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  • Writer's pictureFlea Market Love Letters

June 11, 1945.

Marseille, France

11 Jun 45


I am a little weary tonight – not that I worked too hard, but it was a pip today, very warm and close and I was glad I was not obliged to work in the hot sun all day long – seems I’m allergic to the sun during working hours. But this evening is a little cooler and tonight will be just right.

I expected by this time to be in London or Paris. Had everything arranged about two weeks ago for me to leave on a trip to the United Kingdom. Made the arrangements, or rather agreed with an officer at Headquarters, to be included on the next list for the U.K. He obtained my Major’s approval and the informed me when I could expect to leave. Sent out my laundry so that I would have it in time for the trip. However —  seems some Major, our Company Commander, the proper channels were not followed in my  case, and while the other officer at Headquarters had the day off, the Company Commander substituted another name for mine and when the officer returned to work the following day it was too late to do anything about it, except bitch, which he did and became involved in an argument with the Company Commander. I knew nothing of this until the travel orders came through and I learned my name had been deleted. In my place McMahon from our section, who I recommended to the Major, to leave after my trip, went instead. Was I boiling! It was to me a dirty trick and all because some Major decided to be too GI about the entire affair. My name has now been submitted through channels in writing, but I’m afraid my goose is cooked as the two officers, I understand, are still feuding about who has the last word in granting leaves.  In the meantime I’m screwed. That’s the Army.



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