Letter to Margaret — December 1943

My Dearest Margaret, I write this by candlelight, which you know I hate, but there's nothing to be done about it. The cold here is something I never imagined. Not the kind of cold we get back home — this is a cold that gets into your bones and stays. I think of you every morning before I think of anything else. That hasn't changed and it won't. Tell the children I'll be home before they know it. Tell them their father loves them more than he can say in a letter. Forever yours, Henry