On Active Service: June, July, 1918

Lawrence Henry Ross

May 6, 1889__August 1, 1918

How 'Ya Gonna Keep 'Em Down on the Farm

Reuben, Reuben, I've been thinking, Said his wifey dear

Now that all is peaceful and calm, The boys will soon be back on the farm

Mister Reuben started winking and slowly rubbed his chin

He pulled his chair up close to mother, And he asked her with a grin.

Chorus: How ya gonna keep 'em down on the farm

After they've seen Paree'

How ya gonna keep 'em away from Broadway

Jazzin around and paintin' the town

How ya gonna keep 'em away from harm, that's a mystery

They'll never want to see a rake or plow

And who the deuce can parleyvous a cow?

How ya gonna keep 'em down on the farm,

After they've seen Paree'

Somewhere in France
June 19, 1918
My dear Mother,
I’m going to start a letter to you, but I may not finish it this morning, for it is cold and rainy and my hands are nearly froze. We have been having a cold rain for two days and my bad hand is so stiff that I can’t hardly use it.
I haven’t heard from you people in nearly two weeks and I do look for your letters. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have a good father and mother. I can thank God for the home I have, although I didn’t half appreciate it then. I haven’t received any papers yet. I wonder if they are lost. I suppose everything is about as usual there. Was it a late and cold spring? You must have had some awful showers by the way you wrote.
Can’t you write oftener? I know you work hard and don’t feel much like writing after work, but you don’t know how I look for a few words from home. I haven’t heard from anyone in a week, and they all say they are writing lots. I can’t write any more now, my hand is so cold, so I’ll finish it later.
Well, Mother, I’ll add a little more to this letter. The boys are eating dinner and I’m on Guard, so will write what I can while I’m waiting for one of them to finish. I was just making a wish while sitting here in the sun. Can you guess what it was? To be home with you, a good warm dinner, some doughnuts, a good hot bath, then a good bed. Oh! Mother, how I long for those things again! I pray to God that this war will end this summer.
You asked me if my catarrh bothered me. It hasn’t been very bad till now. It is so damp and cold now that my head is all stuffed up. Other ways I’m all right, only lonesome for Dad and Ma and nobody can take their place.
I had a good long letter from Minnie a little over a week ago. She can write as easy as she can talk and I’m glad for once that she can, for I like lots of news. I’m glad to hear that she is feeling real well again. She must have to work pretty hard now.
Oh say, Mother. Did my insurance papers come from Washington? Does the allotment come regular? You or Dad or Harold or any of you that wants to can use the money that comes. If Les or Minnie needs some, let them have it. It might as well be doing some of you some good. Did Dad or Forest look after my other insurance in Ti? Tell me all about it when you write and tell me how you are doing on the farm this year.
Mother! Can’t you knit me a pair of wool gloves with good long wrists? If you can, why not leave all of the fingers together like a mitten, only the first finger. I’ll have to keep that one separate to pull the trigger with.
This is some letter! Well, Mother, I’m at it again. I’ve just had my supper. We had baked beans, bread, coffee. Then our Corporal was down to the Y and we bought a can of pears, so that went pretty fair.
I must close now and write some other ones. Love to all and a big hug and kiss for you.
Your boy,
Lawrence H. Ross
Co C. 120th M.G. Btn.
AEF France Via NY

On Active Service
Somewhere in France
June 27, 1918
Dear folks at home,
Here I come again. I’m pretty lazy today, but I’m going to try and scratch off a few lines just to let you know that I’m fine and dandy. It is a nice afternoon and we’re back in the reserve lines now. You’ll wonder why I say that. Well, I’ll tell you now. I’ve been in the trenches, or in other words, on the firing line. I thought I’d wait till I came back the first time before I told you, although there’s some danger here where we are now. If you don’t think so, listen.
Yesterday, the enemy balloon was up for observation, and here’s the results. They sent over some shells this morning
Censored—piece of letter cut out.
They’ll pay for it and pay dear. A few times while I was up in the front line the pieces of shrapnel came pretty close and made me duck, but thank the good Lord, I’m all here yet and feeling fine.
I’d like to send home for some things. I’m going to ask the sergeant if I can make out an order. If the Captain will sign it, why, you can send it. I’d like a box of Cuticura ointment, some of that ointment from Dr. Knapp and a jock strap. I wish I had asked long ago, for I need those things and can’t get them here. But don’t try to send them till I get permission from the commanding officer.
I wonder what you are doing now. Probably nearly ready to commence haying. I haven’t had any mail from you in a long time. I wonder if it is lost, as I know you must be writing. I was some surprised to see one of my letters in the Sentinel. I would have taken more pains with it if I had known that you were going to publish it.
Well, Dad, I must close now. Hope you are all well, and here’s wishing for the best.
Love to all.
Your boy,
Lawrence H. Ross
Co. c. 120th M.G. Btn.
AEF France
Via NY

On Active Service
Somewhere in France
July 2, 1918
Dear Dad,
I wonder what is the matter? I haven’t heard from you in a long time. I know you are awful busy and tired at night, but I get so lonesome to hear from all.
I’m awful tired today. We have been in the trenches for twenty days, just came out last night. I didn’t get any sleep till 3 o’clock and hiked for three hours.
I thought I wouldn’t tell you I had been in the trenches until I came out. Thank God I’m all here safe and sound.It is a beautiful day and I’m over to the Y writing. It is a grand place and I’d like to tell you all about it.
How are your crops this spring? I can’t believe that July 4th is so near. We don’t wait till the 4th to celebrate. We do it any old time. Our artillery put over a barrage from 9 till 11 night before last and the Boche put one back from 3 till 4:30. Some Racket! About the only damage they done was to smash up a few mess kits, a coffee can, tear some holes in the road and cut a few trees.
I can’t think of much more so I’m going back and take a bath. You would laugh to see me. I’m letting my mustache rush. Ha! Ha!
I’m going to put in an order right away and if the Captain will sign it, I’ll send for some things.
I heard that Uncle Amos and Aunt Bell, Uncle Roy and Aunt Edna were over. Oh! I hear, even if I’m thousands of miles away.
I must close now.
Love to all and once more, wishing for the best of luck,
Your boy, Lawrence H. Ross
Co. C. 120th M.G. Btn.
AEF France
Via NY

On Active Service
Somewhere in France
July 4, 1918
Dear Dad and all,
I wonder if your letters are lost. I haven’t heard from you in a long time, and no papers have come, only the April numbers.
I had a letter from Letha and she was talking with Helene and you hadn’t heard from me in over two weeks. I can’t understand it. I write to some of you about three times a week.
Well, it’s the 4th of July and I remember last year Aunt Emma, Anne and Jack were up and we drove up to Uncle Amos’ in the afternoon. It makes me sort of lonesome to think that I’m away over here and none of my relatives with me. If only I could drop in somewhere and talk with some of my people. How I’d like to see you. I hope God permits me to come back. I shall enjoy my home and people more than ever.
I’m back for a rest now, out of the trenches. We went to a band concert last night, ball game this forenoon, another game, sports, parade and concert today. Who said we can’t celebrate way over in France.
[Next page is faded— a repeat of Lawrence’s request to have various skin care items and new jock straps sent, carefully packed. He states that such items were unavailable to him there.]
I hate to bother you so much, but I can’t get them here and I need them bad.
I’m as well as usual, hope you all are well. If you talk with Minnie, tell her I’ll write soon. Love to all and best of all, I’m glad to know I have a father and mother at home praying for me.
As ever, your boy,
Lawrence H, Ross
Co. C. M.G. Btn.
AEF France
Via NY APO 734

On Active Duty
Somewhere in France
July 7, 1918
Dear Mother,
It keeps me pretty busy trying to remember which one to write to. I’m getting lots of mail now and I’m glad of it. I got that family letter from home, another letter from home, one from Uncle Amos, one from Florence, three from Letha the same day!
Oh yes, and one from Uncle Truman Wood. Just a few days before that I got one from Minnie, one from Letha, one from Joe and Mary, one from Uncle Trume! You can see I get lots of it now, but it’s so uncertain. Sometimes I’ll get 6 or 8 of them then I won’t get anymore for a week or two. I hope I get some more papers soon, only the April numbers have come. It seems funny not to know what happened over there in May and here it is nearly the middle of July.
Its funny I never got any of the mail you people sent to the Engineers.
The papers look quite encouraging now. I hope that peace comes before long, so I can eat my Christmas dinner at home this year. It would be one happy day if I could, [even] if I only had a crust of bread.
I’m over to the Y now. We’ve just had a service. It’s the first time I’ve had a chance to attend service in seven weeks. It sure is a grand day here. Its twelve o’clock now and I must go back soon for I’m hungry as a bear. I had a good hot bath yesterday and it felt good after taking one in a cold brook. I took one a few days ago in the brook. When I came out two or three French teams were driving by quite a way off. They yelled at me and I run on the grass and bucked up like a colt. How they laughed. I can’t say that I had much on!
Well, Mother, I’ve had dinner, also a little nap, but the flies bothered me so I couldn’t take any comfort. It is awful hot today. I’m going to crawl out in the shade somewhere before long.
Hope this finds you all well. I’m feeling just as good as ever.
Love to all, and a kiss for you.
Your boy,
Lawrence H. Ross
Co. C. 120th M.G. Btn
AEF France
Via NY
APO 734

