While we were digging, one of the boys brought up for the thousandth time the question of that letter in Time magazine.  What letter, you ask?  Why, it was a letter you probably don’t remember, but it had become famous around these parts.  It was in the November 23, 1942, issue which eventually found its way over here.  Somebody read it, spoke to a few friends, and pretty soon thousands of men were commenting on that letter in terms which the fire department won’t permit me to set to paper

It was written by a soldier.  “The greatest Christmas present that can be given to us this year is not smoking jackets, ties, pipes or games.  If people will only take the money and buy war bonds . . . they will be helping themselves and helping us to be home next Christmas.  Being home next Christmas is something which would be appreciated by all of us boys in service!”.

The letter was all right with the soldiers over here until they got down to the address of the writer and discovered he was still in camp in the States.  For a soldier back home to open his trap about anything concerning the war was like waving a red flag at the troops over here.  They said they could do whatever talking was necessary.

“Them poor dogfaces back home,” said one of the ditchdiggers with fine soldier sarcasm, “they’ve really got it rugged.  Nothing to eat but them old greasy pork chops and them three-inch steaks all the time.  I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t have to eat eggs several times a week.”

“And they’re so lonely,” said another. “No entertainment except to rassle them old dames around the dance floor.  The USO closes at ten o’clock and the nightclubs at three.  It’s mighty tough on them.  No wonder they want to get home.”

“And they probably don’t get no sleep,” said a third, “sleeping on them old cots with springs and everything, and scalding themselves in hot baths all the time.”

“And when they put a nickel in the box nothing comes out but Glenn Miller and Artie Shaw and such trash as that.  My heart just bleeds for them poor guys.”

“And did you see where he was?” asked another.  “At the Albuquerque Air Base.  And he wants to be home by next Christmas.  Hell, if I could just see the Albuquerque Air Base again I’d think I was in heaven.”

That was the way it went.  The boys felt a soldier wasn’t qualified to comment unless he was on the wrong side of the ocean.  They were gay and full of their own wit when they got started that way, but just the same they meant it.  It was a new form of the age-old soldier pastime of grousing.  It helped take their minds off things.