2/21/44 Italy #80
Honey:
What a hell of a life! Here I sit in a warm tent, gravel floor, well fed, and not a thing to do, not a chance of any excitement. I have a job in name, but that is about all.
Higher HQ looks about as bad now that I’m here as it used to from down below. There are a mere handful of damn good men, covered up by a maze of parasites. The man from Grp who I am replacing is quite a social lad and has built up a following of poker and whiskey friends—which I shall not be able to maintain. Outside of that, he has done nothing—which is actually all there is to do. I shall carry on in style—doing nix.
I suppose I can find a job here, but I hate to get away from tactical flying, for it gives one an artificial boost which helps one to keep going. The realization that I can’t fly a mission even if I want to is about equivalent to pulling the plug out of my remaining reservoir of energy.
This business of rank is getting me down. I see people who should be first Lts yet, and yet they are wearing the same insignia I do. Maybe I shouldn’t be wearing it myself—I dunno.
Well, kitten, the above sounds very blue, but isn’t. As soon as I find a job to do, I’ll be alright. With my probable transfer from tactical flying goes my only possibility of getting home before another year. So, bite the old lip and we’ll make up for it later.
All my love, Cy