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the older fellows (older in terms of service). They write very seldom because, when the going gets tough and they don’t write at all, their folks at home aren’t accustomed to receiving a steady flow of mail, so they don’t mind it as much.
    But I will continue writing whenever I get the opportunitybecause that is the way you would want it.
    I’m thankful that I have you and Ruth as an inspiration and no matter how tough the going—I’ll get back to you both someday. Perhaps sooner than we dare hope we shall be back in each other’s arms and look back on this period of separation as a horrible nightmare.
    There were periods of weeks, especially later during combat in Luzon, when the mail could not be taken out or brought in to the troops over the rugged mountain trails surrounded by the enemy. During those times, my mother had no way of knowing whether her husband had been wounded or was still alive. Her nerves were on edge, her imagination primed for disaster.
    29 April 1945, Philippine Islands
    Dearest,
    I write tonight with a heavy heart. One of my close friends just went the way of Dr. Orange. He sure was a swell lad—tops in everything. He was one of our old timers. It was he that was expecting the visit from his wife who is an army nurse—and he was the one that I spent many hours tutoring in trigonometry. He had such a burning desire to complete his formal education. I’m so deeply shocked that he is gone. The Grim Reaper of War sure takes his toll and always he picks on the cream of our youth. God how much longer can it go on?
    Though subject to army censors, his letters answered a question I had never dared to ask while he was still alive: “What was the war like, Dad?” I began to discover the texture of his experiences—his appetites, longings, fears.
    Food was frequently on his mind. He dreamed of Dagwood sandwiches: corned beef, pastrami, rolled beef and salami withrelish, cucumbers and pickles. He fantasized about “Italian food at Leone’s and Little Venice. Swedish food. Smorgasbord at the Stockholm. French food at Pierre’s. Chicken dinner at Mom’s and some good American cooking at home from the Settlement Cook Book—a way to a man’s heart.” My mother sent packages from Brooklyn containing sardines, shrimp, anchovies, olives, and pickled herring, which he shared with his buddies. He noted that her honey cake arrived spoiled. His fatigues were always dirty. His quarters were “miserably hot, comparable to a Turkish bath.” Living with so many other men was “similar to a cross-section of Coney Island and the bedlam of Times Square during the rush hours.” He longed for the comforts of home.
    27 October 1944, South Pacific
    Hello Dearest: I’ve been doing a heap of just plain thinking these days, but really it hasn’t been brooding. Mostly I think of little things such as sitting down at a table with real chinaware—and an easy chair with a hassock to put my feet on—and a pipe, pajamas, robe, and slippers—and a rug, a lamp and a beautiful symphony all blended together with you in every thought.
    And being able to go to the refrigerator for an ice cold beer—and some fruit—and even chocolate milk—or honestly, just a quart of plain old milk.
    Yesterday we were dreaming of a bathroom. How it would feel to step out of a steaming hot shower onto a bathmat—have real running water out of faucets and a real tiled commode and a large mirror to shave—and, I don’t have to go on—but it makes me feel better to write it down.
    We spend time staring at ads in the magazines that arrive regular mail. I love most the ones that show a tumbler of whiskey and soda with ice cubes in it—and a man wearing awhite shirt—and pictures of sport clothes like a plaid shirt. Gosh.
    Will you make some ham and eggs when we get back? Real eggs—sunny side up—and not