Somewhere in France, Sunday, Sept. 19, 1918

My dear mother,

I will write a few lines to you and put it in my pocket as I don’t expect to get it mailed until after we go over the top again, but if I am bumped maybe someone will mail it for me. If we get back soon again I will write a little more and mail it then. I am well. I have not received any mail from you for two weeks and wonder how you are getting on. I hope to be home next fall; I am just as anxious to get back to you as you are to have me, but we are all here for a vital purpose and must do our very best. Things look pretty good now and I believe Germany will soon be whipped.

It was cloudy this a.m. and rained last night but is a beautiful p.m., makes me think of an autumn day at home as I look at the dahlias and other garden flowers. Winter does not start over here for some weeks yet.

The roads back of the front along here are as crowded with traffic as Hennepin Ave. Horses, wagons, auto trucks, guns, autos, motorcycles all going like sixty, no speed limit. The air is full of planes all the time, sometimes as yesterday p.m. could see 50 planes at once.

We will move toward the front tonight. I must close now. Write often do.

Your loving son, Pvt. Carl O. Potter.

P.S. The writer was wounded in action by shell fire about Oct. 8^th or 9^th to my knowledge not serious. W. H. Prather, 2^nd Lieut. U.S.M.C.

P.S.S. I am a friend of Carl and beside him at the front when he got wounded. He was wounded in the stomach by a piece of high explosive. He will get all right before long though I think.

Hobart Blake