438th AAA AW BN
APO 527 % Postmaster, N.Y.
England
January 15, 1944 1530
My dearest Wilma –
Saturday afternoon again and still not immune from the thought of the delight and joy I once derived when Saturday used to roll around. I’ve missed several of them now, but I’m not getting accustomed to it. The reverse is true, I fear. My longing for you seems to become more acute and keenly felt, darling, regardless of how time slips by and becomes the past. Despite the fact that one day is like another, I can’t seem to overlook the identity of Saturdays, Sundays or Holidays.
I wonder sometimes whether I was fully appreciative of the pleasures I enjoyed after meeting you, sweetheart. Each week-end was a full one and more so as I think of them now, because they stand the test of time and retrospection. And paradoxically enough, the more pleasant the retrospection, the more acute the remembrance – the worse is the longing, the missing, the wanting.
Dearest, I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you. Distance is not the factor, because I wanted you when I was home. Perhaps distance gives one the chance to analyze things more clearly, subjectively. I think so, because although I believe I had things pretty well figured out before, they are now crystallized in my mind as undeniable facts. I suppose I tell you all this over and over again, dear, in my letters, but I’ve got to do it. Because I feel so much better when I write it as well as think it.
To say that you, darling, on the other side of the fulcrum from war, give me stability, is to put it mildly. The stagnancy, the inactivity, the lonesomeness here would just be intolerable if I didn’t have you and my thought for our future. Darling – you will just have to excuse me for always reminding you of this – won’t you dear?
These days are becoming very very boring and long and there’s just no two ways about it. Yesterday evening was long and quiet – the same old thing, dear, sitting around and letting the hours creep by until it was time to go to bed. I’m not due for O.D. at the hospital until sometime next week, but one of the doctors who is on tonight wanted to go out tonight so I offered to take his duty. Maybe I’ll get some work. It’s a Saturday night and there might be some fights. (I’m getting gruesome.)
I managed to get two letters last night – one from Stan written Dec. 24th and one from a Dr. G. from Salem – who is now a Commander in the Navy – on duty in the Pacific.
Stan’s letter told of his busy days before Christmas and of his plans for New Year’s Eve at Harvard, Mass. with the Fines and some other people. It sounded good but didn’t particularly help me feel more cheerful, I must admit. He did say, however, that the party would be more complete were I coming along, and that was a nice thought.
Stuart G. practices in Salem on Chestnut Street and is one of the swellest men practicing in town. I know you’ll think so when you meet him and his wife. They were both always friendly, very much so, to me – and I was invited to dinner at his house several times because they knew I was alone at mealtimes. If Stuart had an interesting medical case (he practiced internal medicine only) he would often call my office during office hours and say that he had an interesting heart or some such thing to listen to and that if I would drop down to his office after hours – he would hold the patient there. He referred a lot of work to me and all in all was a real friend. I know you’ll like him, darling – and of course – I know he’ll like you. I always felt that when I was married I would like to reciprocate the G.’s friendliness – and I’m sure you’ll want to also, dear.
Well – I better stop now, Sweetheart. Excuse the occasional ‘blue’ tone, will you dear? Honestly darling everything adds up to one important thing – that I love you very very much and can’t tell you often enough.
No letter for several days now, dear – but I’m waiting as patiently as I know how.
Saturday afternoon again and still not immune from the thought of the delight and joy I once derived when Saturday used to roll around. I’ve missed several of them now, but I’m not getting accustomed to it. The reverse is true, I fear. My longing for you seems to become more acute and keenly felt, darling, regardless of how time slips by and becomes the past. Despite the fact that one day is like another, I can’t seem to overlook the identity of Saturdays, Sundays or Holidays.
I wonder sometimes whether I was fully appreciative of the pleasures I enjoyed after meeting you, sweetheart. Each week-end was a full one and more so as I think of them now, because they stand the test of time and retrospection. And paradoxically enough, the more pleasant the retrospection, the more acute the remembrance – the worse is the longing, the missing, the wanting.
Dearest, I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you. Distance is not the factor, because I wanted you when I was home. Perhaps distance gives one the chance to analyze things more clearly, subjectively. I think so, because although I believe I had things pretty well figured out before, they are now crystallized in my mind as undeniable facts. I suppose I tell you all this over and over again, dear, in my letters, but I’ve got to do it. Because I feel so much better when I write it as well as think it.
To say that you, darling, on the other side of the fulcrum from war, give me stability, is to put it mildly. The stagnancy, the inactivity, the lonesomeness here would just be intolerable if I didn’t have you and my thought for our future. Darling – you will just have to excuse me for always reminding you of this – won’t you dear?
These days are becoming very very boring and long and there’s just no two ways about it. Yesterday evening was long and quiet – the same old thing, dear, sitting around and letting the hours creep by until it was time to go to bed. I’m not due for O.D. at the hospital until sometime next week, but one of the doctors who is on tonight wanted to go out tonight so I offered to take his duty. Maybe I’ll get some work. It’s a Saturday night and there might be some fights. (I’m getting gruesome.)
I managed to get two letters last night – one from Stan written Dec. 24th and one from a Dr. G. from Salem – who is now a Commander in the Navy – on duty in the Pacific.
Stan’s letter told of his busy days before Christmas and of his plans for New Year’s Eve at Harvard, Mass. with the Fines and some other people. It sounded good but didn’t particularly help me feel more cheerful, I must admit. He did say, however, that the party would be more complete were I coming along, and that was a nice thought.
Stuart G. practices in Salem on Chestnut Street and is one of the swellest men practicing in town. I know you’ll think so when you meet him and his wife. They were both always friendly, very much so, to me – and I was invited to dinner at his house several times because they knew I was alone at mealtimes. If Stuart had an interesting medical case (he practiced internal medicine only) he would often call my office during office hours and say that he had an interesting heart or some such thing to listen to and that if I would drop down to his office after hours – he would hold the patient there. He referred a lot of work to me and all in all was a real friend. I know you’ll like him, darling – and of course – I know he’ll like you. I always felt that when I was married I would like to reciprocate the G.’s friendliness – and I’m sure you’ll want to also, dear.
Well – I better stop now, Sweetheart. Excuse the occasional ‘blue’ tone, will you dear? Honestly darling everything adds up to one important thing – that I love you very very much and can’t tell you often enough.
No letter for several days now, dear – but I’m waiting as patiently as I know how.
All my deepestlove
Greg
Regards to everyone
Love
G.
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