practically every day lately, and enjoyed myself immensely.

If anybody says you don't need to spend money, just tell him he has his dope all wrong. I spend almost as much money here as I do home. That's an exaggeration, and I don't want to give the wrong idea, but you do drop a lot of coin here.

The villages and farms all show evidences of the Boche advance in 1914 around here. The farmyard where we are now had one whole side of the quadrangle burned to the ground, and when these good farmers returned after the Boche retreat, they found every bit of live stock and supplies swept from the place.

I love these French people. It's wonderful how kind, patient, generous and good-hearted they are. Believe me, Americans can learn a very, very great deal from the French peasants, farmers, and urbanites in the way of manners. They are the most obliging, hospitable and kind-hearted people that can possibly be imagined.

No wonder the people who live a while in France love the country so. I have been here a very short time, but have caught the spirit heartily myself. "Gentile" describes perfectly France, the French and tout français. I shall hate like everything to leave this beautiful and wonderful nation behind me. The only way I don't want to leave it is with a little sign over me "mort pour la France." The country is littered everywhere with ghastly numbers of crosses marked "mort pour la patrie," or not marked at all. Often the name of the corpse is unknown and a naked cross merely shows where a French soldier lies. These cross forests are the one thing here which have given me feelings of momentary sadness. I don't mind the agonized shrieks of the blessés, or their pleadings to die, or their groans of "misère, misère," but when you see a cross and think that there lies someone who was enjoying a beautiful life, and was probably torn away from a wife and several children to undertake a rotten, nasty, messy business which no one wanted, it does hit you pretty hard. And then to see those fine chaps in the towns resting, laughing, and enjoying life to the fullest, and a few days later hear they had been killed at the front, it certainly does seem terrible. Eh, bien! some of us are still alive, and enjoying life, which has suddenly seemed much more sweet and precious than it used to.

Here comes another interruption. I'm going to stop here and send the letter now, for I don't know when I can write again.

If you get this before McFadden sails, please give him those United States Army shoes I ordered from A. and F. in New York. I would like awfully to have them, if you can get hold of them. Will try to write soon.

Very lovingly,            

HOUSTON

P. S.: Kindly save these letters. I want them as souvenirs later.

April 19th, 1917

Dear Father:---

Things have been going awfully lively the last three days. Was up two nights without getting any sleep, but got a couple of naps in the day time. Our present cantonment, or station, is within plain view of the Boches, and from the barn where we sleep it is very easy to see the shells bursting around the trenches.

The French have just finished a tremendous attack. The number of blessés was overwhelming. It's a terrible sight to see these men all cut to pieces. They are the most enduring crowd I have ever seen. Poor beggars, you certainly have to feel sorry for them.

Saw a lot of Boche prisoners. They weren't a very imposing looking crowd, and did not at all seem to mind being prisoners. The poor devils all seem to be pretty thoroughly sick of the war.

The poilus seem to think the Boches are all in, and will quit soon. Everyone is waiting for the end with great longing.

If the United States send troops over here, I hope they will be the scum and not the finest, for they'll all be killed or maimed for life. I'll never forget the results of this last attack. Am going to bed now to get a much-needed sleep. Have lost track of time, but I think this is April 19th.

Love,                

HOUSTON

Ambulancier Americain, S. S. U.13, Par B. C. M., Paris

Saturday, April 21st, 1917

Dear Mother:--

At last I have a breathing spell to spend time for myself, although I may be called out any minute. I am spending these few spare minutes writing to you in a peasant's house with some delicious fresh bread, cheese, jam, and milk before me, so you can see we aren't starving, at any rate.

Never in my life have I seen such work as this week. The attack started about midnight Monday, and things didn't slacken up very much till yesterday morning. I was up from ten o'clock Tuesday morning till nine o'clock Thursday night, getting only a few naps now and then in the daytime. I only slept from eleven to one Monday night, so was practically up from Monday morning till Thursday night.

I want to say right off I've changed my views about war. Sherman said it was hell, but it's a sight worse than hell. I hope that I never again will see the sights I've seen these last few days. The French attack along the whole front is supposed to be the biggest push yet; the German papers have called it the greatest battle of the world; it must have been one of the bloodiest. Our section was right in the midst of the thickest part, and the fellows certainly did wonders. Some of the boys got only four hours sleep out of sixty. The other fifty-six took in running in pitch darkness or the rain, and even snow at one time, tearing back and forth with blessés, and the way they stood the strain was marvelous.

