War News

Ft. Riley, Kans.
8 Nov. 1942

Darling:

Got your letter yesterday or the day before, but didn’t have a chance till now to answer. Today is gloomy Sunday again, and I’m in the throes of missing my darling little wife. Sometimes I wish we didn’t have any time off at all, because when we do, I get so darned lonesome it’s pitiful.

Went to town last nite and checked up to see how my uniform was coming along. The progress is kinda slow, though. Got a haircut, and guess what! I finally found a place where they had those little sabers in stock, so I got you one.

Forgot to tell you in last Sunday’s letter that I saw a good show. “The Glass Key” with Brian Donlevy and Alan Ladd and Veronica Lake. I don’t care much for her, but the rest of the show was very good.

Was glad you could get the bars, honey. They haven’t arrived yet, but I’m looking forward to getting them. I’m glad Bernadette didn’t convince you that the silver ones were the ones to get.

Darling, the war seems to be looking better for us, doesn’t it? Maybe we can have our life together sooner than we had expected. It’s funny, but the first thing that always enters my mind in reading the war news is how it is going to affect us. In a way, I’m glad the war came, because it brought us together, but I do wish it could have happened some other way. There’s only one thing I regret in having met and married you, and that is that I’m not able to be the kind of husband you deserve. My one purpose is to do what I can to end the war so we can be together for good. Being your husband, doing all I possibly can to make you happy is all I ever want to do or be. Everything else I do is just a means to that end. I’m awfully selfish, I guess, in wanting you so much, but it’s hard to be any other way. I can never be entirely happy away from you.

Darling, I wish you wouldn’t feel badly about having a few little debts. You’re not costing me anything, because all the money I’ve sent you is money the Govt. allows me for having you. And money, or the lack of it, is really such an insignificant thing. I’d much rather be able to provide you with the things you want and need than anything else I know.  But so far, Uncle Sam has paid that which you have gotten from me. I’m just the middle man, that’s all. In fact, I regret that my wife has to work, and after we get squared around, I don’t want her to have to provide for herself. I want to do that. My not being able to fully provide for you right now seems to be a rather sore spot with me, because you have brought me so much happiness already that it seems the least I could do to repay you would be to better provide for your wants and needs. What I’m trying to say, darling, is that I don’t want you to feel that you’re taking money out of my pocket, although by rights you should be. My own living expenses are practically nothing, and as soon as my uniform is paid for, you and I will be able to live on $25200 per month. There’s no reason why we can’t. So please, please, darling, don’t feel badly about my sending you a little money. By writing this as I have, I’ve probably succeeded in confusing the issue, but I’m sure you understand how I feel.

Mrs. Hopkins, I’d like to take you in my arms right now, hold you close, and tell you how much I love you. Let’s pray that it won’t be long until I can do that. Where else in the world is there anyone like you? The answer to that is simple; nowhere. There can never be another to compare with Margie, my Margie. I was just thinking yesterday about the first time you called me “darling.” I’ll never get over that, I guess. And remember the first evening we had all to ourselves? We had such a wonderful time enjoying each other’s company. That was the night when we went over the marriage ceremony; and from then on, I felt deep inside me that we were really married, even though not in the eyes of the rest of the world. If after that, you had decided that you didn’t want to be mine, it still wouldn’t have made any difference in the way I felt towards you, because I gave myself to you that night. Even if you had met someone else you liked better, you still would have my heart, even though it would be a broken one.

Darling, I’ll never be able to tell you how much I love you, even though I write and speak of it constantly until the day I die. When you speak or write and merely say you love me, it tells me all I want to know, but when it is my turn, I can’t seem to say enough to cover the subject. All I hope is that you will never tire of my telling you, because I can assure you that I can never tire of telling you.

My darling, I must close now, and write to the gang at Fort Lewis. I love you terribly, Margie darling, and I always will.

Your humble, adoring husband,
Jim

Aaaaand more shorthand:

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