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March 3rd, 1943

D3ar Lov3,

Th3y mov3d m3 to a hospital in Britain. Sorry for th3 funny l3tt3rs, but this typ3writ3r is missing a k3y. Obviously. It's th3 only typ3writ3r my r3port3r fri3nd could sn3ak in. Appar3ntly th3y think th3 only writing that should b3 s3nt out of h3r3 is cold t3l3grams t3lling wh3th3r w3'r3 d3ad, missing, or bar3ly aliv3. Th3y wouldn't l3t m3 borrow pap3r and a p3n. L3astways not until th3 surg3ry is ov3r. But don't you worry, Lov3, it will b3 soon.

Th3r3 was a t3rribl3 numb3r of d3aths today in London. My fri3nd told m3 about it. Som3 panic rushing to an air-raid sh3lt3r. Awful things ar3 happ3ning in th3 world. Som3tim3s it driv3s m3 to th3 point of d3spair. But th3n I r3m3mb3r that good things happ3n too. I think of you and our darling Ros3, and littl3 Martha. I think of th3 oak tr33 by th3 cr33k--you know, th3 on3 with that big rop3 strung up lik3 a swing--and how w3 us3d to sit th3r3 and talk for ag3s. And laugh.

W3 laugh3d a lot tog3th3r, didn't w3? And w3 will still. I promis3 you, Lov3, this war will 3nd. It will. This too shall pass, you always say. And wasn't it you who told m3 that th3 gr3at3st joy can only b3 had by thos3 who hav3 und3rgon3 th3 gr3at3st suff3rings? That only thos3 who hav3 b33n sick can fully d3light in b3ing w3ll?

Th3n may God l3t my suff3rings b3 as gr3at as I can handl3, so that wh3n I com3 hom3, our joy may last us a lif3tim3.

I'v3 got to k33p this short. Th3 nurs3s ar3 sn3aky around h3r3. Can't b3 caught.

I lov3 you. Giv3 my lov3 to 3v3ryon3.

God bl3ss you until I s33 you again.

Yours, Sam.