January 21, 1944 Friday

Dear Honey,

Friday night again so quick. Friday is the day we have to get ready for the inspection tomorrow. These inspections are right out of this world, as are many things here. The theory of relativity does not apply to much of the work here. A thing is clean or it is dirty, it is all right or all wrong. 'Tain't so, of course, but that is the assumption they work on.

Went to the range and fired our Buck Rogers sub-machine gun for record today. At long last, I qualified as an expert on something. Fired 88 of a possible 100 points on a short range where sihouette targets pop up here and there for 3 seconds and you try to mow 'em down. 80 points is all that is needed for expert. After that we fired for fun and I wasted government money to feel like a killer – took a whole magazine full of shells and fired the whole thing into one distant target in one big burst. Rate of 450 rounds per minute. Really makes your teeth chatter to hold the trigger back and just let it ride. [drawing]

Got a big morsel of morale tonite. Got letters from you, Mama, and Rev. Ralph. Last is his form letter, but interesting. Who else could I want to write? Honey, you don't have to feel guilty about missing writing now and then. Would be a very insufferable person not to understand that you would write unless conditions were impossible. Would rather have you keep good care of yourself than write when the two conflict. I love you much more than to just count the number of letters. Naturalness is the big thing with us; when writing doesn't seem spontaneous, let's not. Best way, I think. Writing you is very spontaneous with me, however. I am also getting ink all over my hands as I write this. Must go wash.

I love you,
Wallace