Letter 62- January 16, 1944

January 16, 1944
(Camp Abbot, Oregon)

Dear Mudder and Dad,

Well, here it is Sunday again and I’m all excited about the bracelet. I really should get it today if it was supposed to be here by Friday or yesterday. Of course, one must take into consideration the damned way in which the lousy Post Office here works.

I damned near laughed myself to death when I read about the Higgenses in your letter, Mother. Isn’t it just like those knotheads. When I got to the part where she said maybe the good Lord would reach down and get them all I nearly had a fit. I can just see the old gal.

Well, we finally got the best of that bunch of bums in the kitchen today and are we happy. You know we’ve been getting cold cuts and damn near nothing (else) for the last couple of weeks. Well, today some fellows took some milk off an empty table so they’d have enough for cereal and coffee. The head cook got all burned up and said we’d have to eat out of our mess kits at dinner, so we just went to the Service Club for our meal. The Cap’t., who’s a really swell fellow heard about it and sent for a couple of men to go down and explain the situation to him. After that he gave the kitchen staff hell so maybe now we’ll get some decent food.

I liked your poem very much, Mudder. We’ve some here in camp that are pretty popular too but I won’t dirty up the mail. I’ll finish this later.

Well, it’s later now—a whole lot later—a whole day later. You probably think I’m a “hellava” pill, and I don’t blame you a bit if you do. When I was working like a dog and had hardly a minute to myself I still managed to write but now that I’ve got plenty of time I don’t.

Today the bracelet arrived. It’s really the nicest one I’ve ever seen. I’m so proud of it I’m about ready to burst my buttons. I showed it to my lootenent a little while ago and he just turned green with envy. I’ve still got the 45 bucks in the company safe but have been unable to get to the Post Office with it due to the funny hours the jernt has.

Bestus love,
Bill

P.S. Ain’t that a hellova way to end a letter.