Somewhere in France
July 14, 1918
Dear Dad,
I know I ought to have written before this, but I was so lazy and tired that I just couldn’t make it. There’s not much to tell only I’m as well as usual and wish I was there to go to church with you today. This is a French holiday* here and I guess the Boche is helping them to celebrate, for they are sending over shells to beat all. Our artillery sent them some pills all night long, and some of our machine guns fired too. Night before last was the first time I ever fired a gun with intention of doing the deed. Between one and two o’clock I fired seventy five rounds, but I don’t know what the results were. It was indirect fire and we couldn’t see. If occasionally you find an extra mark on here, don’t be surprised. I’m on guard and a battery of ours opens up near me, and I jump a little. My! How often I do think of home and dear ones. There never was a time in my life when I realized what a good home was as I do now. I hope and pray that this war is fast closing up. How do the papers look?
I dreamed of home nearly every night last week. The last dream was I came to Graphite on the stage, I guess. You was there and I run up to you to talk with you. You said, “Where are you going first?” I turned around so you could see the front of my blouse. It was worn through. I said, “I’m going right down to have Mother fix it for me. I wore a hole through it unloading grain off from a ship!” Wasn’t that a funny dream? You looked so natural only you had a full beard.
We had pancakes for breakfast and that made me think of home, for nobody can come up to Mother making them.
I had to leave this for awhile and take a list of spare parts for the gun.
Now I’m at it again. It has quieted down now, no guns are firing. I suppose you are haying now. Little I realized when I was on top of that stack last year that I’d be way over here now. I wonder what Wilford would do if he had to go through this?
I haven’t had any mail for nearly two weeks. Probably I’ll get some soon. I wonder why I don’t hear from Harold. I wrote a letter to him, but mailed it home, for I knew you would know his address. If he only knew how I long to hear from him, it seems as though he could waste a few minutes of his time on me.
If only I could talk I would tell you how lonesome I am some days. I must close now and write a few words to Letha. Four months ago today I was rolling on the briny deep!
I had a letter from Earl Carr. He’s not very far from me. I guess you don’t know him. He is a fine fellow. I wish he was here in my company.
Well, Dad, once more, here’s wishing for the best of luck. Hope you are all well and my prayer is that God will take care of us.
Lots of love to all.
Same old boy of yours,
Lawrence H. Ross
Co. C. M.G. Btn.
AEF France
Via NY APO 734

*Bastille Day

American Red Cross
[Croix-rouge Americaine]
Somewhere in France
July 15, 1918
Dear Dad,
I’ll just drop you a few lines this afternoon as I have the list of things that I want and the Captain signed it. Please rush them to me as soon as you can. Be sure to pack them well, so they won’t be destroyed.
I would like to send for some more things, but I don’t want to be a hog. Uncle Amos said he would send me some maple sugar if I would say the word. I’m going to ask a little later, but I needed these things and I can get along without the sugar.
Well, Dad, it’s a grand day, the warmest that I’ve seen it since I came over. I can imagine just what it is over there. My mail is coming pretty good again. I expect a letter from you most any day. I’ve just had my dinner, shaved me, and started to take a bath, but there was so many there that we had to wait awhile, so we came out in the woods in the shade to scratch off a few lines, Doc and I. That’s what I call him. His name is Leslie Dockham and he is a nice fellow. I’ve been with him ever since I came across the pond.
We had a little excitement last night. We put a little barrage over on the Boche. All the artillery and machine guns. There was some noise, believe me. How would you like to shoot the old rifle as many times as we did last night? A little over 4000 rounds. Ha! Ha! That’s going some, by gum!
Don’t worry because I’m writing on Red Cross paper, for I’m all OK, feeling fine and dandy.
I had a letter from Letha and one from Uncle Trume yesterday. They were a long time coming. They were mailed June 12th and I received them July 14th. I hope you’ll rush those things all you can.
Oh, say, Dad, did you get my insurance from the government? [I mean my insurance papers.] Does the allotment come every month? One more question: was my insurance at Ti paid? I’ll soon have my Liberty Loan paid. I think July is the last one. If you need the allotment for anything, why don’t be afraid to use it. If they start another loan I think I’ll take one again. It’s a good investment and I might as well save a little of my money.
Guess I’ll close now and write a few lines to Letha.
Love to all and remember I’m that same old boy of yours,
Lawrence H. Ross
Co. C. 120th M.G. Btn.
AEF France
Via NY APO 734

On Active Service
Somewhere in France
July 18, 1918
My Dear Mother,
Guess I’ll drop you a few lines this morning. I’ve just had my breakfast and its half past eight. How’s that for lazy? I went to bed about ten o’clock then I had to get up and go on guard from one till three, so you can see I have to sleep late to get rested.
Well, Mother, how is everybody there? I thought of you while I was eating breakfast. We had pancakes. Wish I could have been there to eat with you. Just think, I haven’t seen you since last November 18th, I think, over eight months. We use to think two or three months was a long time to stay away from home.
I suppose it must be awful hot there now. It is pretty hot here in the daytime.
You’ll notice a different kind of ink this time. My pen has run dry and I haven’t any ink. I have a dandy new pen, though. It’s the one Uncle Trume gave me.
There’s not much to tell only I’m just as well as ever. I think that’s about the best I could tell. Oh! I forgot to say that I have fruit most every day now. Lots of raspberries here and when I’m not busy I go pick a cupful, look them over, wash them, put some sugar on them and let them stand awhile. Then they are just like jam. Great? Well, I should say so!
We have plenty of water here, so I try to keep clean, take a bath most every day and wash my clothes twice a week. I’m trying to keep the “cookies” [lice] away!
It’s funny I don’t get my May papers. Only the first bundle of them came.
It was awful dark here last night and its some job to find our way out to the gun position. We can’t light any matches. If we did, Fritz would hand us over some shells. It’s a great game. One fellow says, “It’s a great game when people throw iron at you.”
Guess I’ll close now. Hope you’re as well as I am. Let’s hope and pray that the day will soon come that we can be together again.
Love to all and a kiss for you,
Your boy,
Lawrence H. Ross

Le Foyer du Soldat
Somewhere in France
July 25, 1918
Dear folks at home,
I hope you won’t think I’ve forgotten you all. I have been awful busy. Come out of the trenches the second time and took a long ride on the train. I’m feeling fine, only tired. Not much chance to sleep with thirty men and packs in a parlor car [box car, Ha! Ha!]
I hope you are all well. I think of you every day, Dad, and long to see you. I hope the good Lord will see fit to let us all be together again. I know it will be the happiest day of my life when I can be home again. I love my home now more than I can tell you. There’s not much more I can tell you, only I’m well. I’m sure that’s the best of all.
I haven’t heard from you in quite a long time, but I have to make some allowances for mail. There’s lots of it to handle over. I had a nice letter from Jack Russell. I was glad to hear from them.
Do you notice the difference in paper? You can labor on the reading [French] on the front.
I know this is a small letter, but as long as I let you know that I’m alright, I’m sure it will satisfy.
I saw an American lady yesterday and I heard her talk for a minute. Did it sound good? Well, I’ll say yes! Only the second time I’ve heard one in nearly five months. You don’t know how lonesome I get just to shake hands with some of the people at home and hear their voices. I’d like to write some of my experiences to you, but I’ll tell them later.
Love to all and here’s hoping for the best.
Here’s a big hug for you and a kiss for Mother.
Your boy,
Lawrence H. Ross
Co. C. 120th M.G. Btn.
AEF France, via NY

The letter dated July 25, 1918, was the last one found in the bundle which my Uncle Bill [the toddler, Billy] had squirreled away in his big trunk. It is possible that family members or Letha may have received others written after that date.

Lawrence Henry Ross was killed in the Second Battle of the Marne, August 1, 1918. It was several weeks before his loved ones learned of his death.

Somewhere in France: Spring, 1918

Over there, over there,
Send the word, send the word over there
That the Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming
The drum's rum-tumming everywhere
So prepare, say a prayer,
Send the word, send the word to beware
We'll be over, we're coming over
And we won't come back till it's over, over there.

The Ticonderoga Sentinel published news from communities on both sides of Lake Champlain. From the March 14, 1918 edition:

Edward Ross of Abells Corners and Miss Eletha Murray of Glens Falls spent Sunday at Camp Devens with Mr. Ross's son Lawrence who has been transferred from the 1st Infantry to the Engineer's Division. Since returning Mr. Ross has received a letter which said, "Somewhere on the Road." Mr. Ross will no doubt soon learn where his son is stationed.

March 23, 1918 [postmark]
Somewhere in France
My Dear Dad and all,
I’ll just scribble off a few lines for I know you’ll be waiting anxiously to hear from me.
Well, Thank God, we arrived all OK and I’m feeling pretty good, some tired, but that don’t matter as long as I’m well.
I was some seasick coming over but not near as bad as most of them. I surely saw some awful waves.
I could tell you enough news to tire you out, but will have to wait til I get back.
I don’t want you to worry about me for I’m all OK. I just want you to ask God to protect me and bring me back safe, also to be a man while I am here.
I can’t seal this and I’ll try and find out my address so you can write to me as soon as you get this. I want you to give everybody my address. Be sure to send it to Les and Minnie and Letha anyway.
I’m so glad you came to see me that Sunday, for it surely was the last Sunday I was there.
I hardly know what to tell you for I don’t know what will pass, [ censorship] so I’ll be careful.
We are late with our dinner today and I just went to a French canteen to buy a few mouthfuls. They charge something terrible.
I’ll hold this til night, so to try and get an address.
It is quite warm here. The grass is green and as high as it is over there in May.
When I got most across the ocean, who should walk by but Julius Frazier, Zera Frazier’s boy. And when we landed I found Tony Pazzula, a tailor at Ti that I knew. I know a lot of the boys here if I only can find them.
When I get up in the morning you’re having a good snooze for there is five hours difference in time. If we get up at five, it would be midnight over there. It seems funny. When I got here my watch was five hours slow.
Well, Dad, its night and I must close now. Hoping all are well and be sure and let me hear from you as soon as you get this.
Love to all and a big hug and kiss for each one.
Here is my address:
Lawrence H. Ross
American Expeditionary Forces
19th Engineers
France
Via New York
Letter OK’d by Lt. W.H. McEachron, a.s.s.r.c. A.E.F.

