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New Guinea
March 31, 1944Dear Eva,
Thank you for your letters of Feb. 28, March 12, and 17; it’s odd that you haven’t received any of mine yet. Your switching from typewriter to longhand makes the V-letters twice as interesting inasfar as I have to reread them in order to get an idea of what’s in them. The army misclassified me at the induction center; I should have been placed in “intelligence” – department of deciphering and decoding. (No reflection on your handwriting, mind you. People have asked me where in the hell I learned to write; most of them can’t read mine, either.)
Do you remember the famous painting of Holbein’s, “The Poor Poet” I think it is called, wherein a starved poet sits in his bed, doing his writing while he holds an open umbrella to keep the rain that’s coming through a leak in the ceiling from pouring down his bed? Well, it’s raining cats and dogs right now and my tent is full of leaks; I’ve tried everything to keep my cot dry, without avail.
While I’m writing this, water keeps dripping down my back; when I move the leak moves with me. If I were in a playful mood I’d make a game out of dodging raindrops, but I’m too wet to be playful.
We had a few spring-like days already, especially after rain which cleans air and plants the freshness of which gives one the impression of Spring tra la la. Spring here isn’t Spring in the States; when it’s Spring in the States it’s Autumn here, you see. (Simple, isn’t it?) It won’t be long before Winter will set in. (Jingle bells, jingle bells…..)
Otherwise everything is about the same as before. I’m getting kind of sick of this place, I’m allergic to too much mud and there is definitely too much much around here. The other night I got stuck up to my knees trying to find out whether I had a flat tire. I felt like a young fly stuck on fly paper (I had an advantage over the fly, being able to cuss like nobody’s business).
Well sis, that’s about all there is to say at present.
I trust you are well and in good spirits, etc. Have you become used to the surroundings of your new job yet?
Well, this is all and their ain’t no more.
Love,
Your one and only
brother,
HarryP.S. Give my regards to Paul, Ursula and family, the Travises [?], and Mayor Rossi (Has he been elected mayor again?)
This letter was written the same day as the V-mail letter to Hilda which was posted yesterday. I don’t know why he would choose to send some letters by snail mail and others by V-mail. Perhaps when he wanted to include an enclosure like a photo?
In all the letters we’ve seen from both World War I and II, a huge amount of time and space is spent on the mail - how long it takes, whether it arrives, how it was sent (Clipper, ship, V-mail, etc.), which letters were shared among relatives. Even in the best of times, hearing from relatives and friends was precious. And these were not the best of times.
The painting Harry refers to in his letter appears not to have been painted by Holbein, but instead was The Poor Poet by Carl Spitzweg. The link to the painting includes a link to a video “tour” of the work. Like his mother Helene, Harry paints vivid pictures in words describing his experience and surroundings. Like her, he refers to their shared artistic and musical knowledge to make his letters even more vivid for his sister, and to acknowledge their shared language and experience.