8/16/44 Corsica
Hello Mrs. Stafford:
Today I have out your anniversary picture. I rotate them each day. If I were home now, I would be in the process of getting my hands slapped.
What a business! Now you can guess to where I made flight #48 a couple of days ago. Squadron leader Jennings (RAF) who is British equivalent of my job, has messed up on the 9, 10, 11 o’clock news. He is getting a terrific razzing. The war room is only a few yards away, but we have more fun keeping our own bomb line. We put a pin in when the BBC mention fighting in a town and remove it when captured. Sometimes it is months after the fighting that a second mention is made, and it produces some mighty weird salients.
It probably doesn’t mean anything, but I heard some interesting poop yesterday. The tin Gods in Wash have asked for names of pilots with radio engineering background to be used in communications empire in AAF after war. It is most essential as our present set-up is weak. Mine was submitted, so maybe this long term policy of mixing radio and flying may pay off. Thought I might mention it. It may mean if I stay in I won’t be bounced all the way down to shavetail.
Hey! Did you have a deep purple petticoat on under that black dress? Remember?
Jennings is working on news. So far, Radio Tokyo and an operatic soprano are all we have.
Oh my head! He finally got it tuned it and the announcer says that no communique has come in from Southern France landing! What life. It sure seems funny to have to ask someone where the bombline is. I used to know on account of that’s where the shooting started.
We had an expert in here yesterday. He knows most of the Chicago radio crowd, being a R.E. from there. It was sure fun shooting the bull with him.
Nuts! I’m getting fat again. I’ll try to hold it down to 160—that’s about right.
I love you Toots. Your Cy.
