Chaplain Huffman Writes of France
Letters from Chaplain Arthur M. Huffman, 3rd Division, 9th machine gun battalion, A.E.F., to his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Wm. P. Huffman:
August 25th
Dear Home Folks:
You can’t imagine the beauty of this place. I am sitting
under a large Sycamore tree. The weather is grand. To my left is a large
chateau, built in the 16th century, which we are using for our barracks.
To my right is an old moat which runs around the grounds of the castle, and
just in front of me is an ancient wall about 12 feet high. The meadows are
beautiful and the woods are full of flowers too.
The people are lovely. They are so willing to go out of
their way to help you. A number of the children of the neighborhood are always
on the grounds about the chateau. Most of them are willing and patient when you
try to talk to them. One in particular is such a fine little fellow. His name
is Gaston Leona. He has the blackest hair and the most confident look in his
large light brown eyes. We call him our school teacher for he is so patient
with us and seems to know what we want to say. That is a great deal to say
about a lad of nine. However, I suppose he inherits it for his father was a
school teacher, who has been killed in the war. And now the little fellow is
left alone with his mother. Today being Sunday he came over all dressed in his
sailor suit, with an American flag woven on his sleeve—a fine little boy he is.
Through the week he is dressed as all the small boys are around here, with a
long tunic over their trousers. We have lots of fun telling them they are
girls.
Just outside the wall is a Catholic church. It is a very
poor one. The Catholic chaplains have been saying mass over there. Several of
us went over to vespers. The congregation was made up of peasant women and
children. The priest who has been in charge of the parish has been drafted into
the army. I understand that the old priest from a neighboring village comes
over once in a while.
You ought to be here now for on all sides of me and all over
my bench are children asking and answering questions. Of course I cannot do
much of either, however I am learning. Say, I must stop. Will write later.
Love to all,
Arthur
Sept. 9, 1918
Dear Home Folks:
You must just read the letter and not notice the paper it is
written on. When we are on the move, we have very little time to write.
Everything has been well with me. My services have been well
attended considering the circumstances. We certainly have a fine lot of
officers and men. The Y.M.C.A. man who has been with us all the time left
today. I hated to see him leave. He and I were getting on so nicely I only hope
I can get along with the next one just as well. He may be here today.
I have my horse when I want him. And have been getting lots
of pleasure riding. I go sightseeing often over the country. The land is
beautiful. The canals wind in and out among the hills. Villages after villages
can be seen from the hill tops. These quaint people live here year after year
and generation after generation, satisfied. Their old houses are so peculiarly built.
The horses, cows, sheep, etc., live under the same roof, enter at the same
door, and almost sleep together. A man’s farm is scattered all over the
country. He may own 10 acres but it will be in about 25 little slits of
land. There are no fences. Everything is marked by stones in the ground.
In the village where we are stationed, there is a shepherd
who blows his horn about 6 o’clock, thus calling all the village sheep and
goats together. He takes them out over the hills for pasture until dusk, then returns
to the village. At the blast of his horn the villagers gather in the town
square and claim out of the flock their animals. I hear the horn now. If I were
to go down the street a little ways, I would find the women claiming, or either
carrying or driving one or more goats or sheep.
I never realized the meaning of the word village until I
came to France. You can not call them small towns for they are just villages;
and you never find a village without its church and clock. All the clocks
strike the hour twice. The tone quality of some is very fine, while that of
others is very poor.
There is an old clock in the room where I am living which
I think must be the most prized possession of the old couple that lives here.
The other day they thought the key was lost and such a fuss they made over it.
If the clock was as old as the house, it is almost 100 years old. The date
above the entrance of the home is 1838.
Did you get my cablegram? I sent it for I thought you would
like to know as soon as possible what my address is. And then too you got it
and wrote immediately. I will hear so much sooner. A letter would look good. It
will soon be mess time so will close.
Love to all,
Arthur
-=-
Private Frank Carriker Writes From Trench Mortar Battalion
The Record has
received a letter from Private Frank Carriker, 30th trench mortar
battalion, in which he sends regards to the whole force, of which he used to be
one and continues:
We are getting along fine, having good health, a good time
and plenty to eat. The country is very pretty I some parts, but in our immediate
vicinity it is not so very attractive.
It is not a rare occasion to see a beautiful pot of flowers
in one window of a building and the head of a huge steer projecting from the
next window of the same building; in fact it is almost universal.
The country is very affectionate, for after a rain it is a
hard proposition to keep it from all sticking to a fellow’s shoes.
With all the disagreeables, I must say the people sure are
nice to us boys. They invite us to their homes to do our writing, but that is
rather inconvenient so I am sitting in a bar writing this one, which accounts
for the scribbling.
We are getting plenty of drilling and hiking since landing
on this side.
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