Somewhere in France
Undated [early April from content]
My dear Dad,
I’ll just scratch off a few lines to you tonight and let you know that I’m well and hope everybody at home is. It seems like a long time since I heard from any of you. It has been a month since I left Camp Devens and I haven’t had a letter since then.
I hope you are getting my mail alright so you won’t worry.
I suppose you are making maple sugar to beat all. Well, just eat a few mouthfuls for me when you sugar off.
I guess I wrote to you before that I’m in the Machine Gun Battalion and working on it is interesting, but I’d like to be back in old Ti driving the old car. I hope I can get some letters and the Sentinel before long. I wrote to Les and I guess he’ll telephone to Arthur Beers about sending the paper, but if I thought he didn’t, I’d have you send yours for the back month.
It has been awful rainy here for about a week, but we manage to keep quite dry. I saw 25 or 30 airplanes sail over our heads this afternoon.
How is Mother and how is Billy? I want to get one of those family letters and a long one, too. I had a good rest Saturday P.M. and Sunday I went to service in the Y. Then in the afternoon a chum of mine and I took our blankets outside and shook them and hung them on the fence for about an hour to air. We sat down on a shelter half and the sun was grand. I thought of you all away back home and it made me lonesome.
I hope and pray the day will come when I can come back and then we’ll enjoy life. I can enjoy a lot of things now that I didn’t before.
It has taught me many a lesson. I must hurry now and finish this so to write a few lines to Letha and Minnie. We have hard work getting paper here, so I can’t always do something when I want, but never mind. I have passed Ayer alright! Ha! Ha!
I’m waiting anxiously to hear from all, especially Minnie. I wish I had your and Mother’s picture here. I’d have you send one but it might never find me. The YMCA man asked to see pictures of our father and mother. I wish he could see you two.
Now, I’ll wish you all the best of luck and may God take care of us til we are together again. Don’t worry for I still stand for the right and am going to.
Love to all and a big kiss for Mother, Helene and Billy
Your boy,
Lawrence H. Ross
148th M.G. Btn. Am. E. F.
OK L.E. Smith, Capt. 148 Am. E. F.

Somewhere in France
May 12, 1918
Dear Mother,
Today is Mother’s Day and I saw in the paper that every soldier is asked to write to his mother, so I’ll do it. If I go ahead and tell all the good things it would take about ten pages to do it, so I’ll just tell a few.
First, I thank God that I have such a good Mother. I never half appreciated what a good Mother and a good home was before, but I do now. I never thought how nice it was to throw out my dirty clothes and have nice clean ones waiting for me until I had to do my own and wash them in cold water, too.
Then I used to think it was awful if I didn’t have a lot of butter every meal, and no matter how ugly I was, you was always the same. I could go on and name a million things you done for me and I never gave it a thought. When I get back I’ll be a different son and you can bet on that. I’ll never grumble about the food or clothes or anything you ask me to do. If I do, you can send me back into the Army and that will shut me up.
I can’t remember ever hearing you speak cross to any of us. I hope you don’t get sick of reading such stuff.
How I’d like to be there with you today, Mother. We could go to church together. Just think, it has been six months since I saw you.
I’d like a good cup of cocoa like you can make, some toast cut thin, you know how I like it, and a nice dish of sauce. What kind? Why! Strawberries would be alright.
Then after that, Helene could sit down to the piano and we would have a good sing. Of course I’d want Uncle Amos there to help it along. After that we would have a nice visit. Do you remember the Sunday nights when we lived at Hague? Uncle Amos used to try every chair before he went back home!
I haven’t said a word about Father yet. You remember the song we used to sing, “Why don’t you say a word for dear old father”? So I will. I think I have the best Father and Mother in the world. Now this is pretty soft stuff for me to write, but on “Mother’s Day” it’s the time to tell good things.
I must close now and write one to Minnie. I hope all are well. May God take care of us all and permit us to be together again.
Love to all and a kiss for all.
Your boy,
Lawrence H. Ross
Co. C. 120th M.G. Btn.
AEF France
Via NY


Somewhere in France
[undated, early May?]
Dear Brother,
I guess you’ll think I’ve forgotten you, but I’ve been on the go for nearly three weeks, Sundays and all, so I’m pretty tired, but this Sunday I have to myself and I’m resting up a little.
I’m in the Machine Gun Battalion now, have been in that about a week. I don’t know how long I’ll be here and can’t tell you much news.
I’m feeling pretty fair but tired, for I’ve had all kinds of feed and my sleep has been broken up so much that I’m nearly tired out. I have good feeds here and I sleep awful hard. My eyes are terrible sore in the morning.
I wonder how you are getting along in the shop and wish I was up there for a visit with you. I miss the mail more than I can tell. I suppose it will be a long time before I get any mail, for it takes a long time to get it here.
I hope you are well, and did you go up home for Easter? I have that picture of you here with me, also one of my girl.
We have been having a cold rain here for a day or two and the nights are awful cold. It is clouding up again so I suppose it will rain again soon.
I tried to get a transfer yesterday so I could drive, but I guess there’s no chance.
I’ve run out of news for I can’t tell much. I’ll close for now, hoping this finds you well. Remember me to Mr. and Mrs. Aikins, and may God protect us both til we meet again.
As ever, your brother
Lawrence H. Ross
Co. D. 146th Machin Gun Batt.
Am. E. F. France A.P.O. 727

Somewhere in France
May 30, 1918
Dear Brother and all at home,
I ought to be ashamed for not writing to you before this, but I knew you could read the letters that came home, no matter who I address them to I mean them for all.
Well, we have a holiday and I’m out under a pear tree, I guess it is, and a little garden nearby. It is a nice day, but the nights are still cold. Did you have an early spring over there? I suppose you have written me all the news, but I haven’t received any mail from home yet. I had two letters from Letha and one from Florence Balcom May 28. That is the first and all the mail I’ve had so far. If some of you have written, why don’t worry, for it probably went to the Engineers or else to the 148th Machine Gun Battalion and it will reach me in time, only don’t wait, keep on writing. I sure have had some wait for mail, nearly three months. You must write me one of those funny letters and tell me all about the farm. Any news from the old farm sounds good to me now.
I wish I had you over here to count my money for me. I was paid last week in French money—63 francs. A franc is about 20 cents, but to change it into American money it takes 5 francs, 60 centimes [12 cents] . Five centimes equals 1 cent, a 2 cent piece [10 centimes] is a little larger than a half dollar. I’m glad its paper money, for if it was all centimes I don’t think I could heft it. I can figure it out fairly well now. At first it was hard to trade at a store and make change. I have an English coin, also a Belgian coin.
Be sure to have someone send me the Sentinel. The other boys get their home papers and I want to see all the news.
I broke my glasses about two weeks ago and I can’t get them fixed here, but I’ll get along some way.
I guess I wrote you that I could hear the big guns roar when the wind is right. This sure is a crazy letter. I’ve asked and told all I know, now see if you can do as well. How many cows are you milking this summer? I have a cup of bread and milk quite often. I bring my bread from supper, then I get a cup of milk and they taste like home.
I must close now.
Love to all,
Your brother,
Lawrence H, Ross
Co C. 120th M.G. Btn
AEF France
Via NY

*Although Lawrence addressed this to his brother Harold, he lapsed into the mode of a family letter, inquiring about news of the Orwell farm. Harold worked in Springfield, VT and came home on weekends to visit his parents and Eva Fowler, his “girl.”


Somewhere in France
June 3, 1918
My Dear Dad,
It is Monday afternoon and I have just taken a bath and washed some towels and socks. Now I’ll write you a few lines.
I’m out in my tent, flat on my belly writing this letter, so if it bothers you to read it, you’ll know why. Well, Dad! We have changed places again and I have some new paper. How do you like it? I haven’t heard from you yet. I had a letter from Florence Balcom and two from Letha. You can bet I was glad to get them. I shall be glad to hear from that good old home of mine, and also get a paper. Say Dad, can’t you send me a picture of the farm? One of those I took when you were down in the field plowing. Send along a few of those that Harold took for me to look at occasionally. They sure will look good to me. I’m feeling fine and dandy and you just ought to see the tan I have now. I never was so black. Tell me all the news and what you are doing. Letha said she saw you on your way to Brandon, also Helene and Harold on their way to the station. How long was Harold home? Why don’t you and Mother skip over and see me? Its only a few thousand miles, but if you did the horse flies would eat you up. I never saw such flies. Why! They are larger than a good size bird and thicker than hair on a dog.
I’m getting to be an awful wicked fellow. I haven’t been to church in five or six weeks. I was out shooting last Saturday and I only fired [576] five hundred and seventy six shots. I have a good loader, a little Irish man and he’s a clever little chap. We get along fine.


Somewhere in France
June 5, 1918
Dear old Dad and all,
That family letter came today and you ought to hear me yell when my name was called. I was so glad to hear from you all. I almost cried when I read the letter. It surely seemed good after waiting three months for a letter from you. I got two from you and one from Letha. They were mailed May 8th and I received them June 5th. It seemed good to hear all the news over there and I’ll be glad to get the Sentinel. I don’t want you to worry about me, I’m feeling fine and dandy every day. I’ve just eaten bread and milk; two slices of bread and a quart of milk, so I feel pretty full just now.
We get some good milk here.
It has been awful cold here today, but the sun shone bright.
I’m glad Mother received the hankerchief all right. I think Helene will get one soon. I sent one a little later.
You asked about rain. We haven’t had any in a long time, so I’m lucky about drilling in the rain. I can’t tell you where I am, but I haven’t been in the trenches yet. I would like to write you all the news, but you must wait till I get back, then I’ll tell it all to you.
I was sorry the doughnuts didn’t reach me before I came across. It sounded good anyway to hear you talk about them.
I’ll be glad when my mail all comes. I’ve only had six letters. Three from Letha, two from you, and one from Florence Balcom. I have written about fifty and I expect a big bunch of them before long. The newspaper will look good.
Remember me to everybody and tell them that I’m well. I’m glad to hear that Dad and Mother are praying for me, for it cheers me up. It made me laugh to hear you say that You and Letha would come over some Sunday. Ha! Ha! Sure! Come right along. It would only take you about three or four weeks to get here and when you got out on the ocean I’m sure your breakfast would come up. Most all of them did.


