(England-That other Eden: Shakespeare)
Dear Mudder and Dad,
I was planning to sit down tonight and write you a long tale of woe about my being in the army a year almost with no promotions, no outfit, no nothing when some ‘gazebo” slaps me on the shoulder and says, “You Taylor? Ya got some mail.” Suddenly my world brightened and thoughts of how lucky I am began to race through my mind. After all, tonight I’m sitting in a comfortable warm barracks. I could be in a bloomin’ foxhole. I’ve got a lot of advantages when it comes right down to it. I’m safe and could be “daid”. That may sound silly but it could have been—very easily. I was talking to a fellow a few moments ago and he casually mentioned that he couldn’t read or write. I was somewhat taken back but it was not until I’d talked to him that I really understood what a handicap it was. Although he was extremely interested in the war news he knew nothing of what was going on other than the unreliable word of mouth information that he picked up in conversation. He asked me to read him the headlines. I don’t know, but there was something about that that made me feel so damn lucky. Well-----------.
Sketch here: “This is ‘Sad Sack’ Taylor contemplating a good day”- 5:00 P.M.
Sketch here: “Top ‘o the Heap Taylor. Master of all he surveys”- 5:10 P.M.
Dear Censor- Don’t you think this deserves a section 8?
He thinks that I’m quite lucky to be stationed in England. Probably so but just because this is better than 49,000,000 other dumps hardly makes me feel like cheering.
Your letters sure were swell even if you did have to mention that delicious ice-cream. That Air Mail stationary is pretty nice.
That about does it.
Best Love, Bill