Tuesday, 21:30

August 1, 1944

My dearest wife,

I’m in love with you my darling. I believe [that] more now than ever. My love still grows more and more for you. I believe today is our second anniversary, two years since we met and we have plenty to show for it. I never had a better two years in my life. You gave me many happy days. I can still picture you, the first time I ever saw you sitting in the drug store smoking a cigarette. I can still remember the good time we had after that. I kissed you on every street corner in downtown Toledo. I hope you still want to be kissing like that when I see you again.

I am so much in love with you, Marguerite. Happy anniversary to you. Do you ever think back of the good times we have had together? I don’t think we will have any more like that.

I saw and article in a Chicago paper yesterday where some soldier wrote in to the paper on a rumor about men 38 years ago or older getting discharged. The paper answered it by saying they didn’t know but when the time comes, older men and married men will go first. I may get a break out of this thing. I think I’ll start another baby when I come home again. Is it alright with you? Speaking of babies, how is our new one coming along? How are you feeling? Do you feel anything yet? [Did you go] to the doctor yet? How far gone are you? When is it due? What doctors, if any, are you going to? Are you going to use the maternal and again? If you answer all of the questions I have listed, I should have a nice long letter from you. Tell me all about yourself. Tell me how much you love me (if you do). Also how you feel towards me, and tell the truth in everything.

There isn’t much news around the camp honey, except it is still hot here. The moon (I call it you) is out tonight, not full though, but it will be in a couple of days. Don’t forget to send me a picture of yourself, if you have any.

Goodnight for now honey, I’ll see you in my dreams. Try and write as often as you can, I’ll understand. There are two new songs I wanted to give to you, but I can’t think of the names.

I do love you Marguerite,

Your lonesome husband,

Preston