Original Letter


1st December 1917


My Dearest:

This is a fine hour of the day to be starting a letter – almost nine o’clock and my pen nib broken and the horse tramped on my foot. This has been a strenuous kind of a day taken from start to finish. I was up at six – imagine having to get out of a bed like mine at six! It’s the kind of bed that people use who get up at eight nine or ten, although not quite so nice as the kind one stays in until nine then gets up long enough to eat breakfast and then in again until noon. Well, you needn’t laugh I know just where there is such a bed. An attractive inviting, beckoning alluring sort of a bed  roomy and spacious so much so that two people could stay therein like perfect strangers. One was perfect too but no stranger. Well anyway. I got up at six and I have been on the run ever since and what have I accomplished? Lots. I nearly got two letters from you but the huge one contained Alma’s letters – they were great too. But of course when I found no letter from you in it I very quickly opened l’autre. You’re the lady who writes the letters, Sweetheart. I don’t have to read the end first to see if I’ll like your letters. Although there is always the good little thrill at the end of your letters. Your letter always takes me right away from my surroundings. Here it isn’t so marked but when we were in the muck it used to surprise me. Just as soon as I got my hands on your letter I forgot everything. Of course I do here too but here there isn’t any mud or dirt or any little odd or end happening by.

Aren’t Alma’s letters gorgeous? Its a shame the way I forget everybody in the world but I think when the Lord fashioned me he intended that I should love you. And if he did he understand why I cannot get very excited about anyone else in the world. Other people just don’t seem to be very real. They’re shadowy, vague. I wonder if I love you more today than I ever did before. Do you think I could? Anyway I am just bubbling over with it, Babykins.

Now I nearly did forget to tell you about dinner last night. We went to a hostel in the town. There was nothing imposing looking about the place excepting the “Officers Only” sign. They made a reasonable protest about allowing an Other Rank in but finally relented on my assuring them that I was quite willing to put my pride in my pocket.

We had a room to ourselves “a petite salle” with a nice fire. They gave us a beautiful meal and we washed it down liberally with the various wines of the country. We compared notes on our sensations while “in” and they tallied. Of course Bill has been further “in” than I but I know pretty well what it is like. He has had his curiosity quite satisfied and I think that if I had been in his place that mine ­– which isn’t pulling me much – would be too.

Believe me or not I’m going to my bed. Ever since I thought of that bed of ours in Louviers I’ve been put to it to keep from thinking of it. The one that I go to now is after all only a bed. That one is a hallowed place, a blessed memory and if you come right down to it I’m not thinking only of the bed. Perhaps I’d better pull myself together, Dearest. I love you with all the love in the world.

            Your own Ross