7:15 P.M.

Nov. 19, 1942

 

Dear Mother,

Well I’ve actually got time to kill tonight.

It has been very warm here today in fact, one could go out in his undershirt if he wanted to.  But a soldier always has to have a complete uniform on when going out of doors.

The wind blows very hard here all the time.  If the wind blew like that where you are you’d think a bad storm was coming, but here it is an every day occurrence. 

I wonder what all the neighbors are doing. 

If it is very damp there I believe the motorcycle should be stared and run about once a month to keep oil on the cylinder walls and all other important places. 

I wonder if any of my letters are opened or censored some of the packages that arrive here are ripped open.

I don’t know if I told you this or not, but I got word from Kogler’s that Herald is still in the vicinity of Hawaii

How is the rabbit hunting coming and did Dad get a shot at any ducks or geese?

Down here by the drill grounds there is a tame crow and he tries to swipe the fellows gloves and hats etc. But you can’t catch him.  You can touch him but he’s too fast to catch. 

I didn’t get any mail today, in fact, it has been slowing up considerably.  And you may inform everybody concerned that they need not expect a letter from me if they don’t write. 

I’ll only answer the letters I get and ill be darned if I’m going to write for the heck of it.

How is grandma? I believe she comes to our house Sunday.  I guess that will be company for you.  I’m enclosing the letter I got from Sears Radio club.  I’ve got a mess of letters here.  I don’t know if I should burn them or keep them.

You sure meet all kinds of people in the army.

The ones that come from Brooklyn are the crumplyest ones of all.  There all a bunch of hunkies and think they’re tough.  But they mind their own business, because it would be unhealthy to do otherwise. 

The ones from down south sure have a lazy streak in them.

Well I can’t think of anymore dirt to spread.

Say hello to everybody for me.

 

 

 

                                                                                    Your Son,

                                                                                    Melvin