It is a beautiful country place many miles from Paris

“Somewhere in France.”

June 9, 1917.

Dear People:-

I wish to announce at the start that I am now in the war zone and am permitted to say very little about where I am and what I am doing.

We left Paris Wednesday A.M. at 6:15 giving us one day short of a week in that most wonderful city. I think of all the cities I ever saw Paris is by far the most artistically beautiful. The foliage is very heavy and green. Trees and shrubs grow everywhere and are very well kept. All things green are well watered and have the appearance of being perfectly kept. All of the old historical buildings and parks are so arranged and protected as to show them off to the best advantage. That the Champs-Elysees is the “most beautiful thoroughfare in the world” cannot be disputed. From the Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile one can look straight down this beautiful street for at least a mile to the Place de la Concorde, a beautiful square, reputed to be the finest in Europe. And I could go on raving about every thing we saw in Paris in the same fashion. It being necessary to stay pretty close to our headquarters we didn’t have a great deal of time for sight-seeing but were never idle during our spare moments.

I wish I could picture to you as best I could our present location. Suffice it to say that it is a beautiful country place many miles from Paris. Our quarters are clean and wholesome. Our “chiefs” are fine and we are now under strict military regulations. All of our boys are not here yet but we expect the remainder to arrive tomorrow. The purpose of our being here is to get into good physical condition for a drive work at the front. The first section expects to leave for the front next week. I hope to be ready to go with the second section which leaves. We are now engaged in doing all manner of manual labor, from peeling potatoes to sawing timber.

Speaking of sawing timber reminds me that I am writing this letter from the hospital where I have been confined since yesterday with another sprained ankle or rather, the same old sprained ankle. It’s nothing serious. I simply jumped from a limb of the tree we were making tooth picks of and landed on a bough and turned my ankle. They certainly have taken good care of me. Tomorrow they plan on taking me into Paris to have the darned thing X-rayed. I shall be very much disappointed if they don’t let me get back on it in a couple of days. They have a regular doctor out here but I don’t believe he has an awful lot of confidence in himself so he is going to turn me over to a Paris doctor. I don’t want to go in a bit but “orders is orders” in a military camp. Maybe I’ll find out what in Sam Hill is the matter with my joints that they slip out so easily.

When my ankle was aching the worst last night and I was cursing everything in general what should come in but a letter from Dorothy. It was a peach. I slept like a log and all the pain has left my ankle. I was looking for a letter from you on this last boat, the Rochambeau, sailing from New York on the 26th of May. Maybe it will come this afternoon.

The Houghtons have rented their home and are going west, as you will undoubtedly know by the time this letter reaches you. Dorothy plans on being in Minneapolis part of the time. I hope she gets down to Mankato. I feel positive that she will make as big a hit with you as she did with me but no one could ever love her as I do. Those of you who have already been through it will understand and I hope that those of you who haven’t may some day have that privilege but don’t come to France in the middle of it.

I hope my next letter to you will be written from the front, sublime though this life may be.

Please tell all my friends that I am well and as happy as circumstances will permit and that letters and papers are very much appreciated. There is nothing I want in the way of clothing. Sweets are always welcome anywhere in France. Good American smoking tobacco is very much in demand.

Much love,

Grant.