We had the tough luck to run into six of the rough-necks, just outside of the little town, where they’d been drinking.  I never heard the name of one of that outfit.  We weren’t acquainted at all.  Strange how they changed my soldier career, right at the start!  This day, when we met them, they got fresh, and of course I had to start something.  I soaked that rough-neck, sis, and don’t you forget it.  Well, it was a fight, sure.  I got laid out—­not knocked out, for I could see—­but I wasn’t any help to pard Montana.  It looked as if he didn’t need any.  The rough-necks jumped him.  Then, one after another, he piled them up in the road.  Just a swing—­and down went each one—­cold.  But the fellow I hit came to and, grabbing up a pick-handle, with all his might he soaked Montana over the head.  What an awful crack!  Montana went down, and there was blood everywhere.

They took Montana to the hospital, sewed up his head.  It wasn’t long before he seemed all right again, but he told me sometimes he felt queer.  Then they put us on a troop-train, with boys from California and all over, and we came East.  I haven’t seen any of those other Western boys, though, since we got here.

One day, without any warning, Montana keeled over, down and out.  Paralysis!  They took him to a hospital in New York.  No hope, the doctors said, and he was getting worse all the time.  But some New York surgeon advised operation, anyway.  So they opened that healed-over place in his head, where the pick-handle hit—­and what do you think they found?  A splinter off that pick-handle, stuck two inches under his skull, in his brain!  They took it out.  Every day they expected Montana to die.  But he didn’t.  But he will die.  I went over to see him.  He’s unconscious part of the time—­crazy the rest.  No part of his right side moves!  It broke me all up.  Why couldn’t that soak he got have been on the Kaiser’s head?

I tell you, Lenore, a fellow has his eye teeth cut in this getting ready to go to war.  It makes me sick.  I enlisted to fight, not to be chased into a climate that doesn’t agree with me—­not to sweep roads and juggle a wooden gun.  There are a lot of things, but say!  I’ve got to cut out that kind of talk.

I feel almost as far away from you all as if I were in China.  But I’m nearer France!  I hope you’re well and standing pat, Lenore.  Remember, you’re dad’s white hope.  I was the black sheep, you know.  Tell him I don’t regard my transfer as a disgrace.  The officers didn’t and he needn’t.  Give my love to mother and the girls.  Tell them not to worry.  Maybe the war will be over before—­I’ll write you often now, so cheer up.

    Your loving brother,

    Jim.

    Camp—­, October—.