I sure am in love with this side of the pond.

Grant Willard's brother, Harold, known as "Tib," was two years his junior. Following his graduation from the University of Minnesota in 1917, Tib wanted to serve in France, but couldn't pass the physical examination. He suffered from varicose veins and was forced to have an operation that nearly killed him. A blood clot broke loose and settled in his lungs, causing a pulmonary embolus. Disabled and in great pain, Tib spent the winter of 1917-18 in California with his mother. The climate and rest got him back on his feet, but he never got to serve in France. Several of Grant's letters discuss Tib's frustration at being sidetracked.

Varicosis and pulmonary embolus notwithstanding, Tib lived to be a very old man; he was nearly 90 when he passed in 1984. He became a professor of animal husbandry at the University of Wyoming.

Convois Autos.,

S.S.U. 647,

Par B.C.M.,

France.

Monday, March 11, 1918

Dear Tib:-

Have been postponing this letter long enough. I was in hopes of receiving some definite information as to what has been ailing you. The first inkling I had of your illness was about two weeks ago when a letter from Mother spoke of your doing nicely after 3 weeks in bed. Today another letter from Mother dated Feb. 10 says in part, “he looks white and thin but has a good appetite and is in good spirits – the left lung, Dr. said, might not be normal for another month – the limb is not swelling much so we really feel that he is getting along nicely.” My guess is pleurisy. Is that right? It’s tough, Tib.

I had pictured you as busily engaged in pumping up balloons or flying in the clouds making diagrams of Boch fortifications and artillery placements, directing shell fire, dodging enemy planes, etc., etc. Am tickled to death that you selected this department of the work, Tib, and hope your sickness won’t interfere with your following it up as far as you can go. Balloons and planes are two of my pets. Wish you could see them in action as we have seen them. Stick to it, kid.

But you have been pretty darn lucky in your nurses. Wow! How I envy you! Five weeks should have seemed like a day to you under your circumstances. Sis writes that you are a first-class patient with your voice going when your fiddle won’t. I would have contracted pleurisy (or whatever it was that you had) in a minute if I could have traded places with you for about five weeks. I don’t know that I could have stood more than five weeks without longing for this side again, however, for I sure am in love with this side of the pond.

Mother’s letter dated Feb. 10 arrived today. You sure have been having some cold weather over there this winter. It ought to be about over now. Mother’s dissertation on dark flour, barley gems, rye bread, buckwheat, etc., was very interesting. If your wheatless days are responsible for the white bread we are getting over here in the American Army we are very much obliged to you all. It sure is good bread. We eat oatmeal for breakfast now which is a rare treat after having nothing but black coffee and bread–the coffee sometimes with sugar and sometimes without.

Well, Tib, stick to it, old boy, and go the limit on this balloon business. Hap and I will be very glad to hear from you when you can write.

As ever,

Bub.