I quickly caught on then and said “Oh, yes. We have a very nice Tourist Center which was a drive-in bank. There are brochures about our lovely small town and bumper stickers that proclaim ‘Chester – We Know Where It Is.’” I gave directions and the Lexus drove off.

Five minutes later as I continued my walk the lady and her companion drove slowly by me in the opposite direction. I could see that they both appeared angry and upset. It was then I realized I had never given it a second thought that I had directed these city folks to the town tourist center that had been closed for over a year, and the only “facility” — i.e. rest room — was a portable toilet (painted sky blue) at the back of the drive-in. There was a “For Sale” sign in front. I guess this wasn’t the kind of place they would want to freshen up in.

In a bestselling book, news anchor Tom Brokaw called the men and women who served in the Second World War the Greatest Generation. And after Elizabeth Van Wazer of Essex read an article in the magazine of the American Association of Retired People (AARP) reporting that some 1,000 veterans of World War II pass away every week, she decided she needed to do something.

Van Wazer, British by birth although she has lived in America since the l950s, joined the Royal Navy during the war. Recently she invited four Connecticut friends who also served in the military during the Second World War to share their memories. With her, reminiscing around a table on her terrace, were United States Air Force veterans Bob Blair of Chester and Bill Cooney of Marlborough, along with Robert Johnson of Deep River and Doug Demarest of Essex, both of whom did their military service in the United States Navy.

“There are so few of us left to tell our stories and we’re in our 80s and 90s,” Van Wazer said. She showed a picture of World War II veterans in Essex taken on Memorial Day several years ago. Now, she is the only one in the photograph who is still living.

Van Wazer, who grew up in Liverpool, said she couldn’t wait to join the Royal Navy at 18. “Everybody that could was joining something. I was desperate to get in,” she said. Once in the service, she worked as a secretary. She was in London during the period of the Blitz when German rockets flew into the city every night and Londoners huddled underground in subway stations for safety.

“All you heard was the whistle they made as they passed over,” Van Wazer said of the rockets. “If the whistle stopped suddenly instead of fading away, then you knew the rocket was falling and you’d better pray.”

Demarest said the danger in the west Pacific where he served on a destroyer escort was not only from Japanese submarines but also from destructive typhoons. “I was a deck officer at the age of 20. That’s an awful lot of responsibility for a young man,” he recalled.

Johnson didn’t serve overseas, but at a naval base in Pensacola, Florida. “I was in the office. It sounds like a racket, but that’s where they needed me,” he said.

Blair remembered his last flight, his 25th, as a top gunner on a B-24 fighter plane based in Italy and flying missions over Austria. That’s the flight on which the plane was hit, badly injuring the pilot and another crew member. With the plane badly damaged, the rest of the crew decided to jettison its bombs and land at an American base in northern Italy. Blair, who wasn’t harmed, was sent back to the United States to train on B-29s for the Pacific theater. “The war ended before that happened,” he said.

Cooney wasn’t so lucky. He served with the 8th Air Force in England and was shot down on a mission over Germany. He parachuted to safety, but spent the next year and a half as a prisoner of war in a German camp on a peninsula jutting out into the Baltic Sea. The prisoners, he said, were fed twice a day, always the same thing-black bread and soup. “What I remember was how cold it was,” he says. At the prison camp, he says, the guards told all the prisoners that Germany would win the war because it had the V-1 and V-2 rockets. The prisoners, however, had a comeback. “We told them we had Henry Ford and he had the V-8,” Cooney said.

The veterans recalled the small things as well as large outlines of the war. They remembered the sound of Glenn Miller and the words of the songs like “Don’t Fence Me In” and “Chattanooga Choo Choo.” Blair remembered the Andrews Sisters’s singing “Rum and Coca Cola.” He also remembered the small survival kit sewn into his flight vest that contained a needle and thread, a compass, a knife, and clean underwear. “I’ll never forget that-the clean underwear,” he said.

Cooney recalled the British airmen who described the Americans as overpaid, over-sexed, and over here. The Americans, in return, described their British colleagues as underpaid, under-sexed, and under Eisenhower.

Van Wazer recalled complaining so loudly about the food served when she was stationed in Scotland that she was brought up on court martial. Defending herself, she won acquittal.

All the veterans remember an attitude toward the conflict that was different from more modern wars. “We knew who the enemy was. It’s different today with terrorism,” Blair said. Demarest pointed out that the conflict had almost unanimous public support. “It was the last popular war. The most important thing then was that the whole country was behind the war. We have not had a war like that since then,” he observed.

That feeling, everybody agreed, was manifested in different ways. Cooney said that if a soldier with a weekend pass hitchhiked, someone would always pick him up. And if you went into a bar, Blair added, the drinks were always free. “You couldn’t buy a drink,” Cooney agreed.

