April 25, 1944.
For Mother’s Day
In your last letter you said it was eight months ago that I left the “good old U.S.A.” How well I can remember that morning as can the rest of the boys. We had watched the loading of the ship all morning, looked out at the statue of Liberty through field glass and kided with the sailors on dock about which was the best, the army or the navy. We never will forget those cheers and shouts of “good luck soliders” as the ship puffed out into the bay. Its been eight months and probably will be eight more before we return to the U.S.A. yet the time has gone quickly with all the interesting things we’ve done, people we’ve met, places we’ve seen, the results of war the filth and beauty of a foreign land, the highest mountain, the first time we ever picked an orange from a tree, or saw a camel caravan, these are things you can never forget. Just as you can never forget your home and those who you left behind you, who are so proud of you. You in turn are proud of them, who wouldn’t be proud of a sister who would give her blood to help, I can remember a few times when I was back home I thought about it and shutter everytime I thought of watching my blood fill up a bottle. Of a mother who writes, “today I took some more grease to the butcher for your big gun so you blow those Germans to hell”. Who in her red cross white uniform spends her time sewing dresses for littles of Italy.
Of a dad who works seven days a week at a job which is not the best, buying more than his share of bonds he makes his son proud of him.
Well Mom, on Mother’s Day just read this over again and you’ll know why I don’t feel sorry at not being with you on that day. The best thing a son can do is make his mother proud of him, and are their any mothers more proud than those with a star in the window, and a soldier in their heart.
Love as ever,
Your Son Billy