5 April 1956
One thing I will say for myself that can’t be said for you lately—I write every day, almost. Another mail call with nothing from the Margasons; nothing from anybody, as far as that goes. Sure is good to get mail. Oh, well.
128 days to go. I keep hearing the rumor that everyone whose discharge date falls prior to mid-September will be released the first part of July. This is a wonderful rumor, & the only thing that keeps me from believing it completely is that the only guys I hear it from are getting discharged prior to mid-September.
Slightly rough today, & I loved it. Also a little on the chilly side. Unfortunately, some of the guys fresh out of boot camp did not find the rocking & rolling quite as enjoyable as I did.
Went back on the fantail twice to watch the waves—they fascinate me. Those poor little destroyers trailing us really take a beating in weather like this. They pitch & toss like a wild bull—charge head on into huge waves & come rearing up in a fountain of spray, till their black keels show above the water. With us, we ride several waves at once, & the action of one more or less cancels out the other. But the destroyers ride each one as it comes, rising high out of the air & crashing down the other side, only to plow into another.
Today was "M" day, & it went off very smoothly, all things considered. I signed my name 180 times in about three hours, & 90 men came & went.
Saturday we arrive in Valencia, & I may go ashore & make arrangements to call home Sunday. Of course, by the time you get this, Sunday will have come & gone.
Imagine—we complain when it takes six days to get a letter halfway around the world; two hundred years ago—even one hundred—it took three months to get as far.
Ten after nine—thank God the days go as fast as they do. I’d go nuts if they went slower.
Well, again it is time to go to bed, even though it is short.