I'd
"gone west" sure then if it hadn't been for Rust.
Well, he did all sorts of big things during the war. Was down several times
with wounds. He liked to fight and he was a holy terror. We all thought
he'd get medals and promotion. But he didn't get either. These much-desired
things did not always go where they were best deserved.
Rust is now lying in a hospital in Bedford Park. His letter is pretty blue.
All he says about why he's there is that he's knocked out. But he wrote a
heap about his girl. It seems he was in love with a girl in his home town--
a pretty, big-eyed lass whose picture I've seen--and while he was overseas
she married one of the chaps who got out of fighting. Evidently Rust is
deeply hurt. He wrote: "I'd not care so . . . if she'd thrown me down to
marry an old man or a boy who couldn't have gone to war." You see, Carley,
service men feel queer about that sort of thing. It's something we got over
there, and none of us will ever outlive it. Now, the point of this is that
I am asking you to go see Rust, and cheer him up, and do what you can for
the poor devil. It's a good deal to ask of you, I know, especially as Rust
saw your picture many a time and knows you were my girl.
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