Home | 1942



Wednesday P. M.

Dearest Genie:

The time rolls on as it will soon be time to put the Turkey in the oven. My sincere hope is that the turkeys don't have as many wings and necks as the chickens. Gee would I like to sail into some dumplings, sauerkraut, and fresh pork ribs. Honey, if I ever see any stew after this I will throw one grand fit and tear out all this pretty hair. We eat so much stew you could pour us back into the kettle. Listen, Honey chile, yours truly can really make kraut, dill pickles, and wine. Not a pleasing combination, but very tasty in the proper menu. Of course I'll have to taste this self appraised culinary art you apparently possess, for Don has ceased buying any pigs in a poke. Nasty! eh? No, Mills, you haven't fooled me yet and I shall trust in your utterings until given due cause to disbelieve.

It's queer your letters don't come thru to you each day. Some days I skip one from Chi and generally on the following day, I hit the jack pot with two. No foolin, the old ticker still misses a skip when I get air mail from my best gal friend.

Had some amusement no on the program last eve. There is an entire Alabama platoon in the next barracks and a screwier lot it has not been my lot to see. Some of the group put on an old fashioned revival meeting last night after lights were supposed to be out. They sang songs, clapped, stomped, shouted Halleleuah and Amen. We were in the sacks (abed) and nearly liked to died laughing at the goons. The Corporal made them fall in formation and drilled them for a darned long time. One of our group went to the head late and two of them came in sweating after that workout.

Art Huggins and I went over to the telegraph office at the camp this afternoon following a drill. Undoubtably you will know part of the reason why when you get the email as I also sent one home to the folks. Mom is always scared upon receiving a . . .

[I think the second half of this letter has become mixed up with another letter, because it doesn't make any sense. I'm going to transcribe it here, anyway, because I don't know where the correct ending is, and I don't know which letter the enclosed ending goes to. If I ever figure it out, I'll swap them later.]

. . . commands at the line. Others will undoubtably become careless about the first time the gun will bust into an arm bicep, they will flinch enough to miss the entire target. I have really absorbed all I possibly could to avoid carelessness and speed -- my two worst habits.

Shorty Wright has moved up in this end of the barracks again. That means we'll laugh ourself self silly. He just says, "Cammack has gone to bed, who is gonna spell my words for me?" We are kidding him about paying 500 to change bunks and get up with the white people again. A Polack and a Bohunk! Some fun? eh!

The boys are paid the last week of boot camp. That means we get paid for six weeks which is a hunk of folding paper for base confined leathernecks. Maybe will get some liberties after that, but it depends on what I'm in before I go to spreeing. You'll perhaps say the self conscious lad I tell you I always preferred staying close to home rather than cutting a lot of capers. We were riding the train with a negro soldier when one of the more foul minded boys was talking of the escapades he planned in connection with women upon leave. The negro told him he had the wrong idea of it all, for he should keep himself clean and fit to serve his country. I really learned something from the colored lad and truly admired him for additional sound philosophy he gave us.

This is the best time of the day. It allows us to relax and write to the ones we care about. Just read a neat poem about the boys from home and the letters to them. It's on our bulletin board now.

Can't begin to thank you as I should for the box and all. The lighter should help remind me of you more each day. The Collier's is right down my alley as I'm about to crack it after saying the sweetest of dreams to you, Gene.
All my love, Don.



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