It’s early in the morning but I thought I’d start writing now, because something always seems to turn up later in the day. Yesterday I finally got some mail, dear, three nice letters from you postmarked May 9, 10, 11 – and I felt better again.
In your first letter, sweetheart, you were very apologetic about not working, staying around the house – and half a dozen other things. When I wrote about finances, darling, I had no secondary implications at all. The idea never entered my head, and the thought of you working and saving money is the bunk, dear, as far as I’m concerned. The fact is that we won’t live long on the money you might have saved or the money I’ve saved. Saved money is good while it stays saved. We’re going to live on what money I make, darling.
About my salary: a single captain draws $200 per month, plus 10% for overseas. The 10% is absorbed by insurance fees which is a little higher for me because I changed my insurance from the “term” type which the Army encourages – to 20 year endowment. In other words – term insurance ends when the war is over and you have nothing to show for your premium. The plan I have enables me to continue my insurance. Anyway I get about $200. I had arranged to send $100 to my bank and $100 to myself. Due to faulty or rather delayed book-keeping on the part of the Army, they send the bank $100 and me – $50. So for seven months – the Army now owes me a back-log of $350.00 Were I married to you, darling, I would be drawing $340.00 per month – so we’re really missing out, darling – in more ways than one – but I don’t care – as long as you’ll marry me after the war.
As for doing something to keep you busy, that’s another story altogether. I really think it’s a good idea doing some type of part-time work. There’s more fun in getting paid – but that shouldn’t be essential, as I see it.
I laughed about your account of the smelly fish. I don’t see how you can tell whether fresh fish is rotten or not – because it seems to me – they all smell rotten before being cooked or fried. And you tell Mary to save her sympathy, darling, because I’m not the least bit worried about your ability to prepare meals. I seem to have a great deal of confidence in you on that.
I was sorry to read about the “run-in” between you and your mother but I’m glad you managed to get over it before too long. I told you what I thought in a previous letter, dear, so I won’t go into it again. However – it is not unusual and I wouldn’t worry about it.
I don’t know why you shouldn’t have received the ‘Yank’ regularly – because I’ve sent it out every week. They’ll probably all catch up with you one of these days, dear. I get real satisfaction, sweetheart, out of your reaction to my mother’s concern over you. You reacted correctly when you say you really felt like one of her children. When my mother starts worrying about you, darling, then you are a part of the family; and when she says she worries, believe me, she does so sincerely – as you probably know by now.
Darling – it’s time to stop now. I’m amazed in that I’ve been able to write this far without any major interruption. It irritates me so to start writing you and being interrupted, putting the letter down and having to start up again. It occurs more often then I tell you about. Sweetheart – I love you and miss you and when I start writing you and thinking concentratedly about you and us, I don’t like to be stopped in the middle of it. That’s all for now, dear, except love to the folks and from me,