6/29/44 Italy
Martha:
I’m afraid I am possibly, as the Italians would say, “un poco uffriago,”* but that only serves to release all of the inhibitions a man overseas should have in writing to his wife. So here goes.
Monday I flew up front to get my flying time. I was as excited as a high school boy in bed with a gal for the first time. The sight of recently captured Jerry equipment, the sound of artillery, all awakened memories of the most exciting period of my life. I hate to admit it, but I still consider a pilot who can’t fight as a second rate specimen. I have trouble convincing myself I am not yellow, but being sensible. No one will censor me but me. I hope I win the argument, but after seeing what those bastards have done, it is hard not to want to take a more active part.
I am still a pilot. I did 20 minutes low level (10 feet higher than I used to fly, because I need practice) which convinced the HQ flight section that the OM still has piss and vinegar, as well as red corpuscles in his blood stream. I can yet do it & be relaxed.
Now to get down to personal matters. I am trying hard to be brave and stay here and accept my lot. I am determined not to break, but I feel it only fair to tell you how I feel.
Item 1.—your hair. No woman likes to have anyone tell her how to fix same. I realize the sacrifice made in letting me sort of guide the style. Such is an act of submission almost as beautiful as that which occurred in B.R.** on 22 June ’40. Homecoming means nothing without the thought of running my hands through “my fuzzy.”
Among other things, girls as sexual necessities have no real appeal. The look in my kitten’s eyes when she calls me a wolf is perhaps the sweetest thing in the world.
Thirdly, if I ever amount to anything it will be due to one little girl who manages to make a human being out of my technically warped personality.
In summary, I love you so much I hate every principle and person who make it necessary to be separated from you.
I love you darling, your own Cy
*I was unable to satisfactory translate this expression, as Cy wrote it. “Un po” means “a little bit.”
**Baton Rouge
6/29/44 V-Mail, Italy
Honey:
Am all screwed up again and can’t find the next number for the letter.
I am being sent up the line to a joint Brit Am HQ as radio officer. I haven’t the slightest idea what I’ll do, but I don’t like it. I’m damn sick and tired of outdoor living for a while, and it will mean living in a goddam tent. I saw the place today and it has only one advantage. We have a fresh water lake next door in which I believe there is swimming.* The people I work with are reputed to be cocks. Well, angel, I knew things were going too smoothly and that something would crew up my little doll house.
Speaking of doll houses, have you found one for yourself yet? If so, what is the address, as I should like to know where my home is even if I can’t get to it.
That is about all of the news, toots, as I am quite tired after flying all day.
I understand the place I’m going has an administrative A-20. Gosh, I hope so, for that is as much my airplane as you are my wife. And that, young lady, is really saying something. When the Navy bloke wrote “he had given the best 5 years of his wife to the navy,” I know what he meant. I’m about to write the same kind of letter.
I’m glad I left the old outfit as the om has finally completely screwed the fine tactics worked out last year in Africa. I pity the kids.
I love you more each time I get shafted by the Army, and that is almost daily.
All my love, Cy.
*During the first half of 1944, the various Mediterranean air forces (both American and British) were reorganized and given new designations. The XII TAC (12th Air Force Tactical Air Command) and six bomb groups were placed under the heading of the M.A.T.A.F. (Mediterranean Allied Tactical Air Force), the headquarters of which were located in Bolsena, Italy, next to Lake Bolsena, about 90 miles north of Rome. At this point, the Allies were preparing to drive the Germans out of Italy (Operation Strangle and Operation Olive), and also to invade southern France (Operation Dragoon), to meet up with the forces moving south from Normandy. Sources: http://www.rafbeachunits.info/List_of_Units/Mediterranean_Beach_Units/No__5_Beach_Unit/no__5_beach_unit.html; and http://www.warwingsart.com/12thAirForce/airforcetable2.html .
6/29/44 Italy, V-Mail
To Cy’s sister, Nena
Hi:
Thanks for the typed letter. It is the first I ever got from you that I could read. Much to my amazement, I find you not only can spell and punct., etc., but you write fairly interesting letters. My my, the strange things we find in ones own family. Who knows, they may invent telephones and airplanes one of these days.
I feel good tonight, having spent all day flying. I was in a lousy B-25 with a shavetail checking me out as co-pilot. It is a creek of the stuff under the old one-holer. I’ve only been flying a hell of a lot hotter ship than that for 4 years. We used to use B-25s as the transition ship to A-20s. Well, I took it for four hours and then said gimme that goddam thing. After taking four hours of straight and level at 5000 feet, I was griped. I took her down to ten feet where we played for about 20 minutes. It was quite fun for me for that is where I have done most of my flying. The passengers and crew chief of the damn thing were a bit green around the gills after we landed. Well that is the first time in four months that I’ve gotten out and really flown. The ship handled like a mack truck, but strong arm methods showed that it could be done. This was after said shavetail had spent two hours yelling at me for making a steep turn. He’s crazy. Most of these kids don’t know the first thing about what an airplane will do.
I’ve written to John [Shaw]. Should have an answer one of these days.
Burt Fleet is gone now. That leaves Tom Gerrity and I out of the original four buttermilk boys. Guess that is about enough. Tom and I ain’t going to do it.
Spank Marty’s little you know what. I should love to. Hello to Chuck,
Love and Kisses, Cy