Sorry I haven’t had time to write in the past couple of days. I’m all moved over to HQ now, have a desk, and all of the fixings. My job is nil and I don’t much give a damn, as it looks like a temporary set up of sorts. I am the Air Inspector, whatever the hell that is.
I have 47 missions now, and it looks like my combat days are about over, other than limited ops. I don’t know just what the hell to think.
Hell, my stomach aches. I can’t think of anything interesting to say, as I haven’t done anything, much less anything interesting.
2/15/44: Following the failed assault on Monte Cassino, the Allies initiate a heavy bombing campaign on the Abbey which was being used as an observation point. The Germans took up offensive positions in the rubble. The second ground assault was attempted over the next three days with heavy casualties suffered by the Allies. The arrival of severe winter weather on 2/19 stalled the Allies advance until mid-March.
2/17/44 Italy #77
Hi Honey:
I love you. It’s nine o’clock, the squadrons have already gone to work, but I’m all alone over here in HQ.
Present job is Air Inspector for the Group. Actually, It’s about the same job Grp Engineering used to do when held by a flying officer, plus part of the Ops job. If the OM will let me work, it shouldn’t be too bad.
Last night the 84th had a bit of a party for me. They are pissed off at my being transferred, but will get over it. It seems as though the kids like to have me around over the target.
A couple of days ago we were treated to a lousy show by some U.S.O. people. Louise Allbritton was feature attraction and ate dinner across the table from me. My eyes nearly popped out, as she is quite a nice looking specimen, blonde, and an “angel-roll” hair-do which would knock your eyes out. As soon as we dropped the New York & Hollywood affectations and got back to Wichita Falls, Texas, it became most pleasant. Louise Allbritton
Rumors are a dime a dozen. I get a big kick out of people trying to figure out what goes on when I frequently know that no decision has been made by higher headquarters.
Well, Toots, I’m back on a staff—and am trying to get a job someplace. There’s only one more thing and I’ll have to [illegible] I sure do love you and would love to get my hands on you if only for a few minutes.
Your baby, Cy.
Am I pissed off? I spent three days cleaning up the cockpit of an airplane to the point where there weren’t any loose wires etc. in it, and they sent the damn thing on a cross-country the day I was going to get everybody together on it to show them how to fix the rest of them. Well, it has been bad for a year or so and I don’t suppose a couple of days will make much difference.
I flew an administrative flight yesterday, and it was a lot of fun. I couldn’t get between the mountains and the clouds, so I went up on top. There was a poor little A-20 driver, lost, who tacked onto my wing and followed me through my landing and my let-down. He’s damn lucky I popped along.
We had a G.I. show a couple of nights ago and it was a honey. The Group did the whole job itself. Some of the humor was rare. For example:
Why would you rather have a paper dolly than a real live gal?
Because I can tear off a piece anytime I want to.
—-
What are twins?
Twins are room-mates who later become bosom buddies.
—-
The Colonel’s wife was inspecting the kitchens of the Post and was watching the cook make hamburgers. He would grab a handful of ground meat and flatten it by slapping it against his bare chest. After a few minutes, the gal said, “I say young man, isn’t that awfully unsanitary?” Without batting an eye the cook replied, “Could be ma’am, but you should see me make doughnuts.”
Well, that and the orchestra, went on for an hour and a half. The funniest part was that our stupid Group adj., who is quite a Don Juan, brought a date to the show, a civilian girl who was educated in England. Boy, the razzing that Clarence got was unmerciful.
Now that I am out of a squadron, I can make some comments. A proper Captain or a fair Major can command a squadron with no trouble. The job requires a lazy man. And I might add that during the seven months, I was never late to or missed breakfast, and never had a hangover. Of course, the outfit didn’t appreciate that at the time, but they do now. You may have a Captain Moffat or a Flight Officer Johnston contact you one of these days. They are swell people, and did a wonderful job of flying for me.
My professional future looks bright at this point. Promotion is almost inevitable and a slight decoration may also pop loose. Then my job will be to loaf and observe for a year or so. But my personal future looks like hell as God only knows when I will get home. I’m not homesick, but I surely do want and need you.
Will you send me one of those big magazines with all the latest styles of women’s clothes. Vulcanos want it as everything they have in shop is pre-war Paris style.
2/20/44: The American and British Air Forces begin an all-out bombing campaign against strategic targets in Germany, including factories, rail lines, power plants and military facilities. Hundreds of bombers with fighter escorts are launched every day. Losses are heavy.
2/20/44 Italy #79
Hi Marfy:
I found two letters when I came in last night. That’s encouraging to no end.
Well, I’m OS now. Drove my jeep with all my belongings for about three hours and am sitting here in my new home without a damn thing to do but look forward to supper and the sack. The wind is about to blow the tent down, but it doesn’t make a hell of a lot of difference. Perhaps I’m wrong, but it looks like my days as a combat pilot are over, as the general trend seems to be to put Stafford on a staff.
Don’t get excited about the promotion for the damn thing is still “pending”. Although I was promised it 6 months ago, I’ll believe it when I see it. Also, the DFC and other crap.
I guess I just need a rest or something for nothing seems to really interest me.
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.
Louise Allbritton