January 23, 1945 Tuesday

Dearest Marjorie,

Yesterday was passed in a big, white billowy cloud. So tho I thought of you, I couldn’t have written [even] if I had had some stationery. At 8 o’clock Ernie Shelton and I reported to surgery and they immediately gave us some morphine and put us on an operating table. That’s when I got on the cloud. I floated around semi-conscious for quite some time, enjoying the sensations no end. Then they squirted that other stuff into my left arm and I was really out until almost supper time. They did wake me up for supper, but I still didn’t have the slightest idea what I was eating. I haven’t seen it, but I understand they sewed up my “laceration”—at least it is a helluva lot more sore than it was. The ward boy says I put up quite a fight to take my bandage off at one time. He said he wasn’t sure who was going to win. Finally they wrapped my right hand all up in a big wad of cloth, and I came to with that on. I didn’t sleep too well last night because of the soreness, but that is inevitable, I suppose. Today I plan to see if I can’t get a haircut—my moustache sure needs trimming about now. I really have more than an “incipient growth” now, and am quite attached to it. Also I am going to try to see a finance officer and get started on getting some more identification papers. I lost my wallet with all that stuff, you know. I ain’t got nothin’, Hon. No bedroll, no clothes, no footlocker. I did hang on to your wool knit helmet and a pair of O.O. pants—also 3 white handkerchiefs Ma sent me for Xmas. Today, too, I will write to the company to find out what I can. Your mail will come thru in time, I know, but I can see that it will be some time before they get my whereabouts straightened out. I am patient and philosophical, however. Time will make everything right.

I am going now to get at some of these things. I will write again soon, honey, and tell you much more—I love you as I am sure you love me.

All yours, always,

Wallace