December 8, 1918
How are the people serving my little woman this Sunday? It has been a very quiet day for me. Have slept most all day and feel half dopey now. It's almost supper time and already getting dark. It is a very gloomy day--half in the notion to rain but just can't get started, and that is satisfactory to me as the time is slow enough as it is.
I saw a couple of good fights last night but lost all interest when one fellow pulled his gun and fired several shots, though wild. It seemed as though most everybody was celebrating. Guess Saturday night is their day off, just like it was all of us farmers (back in Oklahoma) ha ha
I walked out to the state penitentiary today but couldn't get in on Sunday. Tis sure some pen. Must cover three or four blocks and has seventeen hundred men in it now. The Warden invited us out tomorrow to look the place over. I'm not crazy to be inside, only would like to take a peek.
And say, you know I haven't gotten a letter yet. Guess I will have to go bugs like a couple of fellows in another company. It seems as though one of them was a married man and hadn't heard from his home since before we left Funston. Since then, his home had been burned and his wife had died and been buried for some thirty days. They had sent telegrams everywhere but couldn't find him. Was enough to make him crazy, wasn't it? So you see, you had best hurry along and write me a letter or over the hill for me.
It really is funny to watch us poor devils. We sit and write to everyone we ever knew, and never hear from a soul but are always complaining of having so many letters to answer. I keep the old ones and every time I read them over I have to answer, see. Don't know what I will do when I wear the last one out. Perhaps I'll know it by heart, as I know you, honey.
How is your sister since she got over the flu. Seems as though everyone has it about as bad as ever up here.
Now sweetheart I can't think of a thing of any importance this late in the day, so I will go now and dream if I can. So I will tell you all about it tomorrow evening. Lots of love to my little woman.
1998-2002, Tom Johnston