He sat quietly in his seat looking through the chilly smoke filled air of the ready room, fighting the panic that (?????1) him in waves. Some part of him observed the phenoms with horrified detachment.  Each wave seemed to rise, engulfing him, and recede, leaving him a few moments to marshal his reason in preparation for the next wave, though he knew that when the next wave broke reason would melt away and he would again be powerless with fear.

The (???2) stopped playing and his panic slowly died.  If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was that goddamn (???2), he thought.  It was amazing how a little unrelated thing like a popular tune could start him off.  He’d felt swell too, ever since the catapult broke on his arm carrier, and they’d sent the outfit(?) aboard the other jeep, so that they could continue to fly anti-sub patrol (??1) the division.  For two weeks he’d been plenty (??3), handling communications smoothly, making rendevous on time, getting ragers(?) all the way into the groove.  It had then been an easy operation, with little AA and no air opposition to speak of.  And now they were only a couple of days away from the New Hebrides(?) and a week on the beach, perhaps two if they got the breaks.   

 

 

 

The Murray’s

Gina and Jack (Stationary print)

 

            He stayed up all night with the army engineering crew overseeing the job of putting a new tail section on his plane.  That is to say he wandered around (??1) airship all night, looking in on the crew every two hours, hoping they’d finish the job before morning.  He couldn’t really check up on them because he didn’t know enough about that kind of work to say whether or not they were doing it correctly.  About three hours after sunset the crew leader had looked him up to tell him that there was a half inch clearance between the new horizontal stabilizer and the vertical fin, and did the (???????2) it would be all right?  It put him in an embarrassing position.  The new tail assembly had been taken from another TBF that had crash landed on the strip.  It was the only one available.  He’d either have to fly the plane or go back to the carrier by boat when it(?) put(?) into Sarapan(?) harbor for supplies.  If he failed to have the plane repaired, he’d get hell from the captain.  If he landed the plane aboard ship with half an inch of daylight between the stabilizer and fin he’d get hell from the captain.  Well, he was going to get hell any way for being shot down, so he might as well fly aboard ship before she made port.  It would spare him another night in a drafty tent eating marine chow, washing his own mess kit, wandering around at night being scared to death by jumpy marines (??3) who thought he was another Jap (??4) infiltrating behind the lines.  He told the crew chief to cover the gap with masking tape and to try to finish up by morning.  The new chief reassured him and told him he out to get some sleep.  He thanked the chief and turned the road toward the oxygen factory, (?5) that sleep was impossible for him at the moment.  The oxygen factory was the only illuminated building in the vicinity.  He could see its tower risinglike the squib Building about a quarter of a mile down the road.  The light pouring through the shell hales in the wooden and concrete walls seemed warm and friendly to him.  He walked faster thinking how miraculous the survival of the oxygen factory had been.  The machinery was built in Germany operated by the Japs, shelled by the American ships and bombed by american planes, yet the marines found it, in perfect working order

 

(end of writing)

 

 

U.S. Naval Air Station

Grosse Ile. Michigan

(stationary)

 

 

The Assistant Professor surveyed the empty auditorium for a moment, wearily gathered his notes together, and walked slowly down the center aisle toward the exit. For some reason it had been a lousy day, a damn lousy day. He didn’t couldn’t really say why. He made a half hearted attempt to determine why  From force of academic habit he made a half hearted attempt to determine why the day had been so lousy. It would have been soothing to vail against the unkind fate which had forced him to try vainly to pound precious knowledge into the head of shallow and frivolous youngsters.  But he could not in all honesty assume such a pleasingly mantylike(?) role.  His students were neither apathetic nor frivolous on the contrary most of them listened ivovshapfully(?) to every word he uttered. Nor did his dean, forceful sentences go in one ear and out the other. He was well aware that the bulk of his classes not only carefully memorized each hastily scribbled note, but thought long and seriously about his lectures. Nor could he rebel against the useless theory in which each day he expanded from the lecture platform- steril dogma unadapted to the needs of practical living.  He knew that his course in sociology was soundly based on the studies and findings of individuals well qualified for their work, people who were not only successful in their own field but also successful in the art of living- competent men and women, satisfied with their life(?) and well adjusted to their world and yet something was missing- some means of perception of understanding which would reconcile these able young intellects with the life they were living and were about to live, something besides life itself.  He turned up Boylston Street, suddenly recalling Virginia’s shopping instructions.  It seemed to him that his married life had been one long struggle with half remembered lists of things he was to buy, which Virginia carefully wrote down for him every morning, and which he seemed almost as carefully to forget every evening.  As he expected, the grocery stores were closed and he tried the delicatessen.  The shop was out of veal, but there were a few lamb chops left.  He remembered to buy extra for young Blacky, who was coming for supper.  The transaction reanimated his original train of thought.  His best student, young Blackie was a case in paint. Intelligent, sensitive, active minded and unsatisfied, unsatisfied with college, unsatisfied with the prospect of life after college- unsatisfied with the government, with the newspapers, with radio, the movies, advertisements, unsatisfied with everything.  And Blacky came to him with his problems as did so many of his students.  Unable to make anything of the undeniable truths auttried(?) in sociology 2B they spoke to the professor after classes, stopped him in the halls with serious faces and carefully phrased questions, and some, as in the ase of Blackie, found their way into his home, seeking the word in the very sanctity of his study. 

 

 

U.S. Naval Air Station

Grosse Ile. Michigan

(stationary)

 

Proposal Story—The Escapists 

Prologue—conversation ‘twixt young escapist + ass’t professor– professor is “I”

1)    Plans for escape- characters “I”- slim- the naturalist- Navy- we meet during college + later war South Sea’s sister Harry- + Harriet- Slim Sparky- The naturalist- Hartford + Dee

2)    War is over- money saved- ship obtained- island picked- we go there

3)    Utopia– we follow our bent-intimations of fundamental human characteristics popping up self centered egotistic(?) can’t live with each other or without- civilization best because we can be still impersonal and gregarious

“I” am bossy, hate harriet- slim cuts in an(?) Harriet- Depends on mob feeling for his inspiration- jealousy + fighting ‘twixt us two – Harry and Peg bossy.  Subtil intrigue on Harry’s part- we fight Peg stands for me yet contemptuous both have sense enough to see it won’t work out.  I get married return.  Slim can’t take it must leave.  Harriet likes it but leaves cause she can’t be left along.  Kenyon(?) returns to comlete MA with dope (?1) on delivered

4)    Disruption

Too weak to kill, only to squabble Harry + Sister have contempt- leave

5)    We leave, leaving only Hartford and Lee only ones adapted to like of recluse who stay only because we leave

Epilogue- I see them later. would you like to try again? “I would”