July 18, 1945
I suppose you've heard about my change of plans by now. Honestly honey, I don't know why I get into their screwy outfits. I was all set to go, had my bags packed and was just going to send some stuff home when the Pilot told me that the old Radar man was taking my place. This guy McQueen was on the crew when it cracked up about a month ago. He had a couple of broken vertabrae and was supposed to be in the hospital for months. He was released Saturday and went to see the Director of Training and managed to get back on the crew. He wasn't as well qualified as I was but because he had cracked up he was given the job. I didn't find out about all of this until yesterday at noon. Of all of the things that could have happened, that was the least expected. I wanted to stick with that crew. They were a good gang and they all knew their stuff. We got along good together. I feel like doing a lot of griping about it, but it won't do me any good. They left at noon today. What's in store for me now is the same old story. I don't know where I stand. There must be some sort of a jinx about me.
Outside of these few trifling things, there ain't nothin new. If this damned Army thinks they can win their silly war without me, they're wrong.
Sunday night I went to town with the radio operator to celebrate our shipping. We ended up at the Bamboo Room of the Pioneer Hotel. I was drinking bourbon and Bill, another one, was drinking Schenley's. The bartender poured them both from the same bottle. After six or so it wasn't any use objecting, so I was quiet. Monday morning I had one of the most wonderful hangovers ever known to man or beast. Wiggling my toes made the building shake. Never again shall my lips touch liquor - well anyway never Schenley's.
Through bullying, blackmail, threatening, skullduggery and attempted homicide I managed to dig up ten packages of cigarettes for you. I'm not going to give them to you though. I'll make a trade. You, upon receiving said rarities, tag your little tail feathers over to a multi gadget store and fetch me a boy scout knife. Madame, I am not kidding. A genueen boy scout knife. It'll set you back about 89 cents but I'm a gigolo anyhow so why should I be so gallant as to not accept your money. Aft all, 89 cents won't break you. In the second place if you go to Goldblatts Baragain basement on Moriss Goldblatt Day, you can probably get it for 79 cents. if so, send the dime along too. I've decided I'm gonna hook you for 89 cents. Do you think I lack character? Perhaps, but not the same way I lack roast duck. The reason I want a boy scout knife is that I have developed a sudden intense desire to carve up small boy scouts. Also figure I can win a small fortune playing mumblety peg with the Colonel.
The thermos bottle keeps cognac at an excellent temperature. Tomorrow I shall be unhappy, but all work and no play is better than two in the bush.
You may kiss Terry hello for me and write me double damn quick at same old familiar place. I'll write again as soon as I hear some news.
All my love