So
you like Lilliana. No foolin’, you
should see her modeling a formal! The
funny part is she doesn’t know she’s good-looking yet.
Burrington
arrived, as did wings and ribbons.
I
must have missed the letter where you mentioned saving out $500 for income
tax. Good deal. As I understand it we now have the checking,
two savings accounts of $1000 each, and $500 for income tax! Is that right?
I’m
a little griped at Tom. Of course, we
don’t have a hell of a lot in common any more, and his elevated position in
Army engineering may make formal engineering education look a little sour.
Nuts—I
keep getting interrupted by long distance calls from all over the country—and
this is the lunch hour (so-called).
IRE*
notifies me my application for membership will be taken up at October Board
Meeting. I think that it will be
worthwhile some day.
What
a busy little man I am. I would estimate
that I have roughly 100 letters or publications over the desk per day, all of
which have to be acted upon or absorbed.
This is in addition to the difficulties inherent in this becoming a
separate staff section, breaking in a new clerk, and the boss pulling out. I’ve had practically the whole thing since
the third day I got here, and apparently everyone is happy.
From
some of the remarks in Bob Fleet’s letter, I’m not the only one Tom has been
too busy to write to. When I last saw
Burt, he mentioned that he had never heard a word from Tom or Mag directly in
many months.
I
got a nice letter from Mary Huntoon finally.
She’s a good kid.
There
is nothing worth buying in this town that I haven’t already bought. I spent 3 hours tramping around in the rain
yesterday, and couldn’t see anything worth buying for anybody. That is, nothing but one purchase. Although it is for the house since you’re
such an integral part of same, try to consider it as a personal gift. I know it must look selfish for me to keep
sending you things which I shall also use someday, but it isn’t meant that
way. I just buy good things when I see
them, and unfortunately the only things worth buying are not personal articles.
Maybe
I can find a silk scarf like the one I mailed you for Mother, Nena & Emma.
So you can drive a 5-ton truck now! * What in hell caused that. I have trouble with a 2 ½ ton jobby. Of course, I can drive one on any road or lack thereof.
Glad
to hear Anne Mercer is a momma and ok.
That may settle the kids down a little.
I wish Jack hadn’t come overseas.
I would have thought more of him.
Hey! Leave the Navy alone! They’re slick lads.
More
tomorrow. Mover over tonight and let
your imagination go.
All my love, Cy.
*I believe this refers to Marty’s participation in the Women’s Volunteer Service.
THIS
WON’T BE MUCH OF A LETTER FOR I’M BUSY AS HELL AND HAVE JUST SORT OF SNUCK OVER
HERE WHILE THE WAC IS OUT LOOKING UP A RADIOGRAM.
DON SMITH, WHO HAD THE 84TH BEFORE I DID, WAS IN LAST NIGHT ON HIS WAY HOME. HONEY, I DON’T KNOW HOW THEY DO IT, BUT SOME OF THE LADS ARE REALLY ORGANIZERS. IT MAY SEEM HARD TO BELIEVE WHEN I SEE ALL OF THESE KIDS RUNNING AROUND WITH LOTS OF RANK, BUT I SINCERELY THINK THAT WE ARE SITTING PRETTIER THAN THEY. AFTER THIS WAR THERE IS GOING TO BE A SHORTAGE OF PEOPLE WHO KNOW TRAINING AND ENGINEERING AND ADMINISTRATION AND A HELL OF SURPLUS OF HOT PILOTS. I HAVE DONE A LOT OF WORK IN THE PAST [Typing changes to handwriting here] two weeks, and it is a pleasant feeling. It is encouraging to find I shall know how.
It is almost like old times. I have Thomas (armament officer in Sgt. Main’s class) is in town with another HQ and is in and out a lot and Tutti McCain (Pilot in Dusty’s squadron) is also around. V.R.s* have names like Bob Carson, Willy Garner, etc. on them.
I
hope I am not being a perpetual optimist, but apparently things are looking up
for a change.
I
love you honey. Your Brat.
*My research indicates that the American Army Air Corps used “VR” to refer to air transport squadrons. The RAF, with which Cy worked very closely
throughout the war, used “VR” to refer to Volunteer Reserve pilots. I’m not sure which Cy was referring to in
this letter.
Everything
is quiet here on the ice-cream front.
We’re still being fed like little gods, have heat in both the office and
the quarters, and the beer “ration” is now reduced to ten cans per week. A year ago I paid $10 for one can of Pabst
Blue Ribbon which one of the fellows brought from Cairo. My only regret is that I don’t have a certain
little brunette here to help me enjoy this relatively luxurious existence. It is funny how low one’s standards of living
can become in three years of field life.
It makes one a bit more appreciative of many of the “essentials” which
are really luxuries.
In the show last night (we have three per week, all first line) they showed some pictures of Naples, one of which showed Vesuvius popping over last winter. At that time, I was working five miles from Cassino as a liaison officer. I went in town the night before my leave started, and when my driver drove me out to the camp, on the slopes of Vesuvius, it was about three A.M. I could see the long snaky trail of red lava, and thought I was really plastered, for I hadn’t heard anything of it up to that time. During the night we had several small earthquakes, which I naturally attributed to the vino, as well as some torpedo juice I had drunk (pure alcohol with a dash of canned grapefruit juice).
Map of Italy in area where Cy was stationed during Vesuvius eruption
In
the morning I woke up to find the camp covered with fine red ash, and a most
startling collection of crap flying through the air a thousand feet above. After checking the wind direction and a few
other factors, I decided that if we expected to get out of there with any of
our equipment, we’d better do it quickly; and as usual, the OM was drunk. We got together on the latrine and had a long
conference, the result of which was that we evacuated.
Just
before I flew the last ship out, a couple of G.I. photo men came along and
asked for a ride to get some pictures of the part which was really messed
up. I threw them in, and flew through a
pile of the falling ash and rocks, and then up around the column of smoke which
was 35,000 feet high, incidentally. The
airplane was a wreck, I was a nervous wreck, and the damn photo men were so
scared they didn’t take a single picture.
There
were hunks of rock 150 feet long and 30 feet in diameter being blown out of the
mouth like tooth picks. The whole top of
the mountain changed in shape, and the lava dust covered up areas as far as 300
miles away. Airplanes flying into the
haze of dust and cinders 200 miles away had all of the paint eroded from them.
That’s
one you can tell the grandchildren, Toots, as it is the worse scare the OM has
had in this war. Lots of love, Cy.
What
do you mean—did I ever ask to go home. You
act like you thought I didn’t want to.
Honey,
let’s get it all straight. In spite of
the horseshit you hear back there, roughly 1% of the people here go home per
month. There are three ways of going
home other than in a combat unit on 30 day leave:
Incompetent
professionally
Incompetent
physically or psychologically
Return
for a specific mission
So long as I see
kids walking around from 5th Army with 5 of the new service bars, I can’t feel very sorry for
myself. #3 is the answer and I’m
naturally keeping my eyes open.
I
am sending off the Christmas box tomorrow.
I till be in two installments.
One contains 13 pieces and is for you.
The other has a silk and a wool scarf for Nena & Mother, and also a
blue gadget for you.
