B007RT1UH4 EBOK (3 page)

the Christy affair: Christy was a boyhood friend, otherwise reference unknown.

Max Keezer: a menswear shop founded in 1895, located in Harvard Square at the time.

To Edith Gaddis

Mathews Hall - 31

Cambridge, Massachusetts

[19 October 1941]

Dear Mother—

Could it be that Dolly and her ilk are slipping? They seem to be failing us. I don’t know, here it is Saturday afternoon and I’m still flat listening to the Dartmouth game. My temp stays right around 100 tho it’s been down to 99 and up to 101 but I feel like hanging up. Harvard just made a touchdown and the stands are going crazy—me too only for a different reason—because I’m not there. I’ll bet there’ll be a hot time tonite.

Well I’ve decided one thing—they told me that they can’t keep you here if you insist on going so come Tuesday or Wednesday and I’m still the same I’m leaving and see if I’ll get well outside on my own. I’m not getting anywhere here—only disgusted.

The food here is supposed to be good but I think it’s pretty sad and not half as good as Union food.

They’re still making their crazy blood tests which never show a thing—what a bunch of jerks!

Hoping to have better reports soon—

Love

Bill

To Edith Gaddis

Cambridge, Massachusetts

[23 October 1941]

Dear Mom—

I’m feeling a lot better and I think the temp has been dropping a little—not normal yet but someday I suppose. The only effects are my ankles are very weak and I have a pot belly! But I guess exercise will cure both. I’m not up long enough to feel dizzy—not on my treks to the bathroom anyway. [...]

The only studying I’ve done is that 100 pages of French outside reading—the exam in it is today so I guess I’ll have to make it up too. Somehow this place isn’t condusive to study and I haven’t felt like it until the last couple of days.

I’m only taking 4 subjects—which is minimum—but 2 (Physics and Eng[lish literature] I) are pretty tough. However there’s no backing down or changing now—I’ll just hang on and hope for the best.

Love

Bill

To Edith Gaddis

Cambridge, Massachusetts

[4 November 1941]

Dear Mother—

Gosh—Dr. Contratto must have written you an encouraging letter—we were so certain I’d be out for the next Army game and now you don’t mention it, but say you’re coming up—I tell you gee—I feel
good
and have no temperature at
all
—always normal now; only a small stomach which seems to be going down slowly—I still think I’ll be out for Saturday’s game—I can’t see why not, and yet this whole thing is so screwy and is getting me so mad—that is, if I don’t get out by Saturday.

I’d like to know what those two thot about the ultimate outcome—I don’t see why I can’t make up 4 weeks’ work—I’m not worrying about that—my English A is almost made up already; my Eng I reading is getting done; Physics and French I’m letting go, but I think I might be able to catch up on them even without tutors, tho tutors might prove to be adviseable. I don’t see why I should worry about being a freshman next year—unless Dean Leighton suggested it—because I can do this work and I’m getting out soon, or know why.

As for talk of my graduating class—I doubt if many of us will graduate. That is far ahead any way, and even so I’ll be draft-meat in a couple of years, and I’m going to beat them to it. [...]

Love

Bill

Dr. Contratto: Dr. Andrew W. Contratto, who practiced in Cambridge at this time.

To Edith Gaddis

Cambridge, Massachusetts

[13 November 1941]

Dear Mother—

The freighter to L.A. sounds great—just perfect and I’d like it best if possible. 10,000 tons is a fair sized ship—it sounds good and ought to ride well. I think the Japs are the least of our worries—time seems to be the thing now. I might stay in L.A. for a couple of days and send ahead to find out about right reservations to my destination. I think as for cost it may be even if not slightly less, considering 21 days aboard ship with meals is equivalent to 3 weeks of boarding
somewhere
.

That’s swell about the 15% on American Airlines and it would be fairly and comparatively inexpensive to fly to Baltimore with time at home such a premium.

If it is at all possible please pull every string to make the freighter trip possible—it would be just what I wanted and would work out more perfectly and best for me if it can be done—

Love

Bill

P.S. She’s a midget

P.P.S.—What is time of sailing from Baltimore?

the Japs are the least of our worries: three weeks later the Japanese would bomb Pearl Harbor.

To Edith Gaddis

[
WG left Harvard on November 21, and a week later shipped out from Baltimore on the SS
West Portal
.
]

Barker Hotel

2000 Miramar Street

Los Angeles, California

[2 January 1942]

Dear Mom.

It is such a long time since I wrote and I don’t know what customs in Panama let thru that I’ll have a hard time remembering everything.

We were half way thru the Canal when Japan declared war, having arrived at Colon early that morning (Atlantic side). At 7 o’clock the canal was blacked out except for guide lights on the banks and the ship ran with only running and mast head and stern lights. We reached Balboa late that nite (pacific side) and despite war went ashore while ship took on oil. Panama City wasn’t blacked-out and it was really an intriguing city. Then we returned to the boat and sailed late the next afternoon. About 9 that nite however things in the Pacific were getting pretty lively as we swung around and were anchored in Panama Bay next morning. We stayed there for nine days, with quite a few other ships—twenty five at once sometimes—blacked out always and continuously shifting position. Altho we didn’t get ashore often, and when we did we couldn’t go further than Panama City (I mean across the isthmus to Cristobal) for comparitively short times as the ship was likely to leave any minute—awaiting naval orders and even the captain wasn’t sure. I did get a roommate in Panama—his name was “Davey” Abad, a native Panamanian who was light weight (I think) boxing champion of the world! He was really quite a character—sort of genial, sloppy, tough, and paunchy, about 34, and his only faults that I think of now were really ripping nightmares he would get and bounce around in the top bunk and yell out in Spanish until I thot it might be unsafe to room with him; one night he was really going and kicked the light right off of the ceiling!—I used to have to light a match when I came in at night and say “It’s me, your room mate, Davey—” and be ready to duck. They subsided however and we got along quite well. Then he used to come into the dining salon patting a large tan stomach, usually exposed by a shirt with one button, and one night Ross had a miserable time trying to eat cherries while Davey sat slapping his bare stomach after supper. And aside from these and the horrible manner in which he mangled and distorted the English language he was all right and really
took
me around Panama City one nite where every one seemed to know him.

Then there was a one year old baby whom I knick-named “Wetsy” (and it stuck) very appropriately because she seemed quite unable to control herself; indeed, some times she seemed almost proud of the little pools she left behind, and at
least
she was nonchalant about it. This little animated mass of sodden diapers took a liking to me—probably a strange fascination, and it was quite a mystery to everyone, including myself, because of the way I treated her. Despite the way I sort of kicked her as she walked unsteadily down the deck, or squirted her milk in her face to see her squint, or pulled her hat down over her eyes, or tempted her toward unsafe perches on the edge of the hatch or near the rail and told her mother about the dire plans I had for her future in the way of “hotfoots” or seeing if she would float, or the way I sort of carried her slung under one arm and bounced and shook her (which she actually seemed to enjoy), she would spread her arms out and get a downright jolly look on her face and make weird gurgling noises (resembling the Bronx cheer) and weave an unsteady path toward me, usually ending up on her face, when ever she saw me. Needless to say her mother was slightly worried and probably expected me to come back from one of our jaunts with a bloody mass under my arm, but Wetsy weathered them all—she really could take it. Her mother couldn’t see her resemblance to a cocker spaniel puppy which I pointed out, and looked sort of horrified when I mentioned King Herod or Jonathan Swift’s “Modest Proposal” after Wetsy had put in a particularly hard nite at our expense, but all in all was a remarkably good sport through it all.