Helen always was a poor correspondent.
Dal answered my letters, but she never _told_ me anything about home.
When we first got to France I heard often from Margie Henderson and Mel Iden--crazy kind of letters--love-sick over soldiers....

But nothing for a long time now." "At first they wrote! Ha! Ha!" burst out Maynard.

"Sure, they wrote love-sick letters.

They sent socks and cigarettes and candy and books.
And they all wanted us to hurry back to marry them....

Then--when the months had gone by and the novelty had worn off--when we went against the hell of real war--sick or worn out, sleepless and miserable, crippled or half demented with terror and dread and longing for home--then, by God, they quit!" "Oh, no, Blair--not all of them," remonstrated Lane, unsteadily.
"Well, old man, I'm sore, and you're about the only guy I can let out on," explained Maynard, heavily.