Thank God the war games are finally in their final phase. I am the red dust, the earth of North Carolina, inside and out. We are all exhausted; our bodies are invaded by chiggers. We fight a losing battle to hold them off, to dislodge them. I am thoroughly sick of the maneuver routines, willing to do anything to escape. I sometimes ask myself what am I doing here? It's a good question without a rational answer, particularly if you consider war to be a terrible way to resolve issues. Actually, no one is going to argue the necessity of war games, necessary, to toughen troops, and provide the generals, and lower eschelon officers, with field experience. One solider in Co. "C," who claims he saw action in the Spanish Civil War, said what we were going through was far worse than "real battle," except you stood a very good change of getting through it without getting shot. We are exhausted by the marching around in mud, digging endless fox-holes, and firing blanks at the so-called enemy, the red army. The troops are divided into two large units, we scramble around, moving tactically for favorable positions, where judges determine who comes out the winner. Actually, the men are mostly First Army, the Big Red "One," it is called, as I have said, a reknown outfit which distinguished itself in World War I. Co. "C," 84th Combat Eng. B. is attached to different regiments, moving around quite a bit, doing all sorts of nasty missions, like mine-sweeping, laying mines, building wooden bridges (no easy task with the streams swollen), making bangalore torpedoes, corduroying roads, blasting trees down with explosives to block roads, and playing the infantry role if we are called upon to do so. We are plagued by the constant rain, we function, if you could call it that, in a vast morass of Carolina "muck." Vehicles of many kinds, including tanks, slide off the roads, getting bogged down, unable to move, I don't believe I have been dry for months, even perhaps longer, as one loses track of time under conditions like this. My God, Jean, I would give anything, anything, to have a shower and dry clothes. Ah, just to snuggle up in a warm blanket, in a shelter with a roof over my head! I was pleased to read it was a beautiful autumn on Long Island, everything saturated with color, and clear blue skies. How I wish I could be there with you! Maybe, love, with a little luck, I'll get a furlough following maneuvers, and before we are shipped somewhere else even less attractive than North Carolina. I'd like to write more, but I have just heard the mess call: "Come and Get It!" And I better get there quickly to get my share. As I write this sentence, a bunch of guys rush past me, canteens and mess kits rattling as they slosh in the ankle-deep mud. So, forgive me if I stop short of everything I wanted to say. The stomach, especially here, is insatiable. I'm always hungry, no doubt due to the enormous amount of energy used, daytime, as well as on night missions, which has been happening quite a bit lately. So I grab by eating tools hastily, drop the writing materials, and I'll follow the group who just passed by. It is later now as I resume writing. I've returned from mess, eating something they spilled into my mess kit, but I haven't the slightest idea what it was because we are operating under blackout, and although it isn't quite dark, you cannot distinguish details easily. I'm cheating with my little flashlight, as I continue, and add a few more words about the countryside: It consists mainly of flat land, the usual red earth, and it is criss-crossed with dirt roads which are little more than worn paths, not very wide, some, not all, with the drainage ditches. The land has a barren look which justifies its reputation as a wasteland, not really suited for anything, especially farming. The foliage is sparse, and here and there, clumps of pine grow, but they too, have that sad look, forlorn and desolate. In the distance, there are rolling hills against the sky, parched land, mostly, reaching for the horizon, except of course, during the rainy season, which the "Brass" has chosen for the war games. I don't suppose there would be an "appropriate" time for maneuvers, as it is a toss-up between the dry and rainy seasons. It is a land with a threat about it. Its insect inhabitants are voracious, and the temperatures play a devastating role in making you uncomfortable. In the end the land takes over; it dominates all aspects of your existence; it becomes a monstrous thing. Sadly, Jean, I've done little drawing down here; all my time, which isn't very much, is devoted to letter-writing, and that is difficult enough. None of us, I confess, have much energy beyond that required to function; to perform our job in this place. Hitler, and what he represents, could not be worse that what we endure. Private Higgins, my friend from Brooklyn, voiced his opinion that being shot at might relieve the tedium we suffer. "It would get our attention," he said, bringing his rifle up to his shoulder, and squinting at an imaginary enemy. It seems these games go on forever. Each day dawns with a new, unpleasant surprise, making you desperate to get back to civilized surroundings again. One thing has become clear to me from this experience, and that is the total confusion on a battlefield; there appears to be no order at all, a great deal of noise, and no one in particular knows what is going on, even the generals who stand before their maps scratching their heads! I hope when we are in the real thing, that this will not be the case, but, perhaps, I was thinking, this is the way of war; that there never, not ever, will be any degree of neatness, you know, everything in place kind of quality, about such terrible events. Don't ask me how, but somehow, things get sorted out in a reasonably, orderly, fashion. But look, make no mistake about it, Jean, this is a very dangerous business. Men are killed, mainly by accident, which as you might expect, is a common occurrence. Machines, the whole panoply of war, rush along narrow roads, with absolutely no regard for the consequences. The red clay sticks like glue to everything; right now, as I write, it is early morning, the sun, hurrah, has peeked above the horizon as though it was reluctant to begin another day. Then, as it breaks free of the restraints which hold it, it is a beautiful golden ball casting its light on a gray world, you hear the roar of thousands of vehicles starting their engines. In another hour, we will be on the move, taking up new positions, digging more fox holes, or we might be on some special assignment. In the fury of this activity, I try to concentrate on us, on the future, to ignore this, although, as you would think, very difficult. The army swallows you up, digests you, and what emerges, is only a partial human being. Still, one hopes that the present bad experience, shall, in the end, only be a bad memory, stories of historical events, to experience, shall, in the end, only be a bad memory, stories of historical events, to tell our children.