Dart crams a lot of information into the opening paragraph of this brief letter. Tests over for the week. Weeks flying by. No liberty this weekend. Had his blues professionally dry cleaned this week. “The creases are sharp. I almost cut myself when I leaned against a wall.” Again he confirms that the tests this week were “killers” and he expects to get somewhere between an 80% and 90%. Continuing the theme of repetition, he tells Dot that it is only the fear of a long stay in the hospital that keeps him from reporting his back pain. It must be getting worse because he’s complained twice and that’s not like him.

Today’s mail brought a little card from Dot, a letter from his dad and one from a buddy telling him how much he hates the Army. “He’s been in two years and has had nothing but dirty, rotten deals every since. Wishes he’d joined the Navy instead.”

He asks about Dot’s friend Cynthia because Dot hasn’t mentioned her in about six weeks. “She seemed like a nice kid,” says Dart. That’s the only opinion of Cynthia I’ve ever heard anyone express.

Not recalling whether or not he ever thanked her for the sewing kit, he thanks her again. He’s especially enamored with the thimble that will make attaching a button to a heavy coat so much easier.

Wishing her a lovely visit at Sunapee and reminding her that he loves her always, he signs off.