Dear Mother, Dad, and Jocie;
We’ve been working so hard out here but it is almost impossible to find time to write. We live in barracks now. All the other cadets say we are lucky-? c.x.!!, and I guess we are. I’ve made a lot of friends out here and they are very nice kids. Well, I shouldn’t say kids because two of them are 24 years of age. One of the fellows, Jack Holker by name, was manager of an insurance agency in Minneapolis. All of the fellows are very well mannered gentlemen. They really stress table manners out here.
We get up at 5:30 in the morning, dress, wash our faces and teeth. Then we form in front of the barracks for physical drill and roll call.
It really is hard out here to get classified as a pilot, bombardier, or navigator. We took psychological test for a day and a half straight. They were really stiff. We haven’t had time to take our flight physical yet we’ve been rushing so much.
If I ever make pilot I think I’ll faint dead away. I thought all you had to do was just hop into a plane and start off, but we have to go through nine weeks of ground school training. If you see an officer with wings on his tunic shake his hands and pat him on the back because he deserves it if anyone does.
We have some washouts in the barracks with us. Washouts are the fellows who couldn’t fly a plane well enough to suit Uncle Sam. When the instructor says to climb to 5000 feet, he doesn’t mean 5001 feet, he means 5000.
These fellows who can’t make the grade as a pilot are reclassified as a navigator or bombardier. I just hope I can pass this physical and mental we are going to take. All the old fellows told me it would be easy for me to make the grade but I just can’t help worrying. I guess I’m the worrying type. You know who I got that from don’t you mother?
Well, I really should tell you a little bit about this place. The camp hasn’t been completed yet so everything isn’t completed yet. This place in a few years will be the biggest of its kind in the world.
We march everywhere, to eat, to drill, to go to tests, everywhere!!
When we finally get to the mess room there isn’t a loud noise of clanking spoons as you’d expect. Everything is done by a command from our C.O. (Commanding officer). We stand behind our certain places at attention until given the command to sit down. Even then we can’t touch our plates or place our hands on the table, until another command is given. This sounds like it’s terribly strict but it’s good for us and especially some kids who haven’t had much training from their parents.
Well Mother and Dad it certainly was hard to leave you at the station and it would be twice as hard now. When I lay awake at night I think of how I disregarded your corrections but now I’m really glad you were persistent enough to correct all of my mistakes. As soon as I see a kid I can tell what kind of home environment he was brought up in.
Well darlings the C.O. is calling the men for mess so I’ll have to shorten my letter.
Please don’t worry about me.
Your loving son,
Jim.
PS
Give my love to Thelma.