Night before last I had a mighty narrow escape. I was about one and one-half miles back of the front trenches, passing in front of a battery of 75s, when a shell whistled just in front of me, and exploded in the ditch, spattering mud on me. It was such a tough night that two fellows were on each car, and the one with me swore he could have touched the shell with his hand. I think that was an exaggeration but the obus certainly wasn't any ahead of my radiator. Close enough anyhow, too close for comfort. The safest spot near the trenches seems to be a sort of no-man's land between the rear trenches and the batteries. It's a rather broad strip, with almost nothing there, and few shells seem to drop. Not so nearer the trenches or back to the batteries; that's a different story.

You know it's remarkable what good luck the American ambulanciers have. The English ambulanciers have been hit, so have the French, but somehow the Americans have pulled through with but three killed and only a few hit. Several in this section have been spattered with mud from bursting shells, but that's all. I certainly hope this record keeps up, for it does seem remarkable.

The sound in the world which displeases me the most is the whistle of an arriving shell. Believe me, I'm not ashamed to admit that when I hear one of those blooming Boche obus whistling for me, I want to turn and run just as hard as I can tear. You can always hear them and tell pretty nearly where they are going to land, and when you hear one of those babies getting closer and closer, then see it land with a flame and a bang, and send mud flying in all directions, believe me, you're mighty glad it missed you by that much. The road we drove over the night before last was strewn on both sides with dead horses and smashed camions and wagons. The Boches were shelling it that night and although most of the shell holes had been filled during the day before, I went into several fresh small ones. They seem to have the range of the road pretty well, but luckily most of the shells fall in one ditch or the other or to the side.

About the attack itself, all that I can say is that there hadn't been nearly enough preparation made before they sent those poor devils of poilus into that sea of mud to be mowed down by the Boche mitrailleuse and shrapnel. The Boche artillery hadn't been driven from these positions, nor had their mitrailleuse been driven from these trenches, hence when our men started across the mud lake in the rottenest rainy weather imaginable, well, our work tells the rest of the story, as do overflowed hospitals, the new graveyards, and the number of poor, shot, smashed-to-pieces men.

I'll say right now, I'm not sorry Wilson hasn't sent an army to Europe during the last two and one-half years. I never imagined war was quarter of what it really is. It's true that our section has seen one of the biggest battles of the war---all the papers call it that. I have seen enough to make me wish strongly that the war will be over soon, that there will never be another, and that I can have the pleasure of seeing the Kaiser suspended somewhere with a rope around his neck.

The leader of our section, who has been in the American Ambulance for a long time, says that no section of the A. A. ever did work like ours before, that the work done at Verdun last summer (he was there himself) did not compare with what we had done this week. Believe me, I'm darned proud to be a member of Section 13, American Ambulance. Our reputation around here has spread, and yesterday afternoon when I drove a load of four blessés into ----- I found a lot of people gazing at my car with interest, and a couple told me they had heard of the work we had done, and fairly beamed their delight on the good old little Ford.

People can say what they like about the way I used to drive my automobile, but I'll bet I'm the best-trained driver for this work in the whole section, almost. I find my Stutz training indescribably valuable now. It helps in sensing the road in pitch blackness, in spinning through the tightest holes, in missing camions and horses by inches, and in many other ways. It gives me a confidence in driving I could not possibly otherwise have, and helps out in every way imaginable.

This war seems terribly hopeless to me. I don't see how it ever can be settled in a military way. I hope there will be a revolution in Germany before long. It's the only way I see out. The Allies can push the Boches back a little at a time, but it costs terrifically in lives and munitions, and I can't see that the gain begins to compensate for the loss, not the gain and loss I have seen anyway. The first night of the attack was different from anything I've ever seen. The firing of the French batteries made an incessant unbroken roar from twelve midnight to six in the morning. We rolled through the lines of guns that night, and no lights were needed. It was bright as mid-day, the sky all red and gold, with many star shells and signal rockets adding their brilliant glare with the cannon's flashes. Jets of flame leaped from invisible guns on all sides, shells were landing more intermittently with their brilliant flashes and geysers of mud. Now and then we would come upon a wounded horse, shrieking and dying in agony. Shell-destroyed supply camions lay in the ditches, reserve troops were marching silently, grimly forward, groups of groaning, stooping blessés were struggling gamely backward. It was hell let loose, and seemed like a dream, a delirium. I could hardly believe it was I who was passing through this. One could not think but had to act without thinking, on instinct, and the memory of the whole bloody, foolish business is burned on my mind in such a way that I can never forget it.

It's time for dinner. I may be needed right afterwards, so must stop now. I do hope none of us get killed, but we're running risks. I haven't heard from you for a long time, but mails are very irregular. I hope everything is all right with you.

My three most valuable things are my sleeping bag, my heavy rubber shoes, with thick woolen inners, and my muffler which keeps my chest warm while rolling.

Much love,              

HOUSTON