TRANSCRIBED FROM THE ROGERS DEMOCRAT DECEMBER 5, 1918 P. 1
Somewhere on the High Seas, Nov. 18.
Dear Folks at Home:
I do not know where I am but judge from the knots we have been making the past 48 hours that I am about one-third the way from France to New York, on my way to God's country. The sea is so rough that I can hardly write but will try to explain that I am on the road home but don't know when I'll get there: it may be ten days and it may be ten weeks. I can see and hear some awful crashes in the water and the waves look like mountains, but I guess I am just about the happiest man in the world.
I am taking care of a wounded soldier. There are about 400 of them on board this ship and are awful sights to see but they are all happy. I wrote to Brother just a few days ago but left before I had time to hear from him, but don't worry about him: this war is over and I heard from him just about the time it ended and he was all o.k. then. No doubt he has, and will have so long as he is in France, hardships to contend with but if you could see the wounded men aboard this ship and others in France, you would cry with joy to know that he is not shot and cut up as some of them are and that when he does come home he will be a man and not a wreck. I would rather he would be over there two or three years more than to see him in the condition that I have seen thousands of them in--legs off, arms off, eyes out, tongues cut out, faces cut and slashed; it's a sight to think of such let alone see it. I know if you had seen what we have over here, you could not help but be satisfied if he did not get home for many months yet. Yet you may see him before you do me for he may land in New York in ten days and I may be put on a transport ship to help bring the soldiers home but I really believe I will be mustered out before long. I had a chance to stay in France or go to the states, as the war is over it didn't take me long to tell them my desire.
There are about 400 of us and I am in the first draft of sailors to return home from the foreign service. I have not been on report yet and thank God my records are clean.
Up to this time I have never been able to tell you what I was doing. Have been all over the English channel, been on the Spain border and saw some awful sights such as submarines, dead men, plenty of them, air and seaplanes falling and everything like that. I have a photo of a friend’s funeral who was killed in a seaplane at the air station where I was at Brest, France. Just about two weeks ago I helped pick up the survivors of a Spanish ship that was wrecked by a storm. I have never seen the front lines but take it from me I have seen the front end of a torpedo's front subs and when you are away out on the high seas far from land a torpedo doesn't look like chocolate cake; but we are sailing with ease now: no sub. There were two ships when we started but on account of engine trouble the other one turned back to Brest last night.
Mama, I wish I had you with me now. I assure you you could see all the water you cared to. There are great waves coming toward us larger than any house you ever saw. Oh, she's a great life. We sailed Nov. 16 at 4 p.m. and expect to land in New York next Saturday. We are sure plowing thru the old pond.
How are my babies? Yes, Bobbie, Daddy is coming home to see you and sister, but don't look for me until you see me coming; will come when I can. I first thot I wouldn't write you but just wait until I landed in Garfield, then I thot I might not get home for (MISSING TEXT) and it was too good to keep: had tell it.
P. S.--Nov. 25th. Have landed o.k. Will get a leave but not long enough to come home now.
ELZA.
NOTES: This letter was written by Elza H. Williams to Mr. and Mrs. R. M. Williams of Garfield, Arkansas. He lost his wife in February 1918 and enlisted in the Navy in May leaving a young son and daughter at home. He sailed from New York, NY on June 14.
TRANSCRIBED BY LAEL HARROD
Somewhere on the High Seas, Nov. 18.
Dear Folks at Home:
I do not know where I am but judge from the knots we have been making the past 48 hours that I am about one-third the way from France to New York, on my way to God's country. The sea is so rough that I can hardly write but will try to explain that I am on the road home but don't know when I'll get there: it may be ten days and it may be ten weeks. I can see and hear some awful crashes in the water and the waves look like mountains, but I guess I am just about the happiest man in the world.
I am taking care of a wounded soldier. There are about 400 of them on board this ship and are awful sights to see but they are all happy. I wrote to Brother just a few days ago but left before I had time to hear from him, but don't worry about him: this war is over and I heard from him just about the time it ended and he was all o.k. then. No doubt he has, and will have so long as he is in France, hardships to contend with but if you could see the wounded men aboard this ship and others in France, you would cry with joy to know that he is not shot and cut up as some of them are and that when he does come home he will be a man and not a wreck. I would rather he would be over there two or three years more than to see him in the condition that I have seen thousands of them in--legs off, arms off, eyes out, tongues cut out, faces cut and slashed; it's a sight to think of such let alone see it. I know if you had seen what we have over here, you could not help but be satisfied if he did not get home for many months yet. Yet you may see him before you do me for he may land in New York in ten days and I may be put on a transport ship to help bring the soldiers home but I really believe I will be mustered out before long. I had a chance to stay in France or go to the states, as the war is over it didn't take me long to tell them my desire.
There are about 400 of us and I am in the first draft of sailors to return home from the foreign service. I have not been on report yet and thank God my records are clean.
Up to this time I have never been able to tell you what I was doing. Have been all over the English channel, been on the Spain border and saw some awful sights such as submarines, dead men, plenty of them, air and seaplanes falling and everything like that. I have a photo of a friend’s funeral who was killed in a seaplane at the air station where I was at Brest, France. Just about two weeks ago I helped pick up the survivors of a Spanish ship that was wrecked by a storm. I have never seen the front lines but take it from me I have seen the front end of a torpedo's front subs and when you are away out on the high seas far from land a torpedo doesn't look like chocolate cake; but we are sailing with ease now: no sub. There were two ships when we started but on account of engine trouble the other one turned back to Brest last night.
Mama, I wish I had you with me now. I assure you you could see all the water you cared to. There are great waves coming toward us larger than any house you ever saw. Oh, she's a great life. We sailed Nov. 16 at 4 p.m. and expect to land in New York next Saturday. We are sure plowing thru the old pond.
How are my babies? Yes, Bobbie, Daddy is coming home to see you and sister, but don't look for me until you see me coming; will come when I can. I first thot I wouldn't write you but just wait until I landed in Garfield, then I thot I might not get home for (MISSING TEXT) and it was too good to keep: had tell it.
P. S.--Nov. 25th. Have landed o.k. Will get a leave but not long enough to come home now.
ELZA.
NOTES: This letter was written by Elza H. Williams to Mr. and Mrs. R. M. Williams of Garfield, Arkansas. He lost his wife in February 1918 and enlisted in the Navy in May leaving a young son and daughter at home. He sailed from New York, NY on June 14.
TRANSCRIBED BY LAEL HARROD