Original Letter

            France.

                        27th March, 1918

 

My Dearest Maidie:–

This will be another poor excuse for a letter as I am awfully busy – with far less important things than writing to you. Lately every day is busy somehow or other and sleep is getting hard to catch. We move to-night and that always means a busy day and a queer sort of a night. Look what has happened all across my letter! [There are dots of spilled wax across the page.] My candle upset and spilled wax all over everything – a curse on it. The room we are in here is terribly tiny and when any person passes through they must crawl over my back. Il est degoutant.

This morning I was up washed and shaved by 4.00 o’clock, I was already dressed when I got up. Never again will I advocate early rising. Its like anything else – too much is a cure. At that it isn’t hurting me any and I sleep like a top when I am in bed, no reading or counting sheep just hit the hay and I’m asleep. At the same time I shall be glad to get out and the thought of being able to sleep in until 6.30 or 7.00 o’clock is attractive. Funny, eh.

Do you know something, dear? I am mad about you to-day, in a great big surging suffocating kind of way, I can’t think of anything else much and I don’t want to. What I really want, next to being with you, is to have quiet place where, undisturbed I could think of you, of the wonderful things you have said, of the beautiful holidays we have spent together and most of all of what a glorious Sweetheart you are. If I haven’t told you before, Dear, I must tell you now that I know you for the very finest woman that the angels ever did bring and that I love you with every atom of me. I am aching with longing for you, Sweetheart, there is never a moment in my days or nights that I do not want you with all the longing ever. And here I have to wait 120 days!

This letter will not get away for a day or two probably – and probably I will not get any letter until Friday and I quail at the prospect. There wasn’t one to-day – no mail. Drat the war – and that’s not the strongest thing I can think of to say about it either. À demain, Dearest.

            With all my love.

                        Your own

                                    Ross