Dart has nothing good to say about Point Montara Anti Aircraft Training Center, where he will spend the next four days on gunnery practice.

He uses words like “colorless,” “gloomy,” “dreary,” and “a hole” to describe the disagreeable surroundings. It’s a gray, foggy day with a damp chill that eats its way into his bones. The fog is so thick that the plane can’t even tow the target, so there’s nothing to do but wait for the air to clear. There are no decent showers, the chow is lousy, and he cannot send or receive mail while he’s here. The bleakness is accentuated by the blast of a foghorn every 45 seconds, round the clock. In a sort of silent protest, he intends to forego shaving until he returns to Treasure Island.

He writes his fervent hope that she will never have to stay at a place like this.