After her discharge from the Royal Navy, Van Wazer took a job at an American army base, married an American, and moved to this country. Professionally, she was an interior decorator and a real estate agent.

Johnson also had a successful career in real estate. He recalled when he got back from the service, he partnered with somebody from Hartford who was supposed to teach him the business. “After two months I had sold six houses and he hadn’t sold any,” Johnson said.

Demarest, who graduated from Yale with an engineering degree, ran his own engineering firm.

Blair served for 22 years as first selectman of Chester.

Today, a few walk with canes; others walk with care. “We’re a bit unsteady on our feet,” Van Wazer said as they gathered for a group picture. “All except Doug; he plays tennis, or is it racquetball?” she asked.

Their uniforms, all the veterans admitted, would no longer fit; mostly, they agreed, because of somewhat-expanded waistlines. And their military service is just one of the memories of a full life, but a memory of which they are proud. When people see the letters “POW” on his license plate, Cooney said, they sometimes still thank him. Van Wazer said the same thing has happened to her when people learn she was in the war. Still, Van Wazer, with her hair attractively coiffed, her smile lively, and her conversation forthright, said with a wide smile that people tell her they are amazed to learn she is old enough to have served in the military at that time.

And Blair explained what motivated his generation-a generation of young men and women more than 60 years ago-to face the possibility of death on a regular basis. “You see,” he said, “we never thought it was going to happen to us.”

(This article was published in The Valley Courier on July 30, 2010 and reprinted verbatim.)

Another boring job was at the Russel Weaving Co. in Middletown, again second shift and I didn’t dislike the place as much as the machine shop. There were circumstances that ended that job in 8 short hours. At midnight I stepped out of the warm factory into the sub-zero weather. My car wouldn’t start as the gas line was frozen. Nothing left to do but go back into the factory, get into a big cardboard box and try to sleep until morning, when I called a wrecker and had the car towed home, a net loss of $15.75. I don’t remember what I did those 8 hours of work. I never went back.

A new job opportunity closer to home at the Verplex Factory. This was a lamp shade manufacturer in Essex. I got the job of spray painting the shades in a three sided spray booth. I kind of liked the job and stayed with it. When the front office posted a job opening for payroll clerk, I quickly applied and found myself taking care of paying 150 employees, most who were on piece work and would run you out of town if you shorted them one shade in 10,000. I learned all the machines and became good at the job. I remembered everyone’s name and number.

I was engaged and needed more money. Someone talked me into leaving the comfortable job and becoming an apprentice to a mason contractor. They talked of big money. The work was heavy and dirty. No ready mix cement in those days, everything was done by hand. I stayed until I learned enough to build a chimney for a friend on his Quonsett Hut. (Quonsetts were built after the war from the military – they were made of galvanized metal and looked like 3/4 of a barrel cut horizontally and turned with the corners upward – many people used them.) Unfortunately a neighbor of my friend thought that my building of the chimney was secondary to me beeing there and told a few of his friends that it wasn’t proper for me to be there with the wife of my friend being home, and her husband away at work. I can only say that I built my first and only chimney of my mason career for experience.

After the mason job I thought it best to get back into some lighter work, thus my sales career and the political job which I retired from 1989. The job, First Selectman was held for 22 years and was in my opinion an extension of my sales career. Know your product or business, work hard at it, take care of complaints and do the little extras.

I have sold shoes “mail order,” seeds, Cloverine Salve at age 10, building materials, real estate and cars. I had a brief career trying to sell White Magic Soap through some type of chain whereby if you get other people to sell for you there is a profit. I didn’t like the set-up and didn’t stay with it. The same type of deal was offered with a vitamin company. I smelled something fishy and wouldn’t touch it.

After retirement I spent 3 years cooking, built a deck and shed for my son, painted my house, answering questions from well meaning friends such as is there life after retirement? and how well you look, even though they are thinking God, he’s aged. My wife Mildred reminded me that I was quite healthy and perhaps a part time job would be good for me, and under her breath “and for me too.”

I looked at the paper, the news wasn’t good. Lots of lay-offs. How lucky I was having my work years behind me. Six months ago I started to get more serious about a job. I saw an ad in the Press for a part time older person. Send resume, they said. As I had no resume I simply replied that I was retired, healthy, didn’t need benefits and could work flexible hours. A call came in two weeks later. The sales manager talked with me and asked me to come down for an interview. I was scared, I hadn’t applied for a job in forty years. What would I say? Should I wear a tie? Suppose they hired me, could I do the work? I kind of hoped they would say “Sorry, you’re not qualified.” Also it was rather unnerving to hear that the guy who had the job before me had died.

