TRANSCRIBED FROM THE HELENA WORLD JUNE 9, 1918 P. 6
Dear Choir Mothers:
Will you let me send the three of you a joint letter? I know what you will say—you will say, “Why shouldn’t we?” a third-of-a-letter for each is surely more than the no-letter-at-all we’ve been accustomed to for so long.”
Today is mother’s day; and are told that mothers’ letters mailed today will be rushed ahead for a record trip. Well, I shall be anxious to know how fast this letter will go.
Have been on my back a month today, with an infected knee. Some fun eh? Now they are making me try to bend it every day. And there is where the fun really does come in. well, thanks to liberal use of knives and probes, the knee is draining well, and I hope soon to be on my feet and with my company again.
It is early morning, not yet 6 o’clock and I am the only one in the ward awake yet. And my fancy takes it thight across the dimly-glimmering ocean, away from the sun just rising in France, far away to the west, where the shores of America are in the dark of night. In Helena it is midnight. And I put myself with delight in those fragrant streets, leaf-lined in pale green. I am drawn through the habit of constant, yearning though, towards the church. I know how every window looks. Each curve and angle are clear to my memory’s eye. Those stately golden organ pipes, that beautiful console, with its gleaming ivory keys and tablets and stops. What noble sounds can come from their refined piece of mechanism! How liquid, how floating, how aetherial! In a few hours you will be singing here. You will be praying, and some of your prayers will be for me. It makes my heart swell with grateful love.
Oh, dear people; we will fight well for you! Here along the line, how many hundreds of towns, and big cities we see with no civilian population. Do you know fully what that means? Supposing not a single life was lost in these emigrations—what was the sum total of physical discomfort, mental suffering, and spiritual anguish attendant upon these uprootings? They can never see their homes again. Both these and the churches are sad, desecrated piles of stone and plaster.
Please don’t sit silent when weak headed people chatter about peace. Do they want all this to happen in New Orleans, Natchez, Vicksburg, Memphis, Helena? Let them talk victory. That’s all right. Crushing, smashing victory. That spells peace with safety.
Give the choir my love. Who is playing for you now? and my affectionate remembrance to Mr. Blaisell, June and Broks.
Yours with unchanging love,
ERWIN VON DER AU
NOTES: This letter was written by Erwin H. Von Der Au serving with the Marines in France. He was writing to Mmes. C. L. Moore, F. N. Wood and James A. Tappan.
TRANSCRIBED BY LAEL HARROD
Dear Choir Mothers:
Will you let me send the three of you a joint letter? I know what you will say—you will say, “Why shouldn’t we?” a third-of-a-letter for each is surely more than the no-letter-at-all we’ve been accustomed to for so long.”
Today is mother’s day; and are told that mothers’ letters mailed today will be rushed ahead for a record trip. Well, I shall be anxious to know how fast this letter will go.
Have been on my back a month today, with an infected knee. Some fun eh? Now they are making me try to bend it every day. And there is where the fun really does come in. well, thanks to liberal use of knives and probes, the knee is draining well, and I hope soon to be on my feet and with my company again.
It is early morning, not yet 6 o’clock and I am the only one in the ward awake yet. And my fancy takes it thight across the dimly-glimmering ocean, away from the sun just rising in France, far away to the west, where the shores of America are in the dark of night. In Helena it is midnight. And I put myself with delight in those fragrant streets, leaf-lined in pale green. I am drawn through the habit of constant, yearning though, towards the church. I know how every window looks. Each curve and angle are clear to my memory’s eye. Those stately golden organ pipes, that beautiful console, with its gleaming ivory keys and tablets and stops. What noble sounds can come from their refined piece of mechanism! How liquid, how floating, how aetherial! In a few hours you will be singing here. You will be praying, and some of your prayers will be for me. It makes my heart swell with grateful love.
Oh, dear people; we will fight well for you! Here along the line, how many hundreds of towns, and big cities we see with no civilian population. Do you know fully what that means? Supposing not a single life was lost in these emigrations—what was the sum total of physical discomfort, mental suffering, and spiritual anguish attendant upon these uprootings? They can never see their homes again. Both these and the churches are sad, desecrated piles of stone and plaster.
Please don’t sit silent when weak headed people chatter about peace. Do they want all this to happen in New Orleans, Natchez, Vicksburg, Memphis, Helena? Let them talk victory. That’s all right. Crushing, smashing victory. That spells peace with safety.
Give the choir my love. Who is playing for you now? and my affectionate remembrance to Mr. Blaisell, June and Broks.
Yours with unchanging love,
ERWIN VON DER AU
NOTES: This letter was written by Erwin H. Von Der Au serving with the Marines in France. He was writing to Mmes. C. L. Moore, F. N. Wood and James A. Tappan.
TRANSCRIBED BY LAEL HARROD