438th AAA AW BN
APO 515 % Postmaster, N.Y.
Friday, Dec 3, 1943 1900
Somewhere in England
Dearest Wilma -
I sometimes sit down to write you and for a few split seconds I imagine I’m back in Camp in the States writing you daily. I used to write you early in the a.m. – those days. At this time of the evening I was trying to get Holyoke 9489 on the phone, having raced several other officers to the booth. What a luxury that was! And I remember saying I shouldn’t call you so often. I guess I was foolish; twice a day would have been better.
There’s an almost futile feeling that possesses one here. True, the familiar faces of the soldiers and officers are all around you – but that’s far from enough. It’s the ones you love back home that leave an inexplicable vacancy. You feel as if you just have to do something about it – but there’s just nothing that can be done. You can’t call, you don’t know whether cabling has been effective, you have no idea if your letters are being received, and each day goes by and brings you no letter. The thousands of miles separating you are real, literal miles. Darling – I love you so much it hurts not to be able to be in constant touch with you. I wonder what you do each evening, whether you find the nights as long and empty as I do, how you spend your week-end nights – and a thousand other things. The war, dear, is a tough one for people in love. I’m only realizing how tough, now. What must it be for the boys in the front lines!
And yet, suppose a fellow was not in love. What an empty feeling he would have not to be able to let his mind linger on someone and dream. So the heartache one has over a girl back home is in reality a blessing, because it fills in the void and produces a hopeful mind. And that, dear, is what I thank the Lord for every night when I retire. I hope I don’t make that seem selfish, Sweetheart. Love is that, in a way, but actually it transcends selfishness, because it involves a oneness of purpose and plans and future; and as I think of you, dear, I always feel as bad over the fact that you are missing me. I always think of our future and how happy I hope to make you, of the things we’ll have and do together, of how rich our lives are potentially – and you know, darling – when I get that far in my thought, I start feeling better, the war seems as if it must end in due time. I feel assured that you’ll be home waiting for me after this is over – and bingo, even the gray misty English skies seem bright and I get a real lift.
Darling – you wondered about the possibility of becoming estranged. I think the contrary. I feel that our exchange of ideas – even in letters, will make us know each other much better than when I left. I know I reveal myself in my writing – and you do, too, dear. I think that when I get back, our getting married to each other will be a perfectly natural thing for us. What a happy day!
Gosh, dear – I really got going, didn’t I? I wonder if you think I’m the moody type. You’ve seen me mostly when I’ve been gay and I’m afraid that since arriving here I’ve written a somewhat different view. But even so, no matter how blue I may feel when I sit down to write you, no matter how hopelessly far away I feel, before I finish writing I end up very very close to you. It’s a blessing to be able to do that – and I feel projected all the way to where you are. I can see you clearly – even without your picture which I hope is on its way. That picture, by the way, dear is going to be deeply treasured by me and I can’t wait for its arrival.
I haven’t said much about my activities in today’s letter, Sweetheart – just my thoughts. The truth is that the latter really makes up the most of my activities. Nothing much has happened since I wrote you last except one point of interest. You remember Eliot L.? Well, dear, I may be able to contact him in a day or two. I was surprised when I found he was very near here, already.
It is now past 1930. I’m going to jot a note to the folks and then read an old copy of The New Yorker – which I’ve carried with me from the States. I’ve written my brother to send me the Boston Herald. The English papers have only 4 pages to them, are very crowded, have no sport section and seem quite empty. Even old news will be good to read from home.
I’ll close now, dear, and wish you a “good-night” although its only the afternoon where you are. My best regards to your folks, and the girls – here’s hoping I hear from you soon.
I sometimes sit down to write you and for a few split seconds I imagine I’m back in Camp in the States writing you daily. I used to write you early in the a.m. – those days. At this time of the evening I was trying to get Holyoke 9489 on the phone, having raced several other officers to the booth. What a luxury that was! And I remember saying I shouldn’t call you so often. I guess I was foolish; twice a day would have been better.
There’s an almost futile feeling that possesses one here. True, the familiar faces of the soldiers and officers are all around you – but that’s far from enough. It’s the ones you love back home that leave an inexplicable vacancy. You feel as if you just have to do something about it – but there’s just nothing that can be done. You can’t call, you don’t know whether cabling has been effective, you have no idea if your letters are being received, and each day goes by and brings you no letter. The thousands of miles separating you are real, literal miles. Darling – I love you so much it hurts not to be able to be in constant touch with you. I wonder what you do each evening, whether you find the nights as long and empty as I do, how you spend your week-end nights – and a thousand other things. The war, dear, is a tough one for people in love. I’m only realizing how tough, now. What must it be for the boys in the front lines!
And yet, suppose a fellow was not in love. What an empty feeling he would have not to be able to let his mind linger on someone and dream. So the heartache one has over a girl back home is in reality a blessing, because it fills in the void and produces a hopeful mind. And that, dear, is what I thank the Lord for every night when I retire. I hope I don’t make that seem selfish, Sweetheart. Love is that, in a way, but actually it transcends selfishness, because it involves a oneness of purpose and plans and future; and as I think of you, dear, I always feel as bad over the fact that you are missing me. I always think of our future and how happy I hope to make you, of the things we’ll have and do together, of how rich our lives are potentially – and you know, darling – when I get that far in my thought, I start feeling better, the war seems as if it must end in due time. I feel assured that you’ll be home waiting for me after this is over – and bingo, even the gray misty English skies seem bright and I get a real lift.
Darling – you wondered about the possibility of becoming estranged. I think the contrary. I feel that our exchange of ideas – even in letters, will make us know each other much better than when I left. I know I reveal myself in my writing – and you do, too, dear. I think that when I get back, our getting married to each other will be a perfectly natural thing for us. What a happy day!
Gosh, dear – I really got going, didn’t I? I wonder if you think I’m the moody type. You’ve seen me mostly when I’ve been gay and I’m afraid that since arriving here I’ve written a somewhat different view. But even so, no matter how blue I may feel when I sit down to write you, no matter how hopelessly far away I feel, before I finish writing I end up very very close to you. It’s a blessing to be able to do that – and I feel projected all the way to where you are. I can see you clearly – even without your picture which I hope is on its way. That picture, by the way, dear is going to be deeply treasured by me and I can’t wait for its arrival.
I haven’t said much about my activities in today’s letter, Sweetheart – just my thoughts. The truth is that the latter really makes up the most of my activities. Nothing much has happened since I wrote you last except one point of interest. You remember Eliot L.? Well, dear, I may be able to contact him in a day or two. I was surprised when I found he was very near here, already.
It is now past 1930. I’m going to jot a note to the folks and then read an old copy of The New Yorker – which I’ve carried with me from the States. I’ve written my brother to send me the Boston Herald. The English papers have only 4 pages to them, are very crowded, have no sport section and seem quite empty. Even old news will be good to read from home.
I’ll close now, dear, and wish you a “good-night” although its only the afternoon where you are. My best regards to your folks, and the girls – here’s hoping I hear from you soon.
You have all my love, darling –
Greg.
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