December 6, 1915.
[DEAREST ONE:]
I have been away so could not write. They took us to the
French and English "front" and away from Greece; we were in
Bulgaria and Servia. It was at a place where the three
boundaries met. We saw remarkable mountain ranges and deep
snow, and some
fine artillery. But throwing shells into that bleak, white
jumble of snow and rocks — there was fifty miles of it — was
like throwing a baseball at the Rocky Mountains. Still, it
was seeing something. Now, I have a room, and a very
wonderful one. I had to bribe everyone in the hotel to get
it; and I have something to write and, no more moving about I
hope, for at least a week. I am able to see the ships at
anchor for miles, and the landing stage for all the warships
is just under my window. As near as McCoy Rock from the
terrace. It is like a moving picture all the time. I bought
myself an oil stove and a can of Standard oil, and, instead of
trying to warm the hotel with my body, I let George do it.
But it is a very small stove, and to really get the good of
it, I have to sit with it between my legs. Still, it is such
a relief to be alone, and not to pack all the time.
McCutcheon and Bass, Hare and Shepherd are fine, but I felt
like the devil, imposing on them, and working four in a room
is no joke. We dine together each night. Except them, I see
no one, but have been writing. Also, I have been collecting
facts about Servian relief. Harjes, Morgan's representative
in Paris, gave me
carte blanche to call on him for money
or supplies; but I waited until today to cable, so as to be sure
where help was most needed. It is still cold, but that
awful cold spell was quite unprecedented and is not likely
to come again. I
never suffered so from cold, and, as you
know, I suffer considerable. All the English officers who had
hunted in cold places, said neither had they ever felt such
cold. Seven hundred Tommies were frost bitten and toes and
fingers fell off. I do not say anything about how awful it is
not to hear. But, if I had had your letters forwarded to this
dump of the Levant, I
never would have got them. Now, I have to wait for them until
I get to Paris, but there I will surely get them. Cables, of
course, can reach me, but no cables mean to me that you are
all right. Nor do I want to "talk" about Christmas. You know
how I feel about that, and about missing the first one
she
has had. But it will be the
last one we will know apart.
Never again!
I want you in my arms and to hear you laugh and see your
eyes. I am in need of you to make a fuss over me. McCutcheon
and Co. don't care whether I have cold hands or not. You do.
Your ointment and gloves saved my fingers from falling off
like the soldiers' did. And your "housewife" I use to put on
buttons, and, your scapular and medal keep me well. But your
love is what really lifts me up and consoles me. When I think
how you and I care for each other, then, I am scared, for it
is very beautiful. And we must not ever be away from each
other again. God keep you my beloved, and both my blessings.
I cannot bear it — when I think of all I am missing of her,
and, all that she is doing. God guard you both. My darling
and dear wife and mother of Hope.
Your husband,
RICHARD.
