In the year of 1924, George N. Randolph, a US Army captain stationed at Camp Gaillard in the Panama Canal Zone, sat at his desk and began writing his first love letter to Ruth Morrison, a woman he had fallen in love with at first sight. Being a militar
The Captain and his Lady
By Ellen Randolph WeatherlyiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 Ellen Randolph Weatherly
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4759-1557-0Chapter One
Fort Clayton April 1, 1924
Dearest One:
My first letter—I essay it with misgivings, for I was ever a poor hand at writing, and yet naturally I feel as tho' it should be a literary masterpiece. You should inspire one, dear girl.
The first thought that came to me was of last weekend. I was so happy every minute. Even the old maid with her "soul expression" and the warped, distorted ego which characterizes those who live alone did not disturb my contentment—much.
It is a wonderful thing to feel yourself beloved by such a girl as you, dearheart. If out of all my longings and desires I had been allowed to fashion my own mate and mold her to my heart's desire, she would be a living replica of you. In character, ideals, beauty—in everything which goes to make up a woman, you are my ideal. Shouldn't a man be happy who can truthfully say that about his intended wife?
In point of fact, as I have told you so many times, it is all so beautiful and wonderful as to seem unreal—like a dream from which I will awake and find myself again in the misery which has been my portion for these many years. Your love has lifted me to heights I never dreamed of reaching and has acted as a great tonic to me, both spiritually and physically.
Today I met an officer who has known me for years. He told me that I looked pounds heavier and years younger and said the climate must agree with me. I do feel years younger and infinitely happier, if not heavier, but the climate, the devil take it, didn't do it.
Out of the whole happy weekend stands one moment apart from the rest—when you asked your naively sweet question about the bed. That gave me a real thrill and brought me to a comforting realization of the actuality of the whole blissful event. I will remember that moment when we go to buy it, dear one, and we shall have the finest for sale on the Zone. I am an undemonstrative cuss and yet, although I did not say much, I fairly reveled in those linens, so pretty and dainty and in such perfect taste. I can hardly wait until I see them spread on "our" table.
I am eagerly awaiting next Friday and Saturday. I am sure I will be able to get away and will let you know at the earliest opportunity. These weekend visits with you are my whole life now. The other officers here are railing against the order which keeps them all in camp, but I just smile and am content, for did I not see you last weekend, and will I not see you again the coming one?
Ruth, I love you with my whole heart and soul. Nothing shall ever be done by me to offend you knowingly. It is glorious to feel that you can love and show that love without fear of its cloying. As far as I am concerned, our marriage is as good as consummated, and if you feel as sure, we can enter unreservedly into that exquisitely happy period of planning and dreaming for the future.
Many faults have I, but I can bring to you a constancy and a depth of love which few will equal. Do not let the fierceness of my passion frighten you, but remember that in the sanctifying state of marriage, even its intensity will contribute to your happiness. A thousand ardent kisses to you, sweet girl, to last you until I can again give them to you in person, from
Your adoring lover, George
Camp Gaillard, Canal Zone (CZ) April 7, 1924
My own girl:
How disappointed I was at not being able to come over tonight, you'll never know. Also, I blamed myself for saying anything about it until I knew for sure whether or not I could come. Major C. did not say I could not come. He is too decent to refuse any reasonable request, but he said we would all have to leave early in the morning, and I've since learned that the hour is 7:45, so you can see, pet, how hopeless it was.
With this exception, it was a banner day for your lover. One hour's work (after I had at last wandered into Gaillard from Clayton) made my company fund book check to a penny. That was a grand and glorious feeling. Then I succeeded in getting one of my men who was tried by a court-martial off with a fine of $30.00. Sgt. Diaz, who appeared before the Zone court, was remanded to military custody, and so the day ended gloriously.
Well, enough of military matters—my little girl will think even her letter is turning out a disappointment. It is hard, tho', Ruth, to write of my love for you because of its complexity. I only know I am bewilderingly happy—that I love and am beloved by that rarest of creatures: a perfect woman. It is a never-ending source of wonder to me as we grow better acquainted and I learn more about you to see how everything about you tallies with the ideal I had always cherished and dreamed about but never thought I would meet. I had reached the point where I used to laugh at my own ideal and deride myself for ever aiming so high, for being so absolutely impractical about women. I began to think of it as a fantasy, a delusion that a dreamer hugs to his bosom and builds fond hopes upon—hopes doomed to disappointment in this mad world of jazz.
And then, just as I had reached this cynical, skeptical frame of mind, along came Ruth. Ruth—reserved, with that very desirable reserve which every woman of modesty, culture, and refinement would have, that reserve which is the very essence of true feminine attractiveness, and which—alas!—is utterly lacking in the usual, present-day flapper. I could write in praise of this one quality all night, so beautiful is it in a woman. To leave something to a man's imagination, to have a little secret chamber in your heart at which he is permitted only a fleeting glance—this, dear one, is to hold him forever.
This, dearheart, is not your most beautiful quality. One cannot be with you long without being aware of your very high plane of thought, of your absolutely clean, healthy mind. It is for this that I absolutely worship you. Ruth, I haven't words to express my disgust at or with the ultra-up-to-the-minute-type of female who, sitting cross legged, puffing a cigarette, and brazenly, unblushingly swapping smutty stories with men, thinks that she is being modern and emancipated. She is emancipated, all right—emancipated from womanhood and everything the word dignifies, but how real men despise her.
My wife must be something sacred, something to be defended and protected. I want to be able to hit straight from the shoulder at the first breath of insult to her without having to stop and think for a split second. How could a man feel that way toward the average woman of today? It is not possible to insult many of them.
Another one of the many, many reasons why I love you so is the fact that, of the men you've met, I was the first to arouse your real love. That is a very wonderful thing to think about, Ruth, and I am not unmindful of the responsibilities it brings. A woman's first love is rare and delicate like the lace in her hope chest and is built upon ideals. The man who is so blessed as to be its motive has a real job to live up to it, but I will devote my life to it earnestly and prayerfully, and perhaps he who watches over our destinies will help me.
I will not speak of your beauty and loveliness because I never think of it except when I am with you, when its attraction is overpowering and it sweeps away all my resolutions. Away from you, the qualities I have spoken of and many others that I have neither time nor space to mention are in the ascendancy and I see you through a mist,...
