Can a writer be “loquacious?” If so, Dart is today. This 8-page letter to Dot followed a 10-pager he had just written to Fred Dixon. It’s apparent from the start that he’s feeling better, although exhausted from the effort.
All day, he has been stuck, poked, and drained in an effort to determine what’s going on with him. The ice pack is once again his steady companion. While most of the tests are coming back normal, the new doctor seems determined to “get to the bottom of this fouled-up series of ailments.”
He tells Dot that he just heard an announcement over the public address speakers that US bombers had hit an island “only 1,000 miles from Tokyo.” All the guys listening with Dart were struck by the fact that two short years ago, 1,000 miles would have seemed like a long distance. Airplanes have shortened distances since the early days of the war. “By that train of thought, we’re ‘only’ 1,100 miles apart. A mere routine bombing flight. Would that I could make it and bail out over Greenwich.”
He seems to have gotten a kick out of reading her daily exploits at work and babysitting. Cheerful images of ordinary domestic life must have served as “chicken soup for the soul” for thousands of servicemen during those long war years.
The weather at Great Lakes has been uncomfortably hot and humid. Dart’s sheets are sodden and his leather money belt has bled its color all over his pajamas. He’s grateful for the cool breezes that occasionally find their way across his bed from the lake, just 150 feet away.
Commenting on how they’ve become better acquainted through letters, Dart has obviously given the subject much thought. “Through your letters, I think I know very well, a sweet, home-loving good girl with a charming personality and true, faithful heart. …I know that you’re exceptionally pretty with a very harmonious set of features. In fact, Dot, I think I’m mighty lucky to know a real life dream like you.” Isn’t that a simple definition of love? To feel lucky to have the object of our love in our lives?
Dart mentions that his doctor calls him a “bastard case,” disowned by the surgical department and cured of mumps and its complications, but to weak and frail to return to duty. Dart’s lament is “Nobody wants me. I’m just a worthless bum.” I predict a firm contradiction by Dot is forthcoming.
He returns to the task of answering her recent letters, point by point. He’s so glad she likes children – another thing they have in common. I’s fine with him if she writes to him late at night, as long as she keeps up her wonderful, morale-building contact. He has a special request for a package from her – he’d like for Dot to ship herself to him as quickly as possible. He can tell she enjoys her job at the Pecsok house. He cautions her not to malign her own cooking too much. Otherwise, he might see a bottle of iodine and think, “Oh my! Dottie has been burning water again!”
He ends the letter so that he can jot a short note to his mother.
Dot’s letter expresses awe and appreciation of Dart’s recent letters, especially the beautiful one he wrote on May 28. She’s happy they are in agreement on life’s important things, and that they’re equally “old-fashined” in certain matters.
She envisions him on his first day back at boot camp, unaware that he never made it. She infuses the paragraph with her typical pep talk about changing luck and positive thinking.
News of Burke’s election the the National Honor Society doesn’t surprise her. The possibility was discussed when she had dinner with his family in Cleveland, and she had the feeling then that he would make it. She congratulated Dart on being born into such a wonderful family and for”adding glory to the name.” I sometimes wonder if people really used that kind of language in 1944, or if these two writers are just having fun with dramatic affect.
Tonight, Mr. Pecsok asked Dot if she could tear a phone book in half. Picturing the diminutive Greenwich book, she assured him she could. Mr. Peksok, a recent transplant from Cleveland, slyly presented her with a directory from his home town. The first thing she did was to look up the number for D. G. Peterson. Suddenly, she had an urge to call Dart’s mother, so she called her own mom for an opinion on the subject. Ruth Chamberlain responded that Dot could do as she pleased, but that Mrs. Peterson might think she was silly for calling her out of the blue. Dot resisted the temptation, but asked Dart if he thought his mom would have minded.
Because she has picked up a summer cold, she announces her plan to go to bed with her bottle of nose drops. Instead, she heard Chucky fall out of his bed, and rushed off to set things right with him.