Somewhere in France
June 10, 1918
Dear Mother and all,
I’ll just drop you a line tonight and let you know that I’m well and that’s the best of all. I was so glad to hear from you all, more than I can tell. It done me lots of good. I had a letter from Letha today. It was written May 18th. I’ve had seven letters now and I wish it was seventy seven.
I’ve changed places again since I wrote you before. I’m down to the Y now, and the phonograph is playing songs. It sounds good, but the old piano at home and you people would suit me better.
It has been awful rainy today. I was glad I didn’t have to go out and drill. I don’t know much news, but I like to write and let you know all I can.


Somewhere in France
June 14, 1918
Dear Dad,
Here I come again, and I know you’ll be glad to hear from me. Well, same old story. I’m feeling fine and dandy. It is a grand morning here, cool and a nice wind. I take it from your letters that you are having a late spring over there and lots of rain. Probably you’ll have lots of grass. I had three letters a few days ago, two from Letha and one from Minnie. I sure was glad to get them.
You ask me to tell you all the news, but there’s not much to tell. We have just had dinner. I’ll tell you what we had. Mashed potatoes, hamburg steak, bread, coffee. I was hungry and it tasted good.
While I sit here writing I can hear the big guns roar, and the shells are bursting all around. It sounds like the fourth of July.

You asked about the boys here and if I had got acquainted yet. Yes! I know all of them now and they are fine fellows. We have some great singers in the company. They have a quartet and sing some lively songs. It makes me think of the Ross Quartet. Those were good old days and I’ll be glad when they come again. We’ll have one grand celebration.

OK’d by L.E. Smith, Capt. 146 AEF

Lawrence never doubted that the family were praying for him and that they were writing letters, although the mail often did not get through. I find it interesting that, other than being homesick, there are no more complaints. He sounds more cheerful and confident.

Meanwhile: 1918, The Folks at Home

Florence, Lawrence's 16 year old cousin, wrote regularly. One of the family's talented musicians, she played and sang the patriotic songs of the day.

From the back of the sheet music:
"War isn't all battle, mud and devastation--there are rays of sunshine, smiles and good fellowship, too. If you could visit the trench, the dugout, and the billet Over There, you'd hear the boys singing--singing from reveille to taps."
Lawrence's letters refer to singing--impromptu music at the YMCA where he spend most of his off-duty hours while at Camp Devens.
Somehow I doubt that "the boys" did much singing in the trenchs and the dugout, but the patriotic fervor of the times meant encouraging the public at home that war was bearable.

When I was "home" in August for my Dad's funeral, I started sorting through my Mother's vast collection of music. Some of it, yellowed and crumbling, belonged to my grandmother, Helene. This copy of the well known, sentimental tribute to the Red Cross nurses of WWI, has cousin Florence's signature in the top right corner.

The Rose of No Man's Land

I've seen some beautiful flowers,

Grow in life's garden fair,

I've spent some wonderful hours,

Lost in their fragrance rare;

But I have found another,

Wondrous beyond compare.

There's a rose that grows on "No Man's Land"

And it's wonderful to see,

Tho' its spray'd with tears, it will live for years,

In my garden of memory.

It's the one red rose the soldier knows,

It's the work of the Master's hand;

Mid the War's great curse, Stands the Red Cross Nurse,

She's the rose of "No Man's Land".

Out of the heavenly splendour,

Down to the trail of woe,God in his mercy has sent her,

Cheering the world below;

We call her "Rose of Heaven",We've learned to love her so.

There's a rose that grows on "No Man's Land"

And it's wonderful to see,

Tho' its spray'd with tears, it will live for years,

In my garden of memory.

It's the one red rose the soldier knows,

It's the work of the Master's hand;

Mid the War's great curse, Stands the Red Cross Nurse,

She's the rose of "No Man's Land".

Lawrence's half-brother, Harold, had dreadful asthma, probably the reason he was not drafted. Harold found work, as did many others, in the "Gear Shapers" plants of Springfield and Bellows Falls, Vermont, which were running full bore with wartime orders. This appears to be a group of the men who boarded there. Harold is on the right in the back row. His photos from this era depict a young man with something of a swagger--a slouching, "James Dean" sulkiness. Harold had a girlfriend in his hometown, sometimes got home on the weekends. He also may have taken the train to Ayers to visit Lawrence at Camp Devens.

While Lawrence waited impatiently for his "shipping out" orders, his younger sister, Minnie, gave birth to her 4th child. Her husband, Les, had taken over his late father's farm.


At home on the farm, seasonal work continued very much as usual. While Lawrence was packing his kit and then traveling by train to Camp Merritt, the maple sugar season would have been in full swing. Mac, Lawrence's brother-in-law and partner in the farm, probably had started tomato seeds, bringing in a bucket of garden earth which he had stored in the woodshed over the winter, setting it near the kitchen wood range overnight before he layered it in wooden flats which would rest on the sunniest windowsill. Mac plowed, harrowed and hauled wood using his beloved team of horses. Eddie "took the milk" several times a week to the nearby milk plant, kept the farm books in his beautiful script, drove the noisy Fordson tractor; both men milked, cleaned the barn, doctored the cattle.
In the long narrow kitchen, Eliza and Helene prepared three meals a day: the hearty breakfasts of pancakes and syrup, oatmeal, ham or bacon with eggs. On Saturdays the house filled with the aroma of beans baking slowly in the brown pot and the delicate yeasty scent of rolls set to rise under a white cloth.
In spite of war time shortages, farmers ate better than most. Sugar might be rationed, but maple syrup provided a cash crop and boiled down to maple sugar, could be used for all but the most delicate baked goods, spooned onto hot cereal, molded in special tiny tins for maple candy. It was pancakes and maple syrup that Lawrence most often yearned for when he wrote of home-cooked food. Like most farm families the Ross and Lewis men butchered a beef and a hog each autumn; Mac tended a huge potato patch; the women canned vegetables from the garden and made jams and jellies from the fruit produced in the back yard. It is no wonder that Lawrence's homesick thoughts often focused on the food his mother and older sister spread on the table!


On a snowy winter day Eddie took time to pose with Mac and Helene's son, Billy and "Old Shep."

Back across the lake in Hague, New York, home to the Rosses and their kin for generations, Lawrence's cousin, Wilford took over more and more of the farm management from his father, "Uncle Amos." Amos had worked for years in the Graphite mines and suffered from "black lung." Wilford and his wife , Julia, had two little girls by now. Lawrence wondered wryly in one of his letters how Wilford would have managed army life.

Camp Devens; 1917-18; The Hard Winter

Lawrence H. Ross

Lawrence fretted that the military "blouse" or jacket was not issued with the rest of his uniform.

Factories worked overtime trying to meet the demand for military uniforms.

Lawrence's Aunt Emma, his father's sister, who managed to be at the train station to meet him during the layover on the way to Camp Merrit, New Jersey.

Lawrence's cousin, Anne, accompanied her mother to the train station. Her brother Jack arrived earlier.

Lawrence's letters home during the interminable winter of 1917-18 detail the frustrations of being at Camp Deven. The camp was quarantined repeatedly due to an epidemic of measles. Lawrence didn't catch measles, but had a dreadful cold and cough which lingered for weeks. His efforts to obtain a weekend pass home were cancelled due to changing train schedules as well as the orders that no one could leave camp. Finally his father and financee were able to travel and visit at least for a day.

On a cold morning during rifle drill Lawrence, who had come to take pride in his gun and his markmanship, was so slow that his commanding officer chastised him. Lawrence could only hold up his damaged right hand, fingers stiff with cold, by way of explanation. His skin condition, always an annoyance, became so bad that rough patches bled.

He had hopes at one point that he would be transferred to work as a "driver" but his assignment was never changed---the officer who raised his hopes likely meant well, but one man's dilemma was lost in the many. Although the letters continue to record Lawrence's miseries and frustrations, there is a jocular note at times. He didn't like where he was, but he had made adjustments.

Camp Devens
The Hard Winter
Camp Devens
Jan 1, 1918

Dear Dad,
I’ve just had dinner and thought I’d drop you a few lines.
I feel so bad today. My face is chapped and my skin is so dry that it cracks and nearly makes the blood come through. I guess I’ll have to report on sick call, and see what they can do for me. Maybe it will let me out from here. I can stand the disappointment of not going home, and I can stand the work, if my flesh was not so chapped. Won’t you send me a box of Cuticura Ointment. No—don’t do it, for I can send out for a box of it here.
I wouldn’t care one snap about the drilling or any of the hard things if only my skin was good. I hate to tell you and make you blue, but I can’t talk with anybody here and I get so homesick to tell these things to somebody. Nobody cares here what happens, but I know that you do. I know you can’t help it, and I suppose I ought not to tell you about it, but I just have to talk with someone once in a while.
I hate to be made fun of although I haven’t yet, but it’s a wonder they don’t notice it on me and make fun of me.
I wish they would discharge me on that account, for the cold wind makes it all the worse here.
If my skin was alright I’d never say a word about things here. Outside of that I feel good all the time, but my legs get so sore that I can’t hardly stand it some days. I haven’t much of anything to put on them and it don’t do much good to put anything on them unless I keep it up, so there it is.
Let’s hope and pray that they will discharge me on those grounds.
I suppose this letter will make you awful blue, but if I can’t tell these things to you, who can I tell them to? I wish the war would close so I surely could come home.

