2/24/44 Italy
Hello Angel:
I’m getting damn sick and tired of not being able to reach out and grab a handful of Martha when I want to. Between not having you, and this business of being kicked around (the OM lied to me—my recommendation didn’t go in with the rest of them, but later) ending in an administrative job a corporal can handle, I’m just about to get mad at those damn Jerrys for prolonging the scrap.
This once, I’m going to look out for C.B. I’m a little sad at doing my job well and having someone else get the gravy because they asked for it. I’m either going to get promoted or find out why (probably the latter). Then I’m going to ask for 21 days leave to go out and have a good time—God only knows how, but if I get far enough into the rear areas I may be able to make the grade. After that, I shall try to find a proper engineering job. If there are none, I shall revert to flying, the thing I know next best. If I’m not mistaken, I may be able to talk myself into command of a night stooge* outfit. Right now, I shall have to sit and await developments on the L.C.**
Honey, something is haywire in this set-up. I’m a damn good combat pilot with 47 shows of a type not liked by other people who have to do them once in a while. I have big hands, with wonderful training—I can run a lathe, a telegraph key, sketch. I have a brain trained in the best principles of engineering. And because I am not full of hangar flying and a thirst for liquor, I am placed in a job where all I do is telephone the target to my group when same is divulged to me. Furthermore, I have been ordered not to do anything further. Bob Paul is in about the same boat.
Well, Kitten, I shouldn’t let it get me down, so don’t let it worry you. I have to blow off once in a while, and you are the only one who understands. God, how I’d like to see you on the other side of the table set with our dishes, our sliver, and the table cloth I’ve bought in Naples for you. The longer I live, the more I realize you’re about the only real friend I’ve ever had. Others are close, but none are in your bracket as a friend. I guess Huntoons are next closest.
Aw nuts, Martha, I’m just a little boy badly in love. I guess I’ll never grow up.
I’m having a cameo bracelet and brooch made for your birthday. It is hard finding silver for the filigree (spelling?), but I believe everything is coming along nicely. Frankly, I don’t know beans about cameos, but these are supposed to be nice ones. You can always say they are from the cameo center of the world and were made under wartime conditions.
I have two soldiers up here with me. One lad, a Goldberg, is rather pleasant and intelligent. The other is a dope from way back. We’ve been shooting the bull, me telling them about some of my flights out of B’dale, S’vah, etc. It made life much more interesting to land and find a good looking little wife waiting in “baby” to take me home for a glass of milk and bed.
Speaking of bed, it is nearly 9 o’clock, so I guess I had better wash the road dust off my face and hit the hay.
Boy, it’s lucky I’m an officer, or your husband would be a thief. I drove for an hour yesterday behind a truck loaded with Coca-Cola. Gosh, what a temptation!
Nite—I love you, Cy.
*This appears to be a reference to a night bombing squadron
**I believe this is a reference to his expected promotion to Lt. Colonel.