"I haven't had a letter in five months from home," a boy in a hospital
said to me. He was lonely and discouraged. And right here may I say
to the American people that there is no one thing that needs more
constant urging than the plea that you write, write, write to your
soldier in France. He would rather have letters than candy, or
cigarettes, or presents of any kind, as much as he loves some of these
material things. I have put it to a vote dozens of times, and the
result is always the same; ten to one they would rather have a letter
from home than a package of cigarettes or a box of candy. I have seen
boys literally suffering pangs that were a thousand times worse than
wounds because they did not receive letters from those at home.

"Hell! Nobody back there cares a damn about me! I haven't received a
letter in five months!" a boy burst out in my presence in Nancy one
night.

"Have you no mother or sister?"

"Yes, but they're careless; they always were about letter-writing."

I tried to fix up excuses for them, but it tested both my imagination
and my enthusiasm to do it. I could put no real heart into making
excuses for them, and so my words fell like lame birds to the ground,
and the tragedy of it was that both of us knew there was no good
excuse. It was the most pitiable case I saw in France. God pity the
careless mother or sister or father or friend who isn't willing to take
the time and make the sacrifice that is needed to at least supply a
letter three times a week to the lad who is willing to sacrifice his
all, if need be, that those at home may live in peace, free from the