Dear Mother and Dad,
It’s been a week now since I’ve written to you and I apologize but not until yesterday did I receive any mail from you for this week. I don’t know but over here it’s hard to write when I don’t get word from you. However, yesterday I received letters dating from August first to seventh including the birthday card.¹ They sure pepped me up a lot.
The weather here has been miserable or better “mizzuble”. I’ll be damned if I can see why anyone wants to live here. Here it is the middle of August and it’s as cold and damp as hell. It’s a wonder I don’t have a worse cold.
I’m sorry your special hocus-pocus couldn’t get my letters through to you but you know how the mail goes.
You just about kill me everyday or should I say when I get mail with your vivid descriptions of ice-cream, cakes, etc. They don’t know what those things are over here.
Everybody’s chewing the fat around me right now—I keep forgetting what I want to write.
I thought the rumor situation was bad over in the states but here….God! The war’s over every five minutes over here. Newspapers are a valuable possession.
Oh Hell, everything I want to write I can’t.
1. ed. note: Bill turned 19 years of age on August 15, 1944.