Authors

Irene McCallum

Document Type

Personal Letter

Transcription

[Transcription begins]

Sept. 19, 1943

Dear Marge,

Two thirds thru now old girl. Are you going to come out of that place a G.I. nurse? I certainly hope not. Lord knows one is more than we can stand around here now. Not that you could ever be that ornery, it must take years to work up a disposition like that female has.

Have you heard the good news? Just girls who have come over recently will go to school next time and it will be discontinued in a month so that finishes it for the rest of us. Oh happy day.

Gracie has probably told you all the news. Things have been terribly dull around here. We need you to put a little life in the place.

The following is a little poem one of the gals from home sent me.

My Age

My years of life are fleeting fast

My fires are nearly out

What used to be my sex appeal

It’s now my water spout.

I used to be embarrassed

To make the thing behave

For every single morning

It would stand and watch me shave

But now I’m old & feeble

And it sure gives me the blues

To see the damn thing hanging there

Watching me shine my shoes!!

Night duty is certainly a pain in the neck. This place is like a morgue. Every night I play a stack of records a foot high. Gripe, Gripe that seems to be all you hear around here now, monotonous isn’t it.

Capt. Manning & Lt. Haughton both had their noses operated on. Haughton looks different but Manning is so shy and reserved I can’t remember whether there is any difference or not. Poor guy he has sewed up three soldiers so far tonight and not one bicycle involved. That ought to be some sort of record. Maybe he’ll get a D.S.M. (distinguished seamstress medal)

Sarah is sleeping in 18 tonight. Wainwright thought Manning was in there and went in to wake him to see a case. I haven’t seen Sarah yet but I think Wainwright was the most embarrassed. Don’t get this wrong Manning was in 17.

It will be just about time for a party when you get back. Guess we’ll have to go to work on that.

Take it easy there baby and don’t fall in the river.

Love,

Irene

P.S. Filthy poem isn’t it?

[Transcription ends]

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