Original Letter


                        7th March 1918

My Dearest Dear:–

It’s a gorgeous kind of a morning and I feel better than I have for weeks. There are two great windows in our room here with flowers and the place is just as pleasant as it can be. Lots of sunshine and an unnecessary grate fire. Turkey and I are alone for the forenoon. And while he checks up the ‘Daily Mail’ I am going to write you.

If soldiering could always be carried on under conditions like we are enjoying here this forenoon – the two of us – it might be popular. But, for me, I could never like it not even if we were in Heaven unless I could have you with me. But I do not suppose that they would tolerate soldiers in Heaven – unless perhaps a few dead ones. I have lost track of that book I told you of “Why Men Fight” the man who was going to lend it to me has mislaid it. I am most disappointed – on your account of course, because I am quite sure that the answer was in it. I’ve given up wondering myself. I could wish for Old Mrs Hutton’s spirit of “Fight ye imps, I hate peace”.

But this morning, there is peace all about us and it is difficult to realize that there is a real live war on, not so very far away.

Last night we played a game of ball. 7–0 that’s all. But I needed a bit of exercise and anyway someone has to win. And I am not so accustomed to being on the winning side that I can’t lose gracefully. It was very dreadful baseball but I like corner lotting.

Turkey is ‘sweating’ for leave now and every letter that comes in now he pounces on to see if it is through. Probably he’ll get away about next Wednesday. The taxicabs and the vin blanc will catch it when Turk gets to Paris.

Do you love me a little to-day, Sweetheart? Please say you do anyway. (If you ever did suggest that you didn’t I would fly all the way there and show you whether you didn’t love me or not – I have a good notion to do it anyway!)

I have been thinking a lot lately of when we were in Toronto together. We really had a pretty wonderful time there although it was precarious – perhaps that made it all the better. I wish that we could have it all over again. You were lovely to me then, Dearest. (You are always of course) and I adored every thought I had of it. Do you remember the first room you stayed in? The front room on the third floor on Charles Street. I remember waiting on the dock for you the morning you come – it was early and we had breakfast in the St. Charles. Lord. I’d give a million dollars – if I had it – to be with you again. I hate every second of being away from you. Damn and blast the man or men who started this war. Here I am deprived of the greatest joy any man ever had. I am married to the finest lady in the world and may only see her for fourteen days every six months! Dearest, I love you with every ounce of love in me. You are an angel.

            Your own