Dear S. Wylie;
The head she ache, the nerves won’t fit in a basket Had a small celebration at the old school house last night--the boss and all his boys were gathered around for p’raps the last time sooo. (Tain’t no fun to drink without you hon--make em send me back) Reminds me of a cartoon--The guy that draws “Alfred,” had two other characters, civilians, at a bar.
One, the bum, was seedy looking like ‘B.O. Plenty’. The other, the drinker was saying, “No, I won’t give you a dime, you’d probably just run out and buy food with it.” (Eventually, we who suffer from this monastic life, find such trivia as that very amuzing.) While tripping daintly around the base saw a sign like the one we’ll hang on our back fence. It went, “Don’t go away mad, just go away” (Gad, how can I repeat such sweet witticisms when I feel so bad. If you were here, or I there, someone would have to call the fire department--I’m torrid for you, horrid) ouch
Of fires--on that last 700 plane raid over Tokio, every Fort had a full load of incendiaries. They dropped ‘em all and as one of the near rear planes was pulling away 15 square miles were afire. The waist gunner, a man of keen intelligence, reached back and yanked his 1 pound extinguisher from the bulkhead and threw it toward the city.--That guy had a little cyanide mixed where his humor was.
My thots come back to you. Thats usually the start and end of all those little things bouncing in my brain. Stuff an such about coming home ain’t proceeding so good. Fact is, have no idea which way they’ll send me--only hopes.
Love
Kenny Lee
You know whose bed my shoes fit under--
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