May 8, 1942 - Dear Audrey
Maybe I spoke too soon.
Cutting a large notch in the bed post. That's a good sign. They've had rain and cold - that's not a good sign. It makes all the work even harder. Night drills up at the pits sounds miserable. Radio school on the other hand, sounds better and better.
The Boston Daily Globe - May 8, 1942
War, war, and more war but check out that little spaniel. Apparently two men claimed to own the little guy and went to court over it. I went to the page to find out how it ended but the final decision is later today. Well, later today in 1942! I've been through the paper for this evening and tomorrow and cannot find out who won custody. Poor Tex or Bill or whatever his name is. I will keep looking and let you know what I find. So frustrating.
Page 10 - Spaniel Waits in Car
Also, sugar card registration is amazing. Note the other story of rationing cards getting stolen. Gas cards are next. Love that crazy mustard jar :)
Meanwhile in Hartford...
Hartford also had a very successful sugar rationing registration. Bus drivers are upset over wages and the itinerant barber has been arrested. The phrasing is noteworthy.
Transcript - May 8, 1942
Bat H 9th C.A., Fort Banks
Dear Audrey,
Well, another week is pretty near gone and so I’ll cut another notch in the wooden support beside my bed. This has been a good week (I saw you 3 days) so I’ll cut a large notch. If it had a been a poor week, I would have cut a small notch. I have more small notches than large ones. I don’t see my wife enough. Maybe it’s a good thing in a way because it wouldn’t be long before I’d have the post cut clean thru with large notches. I borrowed this idea from observing the annual rings in a tree. If the tree has a good year the ring is large and in the same way it is small if the tree has a poor year. The weeks and months drag along as it is, without you and so a year would seem like eternity. I miss you so much. Remember how I used to come home from work (on Hartford St) and you would have all my dainty under things washed? Even my socks. I sure wish you were here.
I figured that radio school would keep me out of a lot of work, but it hasn’t so far. Maybe I spoke too soon. This morning they had me lugging ashes and there was quite a few. After the cold and rain of the last couple of days, the ashes mounted up. I guess I’m lucky they didn’t put me shoveling coal. Anyway, I’m going up to the radio school this afternoon and so will miss the wood detail. I was supposed to go this morning, but they got me to work so early that it was too late to get me when they were ready to go. I still have to get the entire story and why they picked me out and so I’ll tell you later. Maybe when I see you and I’m looking forward to seeing you soon. I might only get 5 or 6 hours, but the following Thursday I should have 24 hours and then I’ll be down to see my girl.
You know I lay in bed nights and think of what I’ll say to you in my next letter and then when I start to write you, I forget them. I think of all kinds of clever things and if I could only get up and switch on the lights, I could really tell how much I miss you. And how much my wife means to me. Maybe some night I’ll get up and grab my pen and paper and scoot down to the latrine and write you.
I really missed you last night up there in the pits during nite drill. It was cold and damp and I sure wished I could crawl into a nice warm bed with you. Well, it’s getting close to “falling out” time and so I’ll stop writing. I’ll write you again soon.
Lots of love,
Leonard
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Next letter tomorrow, May 9, 1942
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