Camp Devens
Jan. 10, 1918
Dear Mother,
I’ll write you a few words tonight, if I don’t do anything else, although I have enough to do. I must shave me and wash my hankerchiefs, for they are awful dirty. I have a terrible cold and cough pretty bad. I have a catarrh as bad as I ever did and I haven’t a thing for it and can’t go out anywhere to get anything. It is not quite so bad today as it has been, but my head is so full that it aches all the time. Maybe its because I’m learning so much that makes my head ache.
We are working awful hard now, let me just tell you what I do in one day. First, we cleaned up inside the barracks, then we went outside for physical drill and it was a cold job right in our shirtsleeves. Then we went out for a hike and done some drilling. The crust is so hard and glassy that you ought to see us slip and slide. It was funny to see the boys fall and slide down some of the hills on their backs. Then we came back and boxed til noon. All of that was this forenoon. This afternoon we took another hike, came back and had a conference, took another hike, rested 10 minutes, drilled by squads. Retreat, mess and that’s all for today, only I’m writing to you, then one to Letha, wash my clothes, shave, take a bath, read for awhile and hit the bunk. Now, believe me, that’s going some, and its so hard walking for the roads are icy and all we wear on our feet is shoes.

Camp Devens
Jan 13, 1918
Dear Father,
While I Have a few minutes to myself I’ll write once more. I wish I was there with you today to go to church. It don’t seem like Sunday here. Part of the Company had to go down to the coal yard and shovel coal all day today. I’m on Guard at the different doors as we are quarantined yet. I’m on for one hour and off for one hour. It would seem good to be home and go to church once more. How we used to enjoy going to church, all of us, and little we thought that anything like this would happen. I’m thinking when I come back that I’ll appreciate things more than I ever did before. I have as good a home as anybody and didn’t appreciate it. You and Mother was good to me and I was ugly. I’ve made up my mind not to notice such little things as I used to and enjoy myself while I can.
What would we have thought if we had to eat bread, and pretty dry sometimes, without butter right along? And so many other things, that freedom will be a Paradise to me.
I don’t always feel like hustling and then it’s hard to be pushed, go out and run til the sweat drops off my face, then come back and strip down to our shirt sleeves in the cold for physical drill. It makes me awful cold, but that don’t make any difference. Then we have to box til we’re all tired out, or at least I am. My back will ache so I can hardly breathe. Then we go out again and run in the snow or on the crust an hour or two. We are getting it harder every day now. At night the windows are opened and the wind blows in on our heads. I have an awful cold and cough terrible. I can’t get out anywhere to get much for it. I have some dioxogen that I gargle with and some cough drops that I use.
I hope and pray that I’ll never see another winter like this. I hope it will be better—or worse. Lots of talk in the papers of peace. Let’s hope they have it before long, for I am so sick of this life.
I’m going to take out an insurance here that the Government offers to the boys. It will cost me about $7 a month, but if I am disabled or don’t come back, somebody can draw $57 a month for 20 years.
Now If I was married I would make it out to Letha, and I think I would have been married at Christmas if I came home, but—I didn’t come home. Do you get that?
If I was sure I could come next Friday night I would have you and Mother come to the Falls and I should be married, but I don’t dare to say for sure. Would I be foolish to do that before I get out of here?
Now, about that insurance. I’ve got to take it out before Feb 1st, so if you think I’m foolish to get married now, I’ll make it out to Les and Minnie $25.00; Mac and Helene $25.00; you and Mother $25.00, and Harold $25.00. When you write, tell me what you think. Maybe I’ll have to do something before I hear from you.
I think maybe I’ll try for a chance to drive a truck or ambulance. It wouldn’t be any more dangerous than this work will be.
Did you get the allotment last month? You ought to get another one soon. I got the doughnuts alright and they were awful good.

Camp Devens
Jan. 15, 1918
Dear Dad,
I’ll scratch off a few lines this noon. I think we’ll be out of quarantine in a day or two and I’ll try and get a pass for Friday night. I’ll come to Leicester Jct. Can you meet me there? If I can’t come----No, come to think, that Friday night sleeper don’t stop at Leicester, so I’ll have to get off at Brandon. You better not start after me, but I’ll come right along. I don’t dare to tell you for sure that I can come, but I’ll try hard.
Will you send word to Hague and ask Letha to come over? I wish Uncle Amos would drive over, but probably he wouldn’t. I’d like to have Letha come anyway.
It’s pretty risky planning of anything, for I’m not sure, but the Captain said we would be out of the measles soon and then we could get passes.
If I don’t come this Friday, I don’t think I can next week, for we have some special Guard Duty.
I’ll come right along if I can. Maybe I’ll send a telegram so you can tell Letha for sure.
Two months have rolled by since I was there and I hope I can see you all in a few days.

Camp Devens
Jan 19, 1918
Dear Father and all,
If I try to tell you how I feel just now I never can, for I had planned on coming. When I got down to the station, my ticket all bought, then I happened to think that I’d better ask to see if the trains had changed. They said yes, the Sunday train back from Bellows Falls was two hours later and they didn’t know whether the Rutland connected with it or not. Well, that was enough to stop me, for if the train back from Bellows Falls was late, I couldn’t get here at taps, 10 o’clock. And, the passes are only til ten now, not til morning. Besides, we can’t leave here any more on Friday night, only Saturday noon til Sunday night at 10 o’clock. So, you see I don’t stand much chance to come up any more. Besides, only 15% can leave at any time.
It beats the devil that we can’t get a furlough. I wish this war would close so I could get back once more. Some days I think it will before long, and again, I don’t know what to think.
I think I shall try to get in driving a truck. They pay more. One fellow told me they pay $50 per month for that. There wouldn’t be any more danger than there is here.
I don’t know what I’m writing, I’m so blue. Not only because I couldn’t come today, but the Lord only knows when I can come up. I suppose it’s up to me to make the best of it. We have just got out of quarantine today, and I suppose we’ll have it hard now. We can’t have it much harder than we have had it.
My cold is a little better now. I don’t cough much, but I have catarrh terrible.

Camp Devens
Jan 24, 1918
Dear Dad,
Guess you’ll think that I’ve forgotten you all, but I’ve been pretty busy and when I have time to myself I have to sew on buttons and fix my leggings and wash, shave and all sorts of things.
We had a little treat today. Ex President Taft was here and we went down to the big auditorium to hear him. His talk was good, and I wish you could have heard us sing for him after he finished. There was probably 4 or 5000 boys there and we sang for him. How he laughed and clapped his hands. His big belly shook some!
We had another surprise this morning. We were having a lecture and the Top Sergeant came in and called Attention. Who should walk in but the Colonel Preston and Brigadier General to inspect the barracks. We were not ready for any thing like that, but we came out pretty good. I was scared stiff for I usually shave every night and I skipped the night before. I was afraid he would come over near me and see I needed a shave. If it had been any other time I would have been glad to have him come near so I could see how he looked.
One other funny thing I’ll have to tell. We had a death here last night. A mule died and they took him into a drill field, hung him up on a pole so we could practice bayonet work on him. It was funny to see it. I can’t take the time to tell all about it.
It is quite cold here today, the wind blows and that makes it all the worse.

Camp Devens
Jan 29, 1918
My dear Dad,
That family letter came today and it always makes me feel good to get it, although some times the tears come. But that don’t hurt me any. I just wink them away so the boys won’t see them run. I’m mighty thankful that I have a good home and a good father and mother. It means a good deal to me now. If every boy that don’t like his home could come here for 6 months, I’ll guarantee a change to take place, but that is enough of that for now. I’ll write what I can before the lecture and finish it afterward. An English Sergeant is going to talk to us tonight, so I suppose we’ll get some dope straight from the front. Well! Let it come!
We have been doing nearly everything today. If I should go on to tell you, you wouldn’t understand and besides we have had orders not to tell very much of what was going on.
I had my renewal for the Chauffeur’s License and I didn’t know what I was going to do. I asked the Captain where I could find a Notary Public. He said, “Come over to my room at noon and I’ll fix you up.” I went over and he took me into the Major’s room. Good Night! I walked up in a military manner and saluted, told him what I would like to have done. He fixed it up for me, and when I asked, “How much” he said, “not a thing.” Then he asked, “Would you rather drive than be in the infantry?” I said, “Yes sir!” He asked how long and how much I had driven. I told him, and then I said, “It is hard for me to handle a rifle.” I showed him my hand. He looked up astonished and said, “I don’t know how they passed you!” Then he said, “Lieutenant Sterns is going to have his car here a little later, and I’m going to have mine too, and I won’t forget you, Ross.” That sounded the best of anything I’ve had here. Now if he only does it and I could get back on the buzz wagon once more, I’ll say I’d feel better. I’d rather drive for 16 hours a day than to double time, run all the time.
Well, I wish they would appoint me Captain of this Company, but I don’t suppose they will. Only one more day and this month is gone. The time don’t drag here, but I’d rather be “way up in old Vermont” where the pancakes are.
Say, Dad, I wish you could come down and see the camp. It wouldn’t cost you very much, why don’t you? You and Letha better come—I’ll give you a good time.

