The man who begins his letter with a statement about how little time he has to write today somehow manages to crank out eight pages, never the less. He tells Dot he plans to wash his mountain of dirty clothes the same way he did last night – not at all.

He relates a “punny” story about an animated training film he had in class. It’s not worth re-typing here, but you can read it from the digital pages if you’re interested. I find it interesting that he mentions the “sound movies” they use for training. Was that unusual technology, I wonder?

The upheaval on Treasure Island continues. Their bunks are crammed together and are stacked three high. His is higher off the floor than his head is. “They issued me my parachute and flight suit and signed me up for flight pay before issuing my new top bunk,” he quips. He goes on to say that the construction of the bunks is very flimsy and he gets quite nervous whenever he or one of his bunk mates gets in or out of bed.

He’s glad she liked his two-volume letter, especially the part about picnics. In answer to her comments about his political perspective, he assures her that he cares very strongly about who is elected President. He suspects, however, that he and Dot are on opposite sides of the issue and he doesn’t want to cause a disagreement between them. To keep peace, he declines to say which man would get his vote. (He’s unable to actually cast a vote because he won’t be 21 until after the election.)

Here’s a nice little story, so typical of Dart: “Had a chance (which I turned down) for being picked up by a pair of racy-looking quail in a convertible Saturday P.M.  Looked like a good set-up, if I were that kind of guy. I am not.” I’d say he’s a one-woman guy.

He went to San Mateo about 30 miles south of ‘Frisco on Sunday. He’s been quite impressed with how lovely California is. “Even the roads and railway tracks are bordered by flowers instead of weeds, grass or sand.”

Although he closes now, he’ll be back again today with four more pages.

What Dart deems a useless weekend has come to a close without him accomplishing “one thing of lasting value or importance.” The morning began with another impromptu jam session on some so-called musical instruments until a grumpy group complained so loudly the “musicians” had to cease. Dart’s beef is that the very guys who complained are the ones who feel no shame at coming in at 3:00 A.M., loud and drunk whenever they go out on liberty.

While on cleaning detail recently, he was able to get into a heretofore forbidden area of the fire control shop. Being the technophile that he is, Dart was thrilled to get a close look at the “director,” a metal turret-like box from which all the calculations are made for firing the big guns on a ship. He describes it as a “crowded, cluttered, cramped place,” and “an overwhelming array of electrical and mechanical gadgets for destruction.”

Before signing off on this letter, he mentions the letter he wrote last Sunday night. “I don’t know whether I should have written such a passionate letter, and whether I should have said just what I did. Maybe that letter was just a little too forward. Just the same, Dearest, it’s the way I feel.”

The thing is, I don’t have a letter from Dart written on September 13. I wonder if, when re-reading these letters to each other back in the 1990s, before sealing them up and storing them, my parents may have removed some of the racier stuff. With their willingness to share the nearly 6,000 pages which are to be posted here, I have no room for complaint. They were certainly entitled to “censor” whichever ones they chose, but I hope for my mother’s sake she still recalls at least the mood of that missing letter. It’s my guess that nobody could write a passionate love letter quite like Dart Peterson!

Dot is happy to hear about all the Petersons accumulating on Treasure Island, but she really only cares about one of them. She’s confident that if you stacked all the others up, they would still not equal Dart.

She remarks that his hand tool class sounds pretty tough, but she cautions him not to study too hard. (Can you hear the sarcasm?) She’s also glad to hear that his swimming is coming along so well. She suggests that if he gets a long leave, he could swim home by way of the gulf of Mexico.

She goes into a long and humorous description of her trip to the dentist this morning. She has a knack for exaggeration, I’d say. She ends up by saying that her dentist is Dr. Howgate (Cynthia’s father) and he is a dear, sweet man. “He’s really swell, and right now, so is my jaw.”

She assures him that his letters are up to their old standard, so he can quit worrying and just concentrate on writing more. She apologizes for writing less.