Spitball Army

This last week has been a week of changes. I was in a rifle platoon as assistant automatic rifleman. Then, I was transferred to Hdqs. Plt. and given a flame thrower. The same day I was called up for an interview about getting into radio work.

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Card is titled: “Howdy from Nebraska.”

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He discovered Mom’s strategy when he opened the Lincoln Logs canister in August and found two painted, smelly, rotten Easter eggs.

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My fever spikes. Sister takes me from class to the convent and makes me drink peach nectar from a can. Now I have a stomach ache.

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I forgot to tell you that the cake got here and was properly taken care of the same evening. It was very good.

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The walls around this table are adorned with photos of Strom Thurmond and Richard Shelby. My BBQ plate tastes of vinegar and ash.

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They have a picture show every night and you have to go. The entertainment makes me tireder than the training we go through.

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Well, here we are in Los Angeles. We finally got this far anyway.

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Well, my watch crystal came off. Then I started to wind it and the main spring is broken. I guess I don’t need to know what time it is anyway. I’ll be going by the bugles before long anyway.

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