Spitball Army

A sack of onions, a block of cheese, and no bowls in the kitchen. She slumps on the floor et elle pleure les larmes salées.

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As for the rest of me, physically I’m O.K. I have a few odds and ends to break up the monotony though. They are: fungus, heat rash, athlete’s foot, crud, and a general breaking out all over.

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Miss Thing leads me to a table, her two-inch claws ten shades of brown, with glitter. My BBQ plate, by comparison, is a flat Sienna.

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This is the day…Christmas Day 1944. My first Christmas out of Indiana and our first Christmas – you in Indiana and me thousands of miles away.

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I’m afraid I disagree with you on something you said in your last letter. Who cares whether your sentences are grammatically correct. Just so they are there.

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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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