almost crawling on our hands and knees, that is, those of us that came in. It started to rain, but we didn’t even go inside. We just laid there - too tired to even talk, let alone move. You know, when I was in civil- ian life I looked at soldiers with different eyes. I figured they were just so much glory wrapped up in a little khaki. Now, whenever I see one, I have the utmost respect for him. He has worked harder than anybody in civilian life could possibly work. He’s gone through mass murder. (Sometimes it’s murder in the literal sense of the word.) Don’t get me wrong. I’m not asking for any sympathy. I just have a job to do, and I figure that if the others could do it, I can do it. Only, sometimes, I wonder how they did it. I might mention another thing. If ever you are asked for a donation for the U.S.O. give them all you can spare. I don’t know what I would do without it. It’s a Godsend. The work they are doing is invaluable. Can you imagine a soldier with a little liberty in a strange town? He’s always at home at the U.S.O. and I wish I could express in words how much I appreciate it. Herman P.S. Please don’t forget to write me often.
July 29, 1943
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