Dear Mother:-
I suppose that by this time you think that I am at least dead or a prisoner or something of that order but not at all for it is simply that I have not been able to write. I was sent away from the front on an official trip of a sort and have had till now absolutely no chance to write. During the course of my move I had about ten hours in Paris and managed to see Mildred Woodruff and have lunch with her. Paris, as you can well imagine, isn’t exactly gay but nevertheless I would certainly have liked to stay a week. Two months in a cold, lonely, and not too safe observation post may be in some ways an education in itself but it, if nothing else, brings out the desire for civilization, comfort and luxury. I will write more later but just now must stop. With love, Paul
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