7/1/44 V-Mail, Italy
Hello:
And is the Mrs. Cyrus B Stafford this hot as hell night? In about six hours you [will] be at the same point of the day I now am. There is very little breeze, and it is so hot the tar on the streets flows like water.
I have just returned from a hour’s walk nella campagna, dopo pranzo—a walk in the country after dinner. I’m afraid I’m a country boy at heart, for nothing seems to sooth me quite so much as to walk through an olive grove or vineyard. Even tramping over the wheat stubble is restful. Tonight I made the mistake of walking downwind. I approached a dead horse without knowing it, and then walked in the wind wafted stench for some minutes. Fortunately, the old schnozlle is no better than it used to be.
Today I learned that the sq co’s in the old outfit made Lt-Col. They were 1st looies when I came overseas. Darling, I don’t know what is the matter with me, but I don’t seem to be getting anyplace. The whole world can’t be wrong. God damn it, any job they’ve given me I’ve done well and everyone admits it, and yet all I get for reward is my self respect. That is hard to maintain when everyone passes you up. Well, maybe the best deal is to swallow my pride and concentrate on learning as much as I can in the Army, and then becoming a grade A civilian on the day the thing is over. I like the Army and Army life, but I’ll be damned if I can see through some of the things which seem so unfair. I ran into Andy Anderson, my instructor at Advanced a couple of weeks back and he is still a major. He was a first with three years foreign service when I was in the school. People who were a couple of classes ahead of him are now generals! The only mistake he made was tending to his own business and not blowing his own horn. Well, piss on it.
Tomorrow I start to work with another bunch of people in the same section but different location. My job is about as clearly defined as a [country] cook’s recipe for biscuits—a pinch of salt, about so much flour, and a few dibs of shortening. I am told to cooperate with our noble allies but to be sure to get the best of them. It doesn’t make sense. I’m seriously tempted to crawl on the band-wagon and become a British lover, as that seems to be [the] way to get along. There may be a reason for that, for I am alive today because of the tactics the British taught me. That makes quite a bond of friendship. I don’t worry about it while it is happening, but I sure do appreciate someone saving my life after it has happened.
After I get settled I may have some money to send home. My Cairo trip was quite expensive, but well worth it. Down there a piastre goes like a penny, only it is worth four of them.
Today they finally decided to let us wear ties only if we wanted to. It is a definite improvement. Now if they’d get smart and authorize shorts and short sleeves we would be almost as smart as his majesty’s troops.
Well, toots, that’s about it. I can’t think of anything nice to talk about but my loving you a little bit—a little bit more than I can stand from 6000 miles. Be a good baby and keep on sending those morale maintaining letters. You’d be surprised how much it helps. Cy