Life, 1918-04-18 · page 26 of 40
Life — April 18, 1918 — page 26: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page from *Life* magazine presents a soldier's diary entries (March 31–April 6) describing his emotional turmoil during World War I, separated from his beloved "Phyllis." **The cartoons illustrate the narrative:** - Top: "Private Brown, Who Has Dabbled a Bit in Hypnotism, Brings in a Prisoner"—a soldier using crude hypnotic techniques on a captured enemy - Bottom: "Yes, I always lay in my year's supply in the spring"—appears to show soldier logistics/supply humor **The satire's point:** The dramatic contrast between the soldier's despair (no letters for 40 days, contemplating suicide via the enemy trenches) and his instant emotional reversal upon receiving eighteen letters transforms him from suicidal to euphoric. The piece gently mocks the intensity of wartime romance and soldiers' emotional vulnerability, while also commenting on mail delays plaguing the war effort—a practical frustration affecting morale. The hypnotism cartoon may joke about soldiers' gullibility or psychological states during combat.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
PRIVATE BROWN, WHO HAS DABBLED A BIT IN HYPNOTISM, BRINGS IN A PRISONER hear the tremor in her voice when she said, “I'll never forget you; never for a minute, Joe.” But if she still feels as she used to, why don't I hear from her? Heavens! How I hate this country, with its dirt and stench and mud and vermin; with its uncertainty and waiting and work and fighting; with its people who aren't your people and its language that no civilized man can hope to understand! lf only I could get back to her or hear from her. ws » March 31st.- heard. Why did | come over here, anyway? She was the only thing in the world that I really cared about, and now I've lost her. 1f she still cared, | would have ill no letters. Forty days since I've “Yes, I always lay in my year’s supply in the spring” “LEP E* had some sort of word from her. Probably some con- founded slacker has taken her away from me. What a fool I was to believe all the things that she told me, anyway! I ought to have known that anyone as dainty and sweet and lovely as she is couldn't really have cared for such a big, clumsy idiot as myself. But I was so mad about her that I believed everything she told me. And I still am, God knows! My mind is full of her from the moment I wake until I fall asleep. I never knew it was possible for a person's mind to be so full of anyone as mine is of her. And she repays me by forgetting me! There isn’t much use in going back home, and I certainly don’t want to stay here. I hope a shell gets me. It can’t be any more painful than the ache in my heart. April 3rd.—No letters yet. I've stopped writing to her, because I'm afraid of the things I might say to her in my despair. The last letter 1 got from her on February 19th has fallen to pieces, worn out by the number of times I have read it... and kissed it. What a fool I've been! I suppose she was sorry for me, . and played with me. Probably she was too shallow to know real love, . . and they say that blondes are always fickle. But I don’t know: if any girl's eyes ever held truth and tender- ness, hers did. If only I could forget the slenderness of her, the grace of her, the sweetness of her, . . . the feel of her arms around me and her lips on mine, . . . if only she would write and put me out of my misery and tell me that she has stopped loving me! The next time I go on patrol I'm going to keep on going right into the Boche trenches, 1'll get all of them I can, and they’re wel- come to what's left of me. I have no further interest in things around here. April 6th.—Well, they came. Eighteen letters from her in one mail. She hasn't changed. There’s nobody in the world like her. I knew all the time that her letters were being delayed. There were eighteen of them. None of them was less than eight pages long, and three were twenty- four pages. This really is a wonderful country. I love it. The French people are wonderful to me, and try so hard to understand when I talk to them. I wish I understood French. It is a beautiful language. I showed my eighteen letters all around the village. One French soldier kissed me. I guess he saw that I was so happy I was almost bursting. She is absolutely the sweetest thing in the world (Phyllis, T mean). There were eighteen letters. Of course, there should have been forty or so, since she has written every day. and since it has been fort heard; but the rest are probably bein, x days since I last delayed somewhere. I wish I could get hold of the fat-head who is responsible ior the delay. I'd enjoy giving him a poke with my bayonet for every day of agony he has caused me. Well, it’s over now, anyway. I certainly feel better. I feel so good that if I could have just one punch at the Kaiser I'd drive his chin up between his cars. For a while, though, T felt low enough to walk under a chiffonier with a silk hat on. But I never doubted her for a second! Isn't it a great old world? Kenneth L. Roberts, | 4 comicbookseem]