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Dear Bess, I miss you so much. These past six weeks in Germany have really gotten me down. Every night, we eat the same thing: sausages, wiener schnitzel, sauerbraten, knockwurst, bratwurst... I'm getting so tired of spiced meats shoved into phallic-looking tubes. I could sure go for some good old American food like frankfurters and hamburgers! The boys are all swell. Last night, we sat around telling each other about our sweethearts back home and passing around their pictures. This one guy, Roger, is kind of weird. He wouldn't show us a picture of "Sam," his sweetie. And when somebody called her "Samantha," he freaked out and started shouting, "Don't call my sweetie 'Samantha'!" There sure is something oddball about him, all right, but nobody knows exactly what. Heck, I don't ask, and he doesn't tell. Maybe he's shell-shocked. Then there's this other guy, Kennedy. He's a real jerk. He's always stealing off into town and cavorting with the local women. Last night, he stole all the photos of our sweethearts, and wouldn't give them back unless we promised to vote Democrat. Then he got all liquored up on some hooch, stripped to his boots, and ran around in the snow shouting, "Hey, look at me! Ich bin ein Berliner!" I guess he's pretty funny. I'll vote Democrat, just for him. I can't wait to see you, Bess. As soon as I get off that boat, let's make out in Times Square! Make sure your sister Trudy comes and brings her camera. It'll make a swell picture for a magazine cover someday. Well, I'm off to kill some Krauts now. Sarge says I've got to try harder; I'm just not killing as many damn dirty Krauts as I should be. Give my best to everybody back home. Love always, Wally
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