Camp Devens
Feb. 13, 1918

Dear Dad and all,
Your letter came today and I was glad to hear from you, but I’m disappointed to hear you say that you and Letha are not coming, but I’ll get used to that—everything is disappointment here. It makes me blue to hear you say that you can’t come, or rather, that she can’t come alone, but I figured it up and I see I couldn’t pay it all for two and I surely don’t feel like asking you to come at your own expense.
It might be possible that I wouldn’t be transferred, but you never can tell. We’ll make the best of it just the same. Letha could come alone as easy as rolling off a log, I think, but I guess she don’t dare to.
Over three months have rolled by since I saw any of you—only yourself. I can’t tell how many more it will be, but I won’t say any more. You say I write such blue letters. I can’t tell these things to anybody here and I get so lonesome to tell things to some one.
I could get up to Bellows Falls very easy and it seems as though she could come there all right. I could have from 6:40 Saturday night till 5 o’clock Sunday night. I’m out of the dining room, had my day in the kitchen and was room orderly yesterday, so I have everything out of the way. By the time I plan on something else these things will be back on me again.
It is a nice day here and the snow is thawing good. I’m glad to see some warmer days for it has been cold long enough.


Camp Devens
Feb. 16, 1918

Dear Folks at home,
About the worst jar I ever had was last night. I had planned all day on the good time I would have with the girls {Helene his sister, and Letha} when the report came that one of the boys had the measles. If ever you see a blue fellow, I was one, and I was not the only one. It surely was the bluest bunch I about ever see. Well, I’m all over it tonight and I feel as good as ever. For two weeks now we can’t go anywhere nights, but we have to do just as much drilling as ever.
About the first thing I thought of was a telegram to stop the girls. What would be the use of their coming. I couldn’t go to the train and meet them and if they came up here I could go outdoors and talk with them, but couldn’t go away from here, nor they couldn’t come in. That would be a fat visit!
Some more good news. I heard tonight that they had decided that they would give from Thursday night [Washington’s birthday] til Sunday night this week. “That’s good. I’m glad it comes this week, because we can’t go. We have the measles!”
I was called over to E Company barracks yesterday, told to report to an officer. It was a Colonel and he asked me what I’d done before I came here, and how long I had driven and if I done my own repair work. Then he said that was all for now, so probably something is coming. I may not be here long, nobody knows.
We went down to the Rifle Range this afternoon for rapid fire. We have to fire 10 shots in a minute, that’s rapid fire. My hand bothers me for that work. On the 100 yard range I only fired 8 shots, but I got 5 bulls eyes out of the 8. On the 200 yard I fired the 10 shots, but I had to hurry awfully. I got 4 bulls eyes. On the 300 yard I only fired one clip, that’s 5 shots. Went to put the other one in and got it caught and couldn’t get them out or in, so I only fired that one clip. I like it on the range. Most boys like to shoot. Just think, I shot 30 times this afternoon.
Sunday Morning
How I wish I was up home and all going to church once more, but instead of that we are tied up inside all day, can’t go out anywhere. It’s a nice bright day, too.
I reckon Helene and Letha were some disappointed when the telegram came, but there’s no use of their coming down here if they couldn’t see me. It makes me mad when I think about it. Every time I plan on coming up or anyone coming down, something happens.
I expect to take up signaling soon. I have been studying it by myself a little, and yesterday one of the Corporals asked me if I’d like to try it. I said yes, he asked the Captain and he said alright, so I’m going to start in the class with the other ones.
It will be hard and lots of brain work, but I like that and hope I can make it alright, for if I do it will mean a better chance I think. It will make me work my old bean for all there is of it, but its worth trying anyway.

Camp Devens
Feb 22, 1918
Washington’s birthday

Dear Folks at home,
I was glad to get your letters. I thought something was the matter. I looked for one about Tuesday or Wednesday.
First I’ll say I think we’ll be out of quarantine next Friday, March 1st. I’d like to have Dad and Letha come down. I don’t think there will be any change in passes before that, so I can’t come up. You could plan on coming, write and tell me if you thought best, or you could wait another week. Of course we don’t know how long I’ll be here. I had another scare. They have the scarlet fever here in camp and I’m so afraid that we’ll get it and get shut up again. I want to see you people, but do as you think best. I hate to make you as much trouble as I did before. If I knew that I would stay here, I wouldn’t ask you to come, I would wait for a chance to come up.

Camp Devens
March 1, 1918
Dear Folks at home,
Dad’s letter came today and I was glad to hear from home. I suppose all are about as well as usual. My cold is about all well now and I don’t cough anymore.
Well, we are out of quarantine once more, and you ought to have heard the boys cheer when the news came. Such a roar as there was here!
I was sorry that Dad and Letha couldn’t come down this Saturday, for I’m afraid that next Saturday will be too late, but if it is, why, we’ll make the best of it. Just fourteen weeks ago today I was starting up to Ti and over home. I say I think its too late next week for I heard today that twenty more are going out of here next week.
You say you didn’t understand about my going into the Engineers. I don’t know why they want Chauffeurs in there, but I guess they are going to take me for a mechanic. That’s all I can tell you. I can’t tell where I’ll go—in this camp, south or across.
I was already to send a telegram last night and tell you folks to come, then I got a letter from Letha saying that she couldn’t come this week, so I didn’t send it.
I know its hard for you to get away, and maybe you hadn’t better try it. I hate to make so much trouble. I can stand it for months yet if I have to, as long as I get good letters from all of you. Of course I’d like to see you all and wish I could get a furlough, but I can’t.
We have our packs now and take short hikes with them. It is quite a load. Half a tent, five pins, rope, two blankets, poncho, in the pack, also ammunition belt, bayonet and rifle—probably altogether about 40 lbs. That’s quite a load to lug five or ten miles.
I’ve almost forgotten how those doughnuts from home taste. You better send a sample some day.

Camp Devens
March 4, 1918
Monday afternoon
Dear Folks at home,
Just a few lines to let you know all I can. I went over and had my inspection this forenoon, then they told me to report back to the barracks. That’s as much as we find out here. I think we’ll go somewhere tomorrow morning. I can’t tell whether it will be here in Camp or away.

Somewhere on the Road
March 5, 1918

Dear Dad and all,
I’m writing this on the road. At last we are started, but I don’t know where for yet.
I’m so glad you and Letha came down. It was a miracle, for you see, if you had waited another week, I wouldn’t have been there. I don’t know as you will be able to read this, the train jars so, but I was anxious to let you know. We are nearly to Mechanicsville and its about 6:30. I think we are going to Camp Merritt, New Jersey, but can’t tell for sure.
We have just had our supper and we surely had a great time eating. We each brought our own. I had hard tack, salmon, corn beef sandwiches and hot coffee. I surely enjoyed it. There is 4 coaches of us, about 200 and say, I was glad in one way to go, but hated to come alone, nobody here I know. I have a good book to read that Captain Winsor gave me. He also gave me a box of fruit. He is one fine man.
You ought to see what he wrote in the front of the book. “A good soldier and a fine gentleman.” That made me feel good.
Don’t worry about me for I’m alright and will write more just as soon as I can. I’ll tell you all about my trip next time I write and where I am.
Love to all,
And you better not write til I send the new address.
In haste,
Your boy,
Lawrence


Camp Merritt, New Jersey
March 6, 1918
Dear Folks at home,
At last I have stopped and I’ll drop you a few lines. I can’t help but think how glad I am you came down Sunday, for you can see now that one more week would have been too late.
We got word yesterday to be ready to start at 11 o’clock. We didn’t know then where we were going, but Otto told me he had orders to give me two days rations, so I made up my mind that I was going out of camp. We put our packs on our backs, over our overcoats, and they took our barracks bags and suitcases in a wagon so we didn’t have to carry them. We marched down to the track over near the quarter masters and got on the train, then went to Ayer and there they hooked the front coaches back of the fast passenger train for Troy.
We had a few minutes wait there and I was wishing we would go into Albany—and we did. We got in there between 9 and 10. After a few minutes I managed to go down to the baggage and call Aunt Emma. Jack came right down and Aunt Emma and Anne came soon after. We had a chance to visit from 11: 30 til 1: 30. I was glad of that. Then I went to sleep. When I woke up again, we were side-tracked. I didn’t lay awake long and that was about the last I knew until they told us to hustle and get our things together, that we would soon get off, and we did. They say we are at Camp Merritt, N.J.—that’s all I know.
I’d like to have you write to me as soon as you can, Dad, but I don’t know whether I’ll get it before I go from here, for I don’t think I’ll be here more than a week at the longest.
This is some camp. No snow here, but the mud is deep and it’s a sort of red clay, looks like crushed brick, and its sticky too.
It is pretty lonesome here, for I don’t know a fellow that came down, and I caught a little cold last night. But I’m alright and gritty as a bear.
I thought sure that I was going to Washington, D.C. I heard that the 19th Engineers were going there, but they never would have dropped us off here if we were. I guess Earl Carr and the other Ti boys have gone over. The officer said for us to hurry and clean the barracks, then we would have an inspection. Then we could have a pass, but I don’t suppose that would do me any good. I can come to Ti as quick from here as I could Ayer. Eight hours would bring me there.
It is damp and rainy here today.
I hope you and Letha reached home all OK.
I must close now and go shave me. I won’t seal this just yet for I’m not sure what to give you for my address.


Camp Merritt, NJ
March 8, 1918
Dear Folks at home,
I’ll start a line this morning and add some to it as I have time. I hardly know what to tell you, no news here. I don’t get any letters or papers and I can’t go off the camp ground, so there’s not much to tell.
Mum is the word here, so when I start away I’ll send another line. I heard that some of the Engineers were going south, but we’ll know for sure in a short time.
The other Ti boys that I thought had gone are quarantined down here. I went and hunted them up last night. I was glad to see them and I guess they were glad to see me.
I have only been up a little while and as we have to wait for mess I thought I couldn’t do anything better than write to you, for I know you are anxious these days to hear.
I heard a splendid speaker over to the Y last night. I was glad I happened to be there to hear him. He said he used to live in Kansas and asked how many in the Y was from there. A good many raised their hands. Then he asked who was from Missouri, Indiana, Texas, Michigan, Iowa, Georgia, Kentucky, New Jersey, Massachusetts, Vermont and New York. All of those states was represented and more. I counted 18 states that were there. Then he asked how many foreign places were there and listen—Denmark, Sweden, Ireland, France, Belgium, Italy, Russia and others. So, you can see nearly the whole world was represented there. He was nearly equal to Billy Sunday to talk. It was great. I’ll try and finish this and mail it today. I’ll tell you about yesterday. After inspection they told us we could have a pass. I put my name in and got one, only for 20 hours. I knew I couldn’t get home, and a fellow that sleeps near me whose home is in Brooklyn asked me to go over with him, so I went. I had a chance to see N.Y. City, ride on the elevated railroad, subway and see Brooklyn Bridge. I had quite a time and it didn’t cost me much. But I’d far rather have come home.

