5/8/44 Italy
Martha:
I hope you can stand the tooth-paste ad enclosed. I guess the censor can’t kick. There are roughly five million abutments like the one in the background, the soil is not peculiar to any location, and the insignia on the jacket is of the old 17th bomb sq, not extinct lo these many years. The shoes are g.i., and I hope the dear censor can’t make anything out of it, for, frankly, I can’t remember just where the damn thing was taken either. The om snapped same and gave it to me for you. As you can plainly see, I no longer have the barracks bags under the peepers, but am beginning to show that close to 30 barracks bag around the waist. Thus far, the two satchels behind have not started to expand. When they do, I shall stop eating, as well as take violent exercise. I have no desire to ever look like I did the year before I left the states.
Damn it, when I sat down I had a bunch of stuff to write. But I’ve been talking to the clerks trying to get them to find a manual they misplaced, and I can’t remember what I was going to say.
Again no mail. You have gone on a binge, strike, or the p.o. screwed up again. That latter is generally the case. Well, I’m getting no place just sitting here, so I shall close, and go back to my desk. Maybe I can think of it before closing time.
Aw nuts. Maybe I’ll think of it tomorrow.
Love, Cy.
5/8/44 Italy V-Mail
DEAR MARTHA:
OUR POOR LITTLE WAC. THESE CRAZY G.I.’S DO EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD TO MAKE LIFE MISERABLE FOR HER. SHE’S IN BAD SHAPE AS A LITTLE SISTER WITH FIFTY BIG BROTHERS. RIGHT NOW, THE ARE TRYING TO CONVINCE HER THAT SHE IS GETTING YELLOW AND ABOUT TO HAVE JAUNDICE.
OBIE WRITES THAT DON AND ANNE ARE DIVORCED. SHE DOOD IT.
NATCHELLY, I’M WAITING FOR THE PICTURES WITH MY MOUTH OPEN IN ANXIOUS EXPECTATION. I’M GLAD TO HEAR YOU’VE READ MARSHALL’S REPORT, AND ARE WORKING ON MISSION TO MOSCOW. THEY ARE BOTH EXCELLENT. ONE THING I WANT TO DO WHEN THIS GOD DAMN MESS IS OVER IS BUY MORE GOOD BOOKS AND READ THEM WITH YOU. ALTHOUGH I SHALL NOT BE ABLE TO READ FICTION WITH YOU, WE CAN READ A LOT OF TRAVEL AND GOOD BIOGRAPHY TOGETHER. I AM WRITING A LETTER TO JOHN [HUNTOON]. PLEASE FORWARD IT.
I ATE SOMETHING LAST NIGHT WHICH DIDN’T AGREE WITH ME, AND WHEN I WOKE UP THIS A.M., I THOUGHT I WAS PREGNANT. AFTER THE FIRST THREE UPCHUCKS I GAVE UP AND CALLED THE OFFICE THAT I WAS STAYING IN BED. MY RIGHT HAND MAN, LT. HARRISON, CALLED BACK AT 11 AND ASKED IF I WANTED LUNCH SENT OVER. THAT CERTAINLY IS A CHANGE FROM THE DAMNED 47TH. THESE PEOPLE ARE HUMAN. I ENJOY BEING WITH THEM. I HAVE SEEN HALF A DOZEN OF THE OLD GANG AND EVERYONE HAS REMARKED HOW MUCH BETTER I LOOK. MY TUMMY HAS SETTLED DOWN NOW AND I’M SURE I’M OK.
WHEN I HAVE 20 MONTHS, I’M STARING A CAMPAIGN TO GET HOME.
I LOVE YOU. CY.