Letter Home

Sunday Afternoon, September 1st, 1918

My dear Father,
 
It is a strange feeling to me but a very real one, that every single letter that I write home to you or to my little sister may be the last that I shall write or you read. I do not want you to think that I am depressed or scared. I am indeed on the contrary, I am very cheerful. But out here, in odd moments the realization comes to me of how close death is to us. A week ago I was talking with a man from Preston, who had been out here for nearly four years, untouched. He was certainly looking forward to going on leave soon, and now he is dead, killed in a moment during our last advance.
I say this to you because I hope that you will realize, as I do, the possibility of the same thing happening to myself. I feel very glad myself that I can look the fact in the face without fear or regret. Much as I hope to live through it all for your sakes and my little sisters. I am quite prepared to give my life as so many have done before me.
I hope that you will not move out of the old house yet. Write and let me know if and when anything happens.
Well I have not much time left and I must end.
 
Your son,
Max