19 Nov. 1944
My Darling,
Well Hon, I’m in a hell-of-a mood to write you a letter, but I messed up yesterday; this is Sunday so I’ve got to try to write something. Just can’t seem to think of anything to say anymore. My old line of b--- seems to have left me.
Things look so bleak and barren of any hope. The future doesn’t hold a thing for some time to come except batting around overseas from one hell hole to the other. There isn’t even the prospect of having some interesting work to do. I hate my job for all its advantages. There seems to be no hope of any advancement, try as I will. In fact I’m sick of trying and don’t give a damn anymore.
There was recently a bare possibility of my getting what I have worked for since I came into the Army, but I lost it because of that incident back at Claiborne. Remember the one and only time I let my temper get away from me? I thought I had amply paid for that, but I found differently. What do you make of it? It’s put me down! I’ve quit trying!
My father’s rotten letter was the climax. Getting home means a fresh start for me among people that care for me and will help me if need be. Well I was wrong again, at least on one person. He was one of the most important too. Now I can see that even home, which I had figured was a complete relaxation from the code of getting the other guy before he gets you, is out.
Right now Baby I don’t think much of this world!
Love,