Original Letter

            France.            16th Sept. 1918.

 

My Own Dearest:–

I haven’t written since Su[n]day. I was going to say Saturday but I remember that this is Monday and it’s two days I missed – which is bad – but we’ve been dodging around the country and opportunities of writing have been poor. We are not at the end of our trip yet. We got here last evening and I was so sleepy and dirty and tired. I expect to be here until tomorrow at least. This morning I never got up until nearly nine, had breakfast and then went and got a good bath. Now I feel sweet fragrant and clean, bodily, but on my conscience is the crime of not writing for two whole days. I know that you will forgive me but I don’t forgive myself.

The country – what I have seen of it – has not changed very much and the change there is, is not for the better. The villages are just as dirty and as wretched as they can stick. I wonder if when the war is over and the men come home, they will have ambition enough to clean their places up. I suppose they will but it will be almost a hopeless job.

The village we are resting in has never suffered from bombs or shells but it has a very bedraggled appearance due no doubt to prolonged occupation by the militaire. On the side of the road in front of our hut there is a Christ on the cross and I say The Lord’s Prayer to it occasionally. Do you suppose it helps?

I don’t get over missing you any Dear, it only gets worse the longer I’m away. There just isn’t any way or any time when I don’t miss you and, of course I want you always – and I love you always. My four months with you in England was heaven – I am glad I had the wit to realize it at the time – and I’m mighty glad that I never wished myself back here – that’s one thing less I have to brood over. I never found Doc. Rezin. I think he must have been in another place close to that as I couldn’t lay eye on a hospital of that number.

Sweetheart, do you love me today? I’m burning to get to the unit for I know there will be letters from you there for me. All my love, Dearest.

            Your own

                        Ross