I love you, sir, as my Pennsyltucky brother. I shall not forget the bayonet you took for me at Pickett's charge, near to the copse of trees.
However your fancy word work there wounds me to the core.
I recall the cold tin cup of festering hash we supped on that eve with the boiling July air fetid with death. We were not wrong to wish for our mama's deep fried Presque Isle perch!
Yours in warm affection,
Colonel P.A. Sabrefan