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.

Excelsior

The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath,
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
Excelsior!

"Try not the Pass!" the old man said:
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!
And loud that clarion voice replied,
Excelsior!

"Oh stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answered, with a sigh,
Excelsior!

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!
Beware the awful avalanche!"
This was the peasant's last Good-night,
A voice replied, far up the height,
Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

There in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
Excelsior!

"Tommy"- by Rudyard Kipling

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!