Original Letter

            France, 26th Feby. 1918.


My Dearest:

You know every time I start writing you – when I very first start “My –” why then I just feel the greatest big wave of love surge right over me. Do you ever feel that way, Dear? Its pretty great but it leaves me kind of weak and then I dream a lot of grand fanciful dreams that I simply could not put into words. Anyway all my dreams are made of gold – leastaways her hair is golden.

Two perfectly great letters to-day telling me all sorts of love – well, I feel great now that’s all. You are a baby three or four – three hundred and sixty five ways, aren’t you?

What do you think today. We played a game of baseball! H.Q. against “A” Coy with Turk and yours ever on second and first respectively. My Dear, it was a scream and of course we won – not – 9–8 – close but it was a fine game. It is warm here and just like summer. Maybe it is trop beau but personally I prefer it to any other kind of weather.

And just for a news item I may tell you that it will only be a day or two less than five month[s] until I am on leave again. For was not my last leave 25th January? So you may look for me along about the 25th July always providing la guerre is not over before then.

I am enclosing a picture of the Turk. He thinks it punk but it is really good. He is in the pink and funny as ever and says that it is a good picture of the buckle on his box respirator.

Dearest, I adore you to-day. I am hopelessly lonesome and always shall be – something happened inside me that night I left you. My world came to an end for a while, and I haven’t got it adjusted yet. You are everything to me, Dearest, nothing else counts for anything. I love every bit of you with every bit of me. Please take me in your arms and never let me go.

            Your own Ross