Camp Merritt
March 10, 1918

Dear Mother,
I’m going to try and write you a few lines tonight. Its Sunday night and I’m over to the Y to write and hear the speaker. I wish you and Dad were here with me. I would give you such a hug and kiss as you never had.
Well, its awful cold here today and the wind blows terrible. I think it blows full as hard as it did at Camp last Sunday, tell Dad.
There are awful crowds here now from all over the US. This is a big camp, but not so nice a camp as Devens. I would enjoy that camp better now I’ve seen this one, but no chance for that now.
I’m a full-fledged Engineer now. Changed my hat cord to a red and white one and the button on my collar to a US. I suppose I’m a Regular now. We’re not drafted men anymore for we mustered in since we came here and I guess that means we are the same as volunteers now.
I met a fellow today who has been in the Engineers for 18 months and he says it is far ahead of the infantry and its alright, so I hope its for the best where I am now.
I don’t know as you can read this, I’m holding the paper on my knee, so I can come down about halfway and sit down. There is probably 7 or 800 boys here in the Y now, and a piano playing, a darkey playing a mandolin, talking smoking, laughing, whistling, so I have to pay attention to what I’m doing.
Say, Mother, I was awful lonesome when I pulled in here, for I didn’t know a person, not even the fellows that came from the same camp with me, but I feel better now. I like to go to the Y for we hear some fine speakers and good music. The President’s daughter is going to sing here tomorrow night.
Three nights this week I have not been undressed. The night I was coming down, then the night I went to NY City I got back about 6 o’clock in the morning. The next night I thought I’d have a grand sleep, but wait! I was on Guard, about 60 of us, so I couldn’t even take my ammunition belt off when I lay down, and I didn’t sleep much. I laid down on an old dirty mattress and the boys said they were lousy so I got up and twitched it off the bunk and laid on the springs with half of my overcoat under me and half over me. This is the life!
I didn’t catch any cold, and I had to walk for two hours from 9:30 til 11:30 in a cold rain. This forenoon the wind blew and it snowed hard in my face for two hours, but I don’t care; if I don’t get sick, I’ll get along alright I’m trying to be careful and you know I was always an old maid about taking care of myself. It’s a good thing now.
I wish we all were gathered around the fire there. I would tell you some of my experiences. I hope the time will come soon that we all can be back there and enjoy each other more than ever. I know I’ll see things different than I ever did before.
We sung some good old songs here one night last week and they made me think of home. Do you know it has been four months since I’ve seen you people or had a look at the old farm. I would feel different about clay mud now.
If I only had about ten pancakes, some maple syrup, home-cured ham, and all the other good things that you folks know how to make. God help that I can have some of those things at home before long. We won’t lose our grit anyway!
I stopped writing and listened to a great lecture, and I can say this much: that wherever I go and when I come back, I’ll come back a man.
This man that talked is a YMCA man at work in France, and expects to go back this week, so probably I’ll hear him over there.
I must close now, Mother, and go back to the barracks and take a bath and roll in for I haven’t had much sleep for two nights.
Love to all and I’ll keep you posted as much as possible. Don’t worry, for I’m alright.
A big hug and kiss for all,
Your boy,
Lawrence

Camp Devins, 1917-18; Christmas Time

Eddie Ross and sons

Lawrence, lt, his half-brother, Harold, rt.

Lawrence looks to be in his mid-teens.

Lawrence, rt. with his sister Minnie's husband, Les.

Probably taken circa 1911 when Minnie and Les were married.

Lawrence and his fiancee, Letha

Lawrence H, Ross, center.

Note that the man on the right appears to be wearing two coats, one over the other.

Camp Devens
Dec 7, 1917

Dear Father and all,
I wonder if something is the matter up there? I haven’t had only that short letter from you and Mother since I came back. It makes me lonesome when I don’t hear from you. Why don’t Helene and Mac write again? If you only knew how it cheers me up to get some mail from home. I know you are always busy up there and lots to do, but I’d rather be there at that than here.
Glen has been over to see me, he was here the second time last night and said he had a nice cake, so when I finished my work I went over with him and eat three pieces, that’s all.
The doughnuts came alright and they were good. It made me wish I was there to help myself when I wanted one. I can’t do that here. I’ll tell you I’ll appreciate things when I get back home, and I’m coming back someday!
I don’t know what to think about staying here. Sometimes I think from what I heard that we are going right out of here, and again, I think we’ll be here all winter.
We had a review last week by Secretary of War’s assistant. We all lined up beside the road and they drove by in automobiles.
I started to tell you that Glen has his full suit [uniform] and I haven’t any blouse yet. I can’t come up without one this time, because I want to stop at Glens Falls for one night anyway. Do you suppose you could send me ten or fifteen dollars to buy a suit? I only have this one pair of trousers and they look bad. I hate to ask for any money, but I hate to come up looking like a tramp. I can get a suit for $20 and if I get out of here before long [but I don’t expect to] I could wear it out at home under overalls or out of sight. If you can’t spare it, let it go, and I’ll get along some way; but I shall come whether I have a blouse or not.
I don’t know what day yet, but hope I can get away the Friday night before Christmas. I hope I can get 5 or 6 days. Glen said they were going to get that much.
One more week and I’ve been here three months. It seems like three years. I only hope that I can back for good by spring anyway.

Camp Devins
Dec 9, 1917
Dear Mother and all,
I’ll send this one to you, but I meant it for all. I have a few minutes to myself today, so will drop you a line. I’ve been in the kitchen all the week. Have had to work both Sundays since I came back, but never mind, every day will be Sunday by and by, I hope for all.
Now Mother, I want to tell about coming up. I guess I can come at Christmas all right. I can’t tell for sure whether I can come on Friday night or Saturday noon, and I guess I’ll come by Glens Falls so to stop a few minutes at Letha’s house. I’ll probably be at Ti Saturday night or Sunday noon. I hope Saturday night as I don’t want to lose much time. I want you and Father to come over to Ti if you can, and we all will go up to Hague for overnight, then come back and go over home for Christmas. Then I’ll go back from there to Brandon and down that way. I have to be back for Wednesday morning anyway. I can only be away from either Friday night or Saturday noon til Wednesday morning.
I’m over to the YMCA now, and the girls are here passing around some candy to the boys. Last Sunday we had hot coffee and cookies here.
I wish I’d get one of those family letters from you all there. Even Billy has got so he writes to me. It made the tears come to think of you folks up there and me going still farther away when letters won’t come so often.
Well, we will try and make the best of it, but it’s hard to some times.
No doubt Dad told you that Letha and I were engaged. I intended to ask you what you thought about her when I was there, but I can’t think of anything when I’m there, I’m so glad to be there.


Camp Devens
Dec. 12, 1917
Dear Father,
Don’t worry about me anymore. I’m right here at Camp Devens yet, and I guess I’m coming up to eat Christmas dinner with you alright.
I expect to leave here on Saturday the 22nd and [go first] to Glens Falls to see Letha, on up to Ti on Sunday, and to Hague from there to see Minnie and Les. Over home on Monday and back Tuesday afternoon or night. I wish it was longer but they won’t give it, and I can’t take it.
I’ll hate to come back worse than ever, but I hope they’ll go out of here when I come back for its awful cold.
Can you imagine, zero weather and snow and ice on the ground, shoes on our feet and hats on our heads. Yes, Glen found the package alright and I have it. He was over to see me last night. I’m going over there tomorrow night. I know that all the boys that came when he did have gone south.
We had our picture taken, I mean the whole company, and its pretty good. I’ve ordered one and hope I can bring it up when I come at Christmas.
My face is nearly blistered. You know what that wind is off from the ocean. When we get an east wind it cuts like a knife. I was in the kitchen for a week; just went out doors yesterday and went down to the Engineers on a special detail. How the wind blew down there and my face is so sore that I can’t hardly shave.
We had conferences all the week every evening last week, and we had one tonight down in the big YMCA, only about 3000 boys there. We gave our yell and it made the old building ring. I’ll tell you lots of new things that we have to do when I come up there.
Have some of that “Mountain Lion” ready for me, hot pancakes, maple syrup, doughnuts, mince pie, hot coffee, raised biscuits, lemonade, chicken, and anything else that you can think of that I haven’t named.
I’m tired and sleepy so will close now and go over to the barracks to rest.
Love to all and a kiss for each one.
Your son,
Lawrence

Camp Devens
Dec. 18, 1917
Dear Dad and all,
Your letters came today. I was glad to hear from all.
Many thanks for the money. Maybe I won’t have to use it. I hated to ask for it, because it is such hard times. I guess I’ll come right along with my old pants as I am. They look bad and I’m going to stop at Letha’s on Saturday night. If it weren’t for that, I wouldn’t care. I feel cheap to go there with out any coat, but I don’t think I’d have time to get one. I head that they were going to give blouses this week, but the week is half gone and I haven’t seen any yet.
Helene said I ought to come right over there, but I think I ought to see Minnie, for it might be a year before I could come home again.
That is only guessing at it, but probably I can’t come up again before I go away, so you see I’d like to see her before I go. I don’t know as you can read this. I’m hurrying so for I want to finish it before they call us out.
It is awful cold here now, but the barracks are not bad, quite warm.
You ask if they were coming to meet me. I think Les is coming out after me—or us—as Letha is coming up too. He probably will bring me back to Ti on Monday and if you can’t come over I’ll [or we’ll] come on the train.
I know it’s a short time, but its not my fault, for I’d give the world if I could come up and stay, but I can’t. I hope they go out of here after I come back, for I don’t like this tramping around in the snow with shoes on. We have lots of snow now, probably 12 or 15 inches. So, you see its awful hard walking.
I’d like to write more, but I want to send this before I go to work and then it will go out tonight.

