Herb is still in Boxhorn

I have had difficulty figuring out the name of the town in Germany Herb references, but I think he use the French name for Mainz, Germany. I can't be certain.

I can't even find Hinkley on Google maps; not even an eyeball search near Utica!

Could this photo have been taken while Herb was wondering thru the countryside?

If Harry has been accepted to Cornell, why would that be poor luck? I am dying to know what was going on for him all the while.

December 11 [1918]

Dearest Mother,
As long as we stay in this village I’m afraid I’ll have to confine my letters to a plain statement that I am well. Nothing has happened here in the past hundred years. There is absolutely nothing to do from one weeks end to the other. Nearly every day there are a few sick men to be moved enough to keep two or three cars moving – and that is all. When it isn’t raining too hard I go out in the afternoon for a four or five mile walk cross-country. That’s only three or four times a week because on the other days it pours rain. In between it drizzles. I don’t believe there’s a worse climate anywhere in the world.

The last Post I got – three or four days ago was for October 19. Probably October 26th will be here in a few days and I can read that article about the Battle of the Marne that Dad wanted me to see.

Yesterday’s French newspaper said our Army Corps – the 21st French – is to go into M??, Germany, but we have no orders about it. It seems so funny to read in the paper of where one is going because up to about three weeks ago no information on troops movements could be given. The best information we’ve had from headquarters was to the effect that we’d probably be here two or three months, so I don’t know which to believe. For myself, I’d rather go than stay here, because this is certainly the dullest place I’ve ever seen. Hinkley, that little place near Utica where I worked in the summer of 1916 was lively compared to this.

The days are very short now. Even at half past three one can’t see to read. We have supper at four thirty so that leaves a long, long evening. Some one [sic} ought to set up a moving picture theater here. I’d patronize it regularly for one.

Be sure and keep me posted as to how Harry makes out. He’s been playing in hard luck, poor kid.

With best love to you all.
Your affectionate son,
Herb