"Y" has run to the dogs. Everything is gloomy. Do you want the job?" I
said it was just what I wanted. The next morning a nice "Y" man put me
and my baggage into a car and ran me over to Pouillenay about ten
miles over the hills.

Pouillenay is a tiny, peaked-roofed village of mud and stones, with a
river babbling through its centre where the women wash and the geese
wade, and old stone bridges span it. All about are hills, lovely
hills. In this French setting, place 1500 American boys in khaki! They
are everywhere! The dazed and stupefied old natives wandering around
in their wooden shoes are in the minority. The crooked streets resound
to American voices, American jokes and songs, and huge U.S. trucks go
thundering over the ancient cobblestones, while the insulted geese go
to the side of the road looking so wrathfully dignified and stately
that I laugh every time I see them, and the black and white speckled
hens shriek and run for their lives in all directions, often into the
houses whose doors are on the level with the street. This town was to
be my home. I was left in the care of Lieutenant Robinson, who has
been most kind to me, as every one else has been. (I'll send you
descriptions of my friends here after I discover who censors the
mail!)

Billets were found for me at the house of Mme. and M. Gloriod, the
nicest old couple that ever were. I have a tiny room with a tiny
stove, which nevertheless eats lots of wood. Madame Gloriod, energetic
and kindhearted, rosy-cheeked and jolly, brings a delicious breakfast
to me every morning and lights my fire. Talk about luxury! And I eat
it in leisure from the depths of my voluminous bed. (More undeserved
good luck, mother!) And all this costs me about three francs a day. My
regular "mess" aside from breakfast is at Battalion Headquarters,
presided over by Major S. who they say was a well known New York
lawyer before the war. He is in every way a cultivated gentleman
admired by the whole battalion. He has been extremely kind to me,
making me feel quite at home. At his mess are six other officers,
lieutenants of various colors. I have also dined with the officers of
the other companies and it is very jolly. But I am not here for the
gay life; don't believe it. My headquarters is the Y canteen, a
miserable little room with a counter, a stove, and rough benches
around it. The men pour in here and smoke and talk. My guitar is at
their disposal and they use it. Often I play it