Camp Devens
Dec. 20, 1917
Dear Father and all,
First of all I’ll tell you the good news. I can’t come up for Christmas or New Years, for we received notice from Washington that only 5% could go home, and the names are posted now, so I can’t come.
Never mind, I’ll make the best of it that I can, for I know you all want me to come as bad as I want to.
I hope I can come the first Friday night after New Years. That is only two weeks away, so, cheer up, maybe that will work.
I thought sure I could come, for we were told that only thirty fellows had got to stay here, and just counted the days this week. The Captain told us night before last that he was sorry and wished we could go. After he was through, we were pretty blue, but not so bad but what we gave him a rousing cheer.
He couldn’t hardly speak, but said, “All I got to say is you boys have got damn good grit to cheer like that when you are disappointed!”
Then I thought I could come on the Friday night before Christmas, but yesterday he said, “I hate to tell you boys once more that nobody can have a weekend pass this week or next on account of congestion of railroads.”
Talk about your blue boys! But one fellow spoke right out in ranks and started to give our yell. The Captain said, “Go right to it if you want to.” And we did get to it, so loud that you could have heard us for a mile.
Its hard to write such good things when I am so blue, but I’m going to tell you one more.
We had a review by the Colonel one day this week and out of 12 companies WE are the best!
How do you feel about that?
One more: the first platoon [that is 56 men or 7 squads] and I’m one of them, done very good and that means almost excellent in our drilling. Pretty fair.
If I can think of any more good things, I’ll tell them.
Ah, here they are now. We expect to have a talent play in our company and a great Christmas dinner. The old Captain is right on the job, and he can’t be beat. He said to do everything we could for a good time if it took three or four days..
I haven’t had very much time to write lately. We have been having conferences for nearly two weeks every evening, and have been working awful hard days. Its awful walking here now, the snow is deep and soft, and my legs are lame we run so much, but I’m as well as ever. Right on the job every day, a little cold, but not bad, haven’t been sick once, haven’t fell out of any drills yet. But I do wish we had a different outfit for our feet to keep them dry.
I hope all are as well as usual up there. I see by your letter that it has been awful cold. It has been pretty cold here, I think 10 or 15 below.


Camp Devens
Dec 24, 1917
Dear Dad and all,
You can’t imagine what a blow it was to me when I found out that I couldn’t come up for Christmas, but I just shut my teeth and made up my mind that I’d be a man and make the best of it, and I have, although I was lonesome every day.
Well, I’ll tell you some of the things that have happened today. This forenoon we had sports, potato races, relay races, 100 and 200 yard dashes. Then I went over to the Y and wrote a letter. After dinner, we went down in the Recreation Room and sung songs. The Captain played chords. Then we had a Christmas tree and one fellow acted as Santa Claus. We all got a package from the Red Cross. Mine was from the Bethel Red Cross. Then we gave our yell and three cheers for Captain Winsor. He told us to stay around after Retreat for there was something more for us. Now that’s not so bad as it might be.
I opened my package and I’ll tell you what was in it. Candy, gum, nuts, soap, paper, envelopes, pipe, toothpaste,, figs. I guess that was all. Oh, hankerchiefs. So, you see I done pretty fair after all. I’m sending the pipe home and a cigar, compliments of Captain Winsor. I want to save them. I sent a picture home of the company. See if you can find me. I wouldn’t take a farm for the picture! Try and take it over to TI some day and have Uncle Roy frame it for me.
Well Dad, I’ll try and finish this tonight, and tell you what has been going on. When we fell out for Retreat, there stood about 25 girls and it was some sight to us boys. We don’t see many girls. The reason they were here, the boys at E company were going to have a dance in the barracks.
We sang our Company song and gave our yell before we were called to attention. The Captain told us we were not to go over there to the dance unless we had a special invitation, but he said if we had any girl friends we could bring them to our own barracks, for we would enjoy ourselves there. We did! For he said, “When you get back inside you’ll find music waiting for you.”
When we came back in, there was a five piece orchestra playing, and talk about music, it was the best that Boston can put out. Can you imagine that? Banjo, violin, alto, piano and drum. Oh, I just wish you could have heard it. It would have made the chills run up your back. They was a wonder! [One of them was a sailor.]
Some of the boys skipped over to E Barracks and got 12 or 15 girls from there and came back and danced for an hour or two. I wish I could have danced. I would have jumped right out there.
Then we went over to the Y for just a few minutes so we could say we had heard one of the finest quartettes around here, from Boston. It was grand. One more thing, one of the boys just came up here and said, “Don’t go away, for Captain Winsor has some things to give us soon.”
That’s going some for a soldier’s life! “Where do we go from here?”—that’s what we sing.
I can’t say enough good things for Captain Winsor. He is one fine man.
I have lots to tell when I come up. Hope that will be before long, maybe next Friday night, or a week from Friday.
Here’s hoping you all are well, and that I can see you soon.


Camp Devens
Dec. 27, 1917
Dear Mother,
This letter is for you. I guess its your turn now. I was so sorry I couldn’t come up Christmas, and when the box came from you people up home I thought how I couldn’t send you anything, for I can’t go anywhere to get it. It made the tears come. Many thanks for the things, they will come in handy alright.
I thought maybe I could come up for the New Years, but I’m afraid we’ll be quarantined in with the measles. One fellow broke out today and they took him to the hospital. They said he had the measles, and for awhile we can’t go out anywhere, only to drill. Nowhere in the evening for awhile. That helps to make it nice just after Christmas!
I don’t know just when I can get there, but you can make up your mind that I’m coming the first chance I get, whether I get a chance to let you know or not.
It is quite cold here now, but not so bad as it is up there—6 below zero here this morning, and awful hard walking, its so icy.
We have been doing nearly everything today; drilling, playing hard games, running, jumping, boxing, a little of everything, you see.
I’ll be glad when things get straightened out so I can come up again, but I’ll be happy when the war is over so I can come home for good.
The boys are all lounging around here. I suppose we have some outside work before long, if we’re not quarantined. We have to go on Guard out to some of the villages and cities, to help the policemen. How do you think I’d look down in Boston acting as a “Cop”? Some of us go down there to Ayer and all around.
I can’t think of much more to tell you. I must make up my bed, shave me, take a bath and change my clothes. My cold is about all well again and I’m glad of that. I’m feeling fine, only lonesome to come up and see you people and Letha. Its been a long time since I was there.

Camp Devens
Dec. 30, 1917
Dear Dad!
Twenty two below zero and the barracks colder than Greenland, but not so cold but what I can send you a note.
I’m standing up to write as near the radiator as I can get, one foot on the pipe and the one that’s on the floor is awful cold. I wished this morning that every pipe in the camp would play out so we could come home! Ha, ha! Here stands a fellow near me that is so cold he says his back aches. But, don’t worry about me, I’m alright and haven’t any cold, nor have I got a hair lip yet!
I said I’d send that check back in Mac’s letter, then I went and sealed it and mailed it before I thought what I had done, so I’ll try and think of it before I mail this one.
Well, Dad, its pretty lonesome here today. We can’t go anywhere, because of the measles, and its Sunday.
I can’t say enough about the good things I had when I was [living] at home and at Ti. I thought [then] it was awful to eat pancakes without butter on them, but I could eat those things now without anything on them and not grumble.
I’d rather be in the clay mud up to my ears than live this life. I hope they send the boys back to farm it this summer. I could feel different that I ever did before.
Say, Father, I head that the boys were going to have a week furlough and I hope it is so, for I’d like a change. I’d like to forget this life for a few days and see some of home life. I wish every boy could get a taste of this here, especially in the winter. They all would feel different about home.
I have talked with lots of the boys here and they all talk the same.

Camp Devens
Dec. 31, 1917
Dear Dad,
I wrote to Harold so I’ll send you a letter at the same time and save 3 cents—that’s economy, you know.
This is the last letter I’m going to write you this year, for its evening and December 31. The next one I send will be next year. I wish I was there with you tonight, so we could visit and eat apples together. I’ll be glad to have the day come when I can come back home once more.
I’ll tell you, Dad, after getting this stuff I appreciate home. I had a letter from Letha. She said she had a card from you and Mother and she thinks you both are just grand. I like to hear anybody say that about my father and mother.
Well, I hate to have you feel that I’m getting farther away from you because I’m engaged, but you don’t want me to live single all my life, do you? I’ll be just as near to you, Dad, as ever.
I thought of you and Mother this morning. We had pancakes for breakfast, but no good butter to put on them. I want a home of my own some day like other fellows. I don’t want this life compared with a life of that kind. I’m glad you and Mother like Letha, for I think she is the best girl I ever found.
I’ll say that its tough to have to be way down here and can’t go see a girl for weeks at a time. But, I suppose this don’t interest you, although you was a boy once!
I never was so cold in my life as I was yesterday—22 below and the barracks was awful cold, the wind blew and the windows are loose so we get plenty of fresh air. We had to stay right here all day for we are quarantined in with the measles.
I’d like to see the fellow that told you they don’t have much of a winter here—22 below and breeze off from the ocean makes us think of home.
Guess I’ve told you all the news I know, so will close.