They showed me around, introduced me to everyone and I promptly forgot all the names. It was mostly family – father, two sons and two daughters.

A call came on a Friday, report for work on Monday about 9:30. The job was making training films and shipping them. There were a million things to remember – U.P.S. to Australia and Second Day Air, running the films, putting on the stickers. I learned and made mistakes. I brought my lunch, and liked what I was doing, especially the people who worked with me, who accepted me, helped me and trusted me. I’m looking forward to retiring at some point if and when it comes around again.

1993, Robert J. Blair
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Note: it is now 2010. Papa Bob (at age 88) is still working for the same company — they are truly the best group of people anyone, anywhere, at any point in their career could ever hope to come across, and that is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth! “Live long and prosper,” Paulson Training!!

The ground was hard where we pitched our tent along the New York State Highway. My back started to bother me, or was I getting homesick? The miles rolled by, the fields, farms, the billboards blurting out their message “Chew Mail Pouch Tobacco,” the Burma-Shave ads spaced 5 miles apart so you would have to wait for the next line of the jingle. The silos and barns with their messages printed for getting the message across to all those passing by. The fields had been mowed leaving the stubble to push up against the tent floor. On the second night I said this is it, I can’t go any further, let’s go home, my back is killing me.

Alaska would have to wait. “Turn the car around,” I said with some authority. Mort said the people in Chester expected us to go to Alaska and we would be called quitters. It was true they had given us a solid send-off.

It was 5 in the morning when we drove into Chester, Mort was driving, he wasn’t happy to have to come back. Something came to my mind: “Don’t stay,” I said, “Let’s head towards Maine, at least it’s north.” And not as far as Alaska, I said to myself. We stopped at Skowhegan and went into a hiring hall. Jobs were listed on a big blackboard. There were plenty for experienced woods men but we didn’t qualify. Someone in the hall mentioned Kingfield, Maine as having farm work, so we headed farther north. It was after 8 in the evening and getting dark. We pulled the Chevy over to the shoulder of the road, and set up our tent. It seemed like there were wide open fields for miles and no houses.

Early next morning we heard a man’s distinctive Maine voice saying “Good morning, come over to the farm and have some breakfast with us.” His name was Ernest Meldrum, a one horse farmer. We packed up tired and grubby and drove down the country road to the Meldrum farm. The house was typical Maine, a Cape with additions stretching out to a woodshed and toilet. There was no plumbing, no screens on the open windows, and we found Mrs. (Laura) Meldrum cooking over the wood stove.

There were six children, all well behaved and polite. It seems like yesterday the years have passed so quickly. After a Maine breakfast Ernest asked what our plans were. We said looking for work. Well as it turned out we made a deal to sleep in the barn and cut pulp wood for Mr. Meldrum. We didn’t know anything about this, but we were young and strong. Each morning we left for the woods with a lunch packed by Mrs. Meldrum.

Pulp wood is sold by the cord and has to be cut in 4 foot lengths and the bark peeled off with a tool called a spud. Our pants were soon covered with pine pitch and they could stand by themselves. We got about $3.00 a cord for our work. Mr. Meldrum had to take his horse with a wood sledge and haul the wood to a roadside clearing where it was piled to await a giant logging truck to pick it up. Wood was big business.

In a few weeks we were invited to sleep in the shed and became part of the Meldrum family. We thrashed oats and picked factory beans. We went back to the woods and cut ash for handles to be sold at a higher price than pulp.

With the Meldrum family in Kingfield, Maine, 1940 - that's me, the tall guy with all the hair, far right.

With fall coming I decided to head back to Connecticut. Mort said he would stay till spring. He bought a Model T Ford and headed for California. I have seen him once in 55 years — he stopped in after 40 years, said his hellos and was on his way again.

My aborted trip to Alaska was an experience and opened my eyes to rural U.S.A.

1995, Robert J. Blair

My brother-in-law Bob Zuppe claims to be somewhat of an expert where squirrels are concerned, and came up with the idea of an iron pole to hang the feeder on. I got the new pole and moved it to a spot that my wife Mildred could see from the kitchen window while washing dishes. The squirrels found a way once again to get up the pole into the dome. My brother-in-law bought a Slinky (they were popular years ago, a coil of wire or plastic that could be extended and then retract). He wound the Slinky around the pole and let it hang down with a loose end for the squirrel to try and climb. As soon as the squirrel climbed a few feet the Slinky extended and the squirrel was back where he started. The squirrels finally chewed the plastic Slinky and it fell to the ground.

“Try Vicks Vaporub on the metal pole” was the next thing he recommended. “And if that doesn’t work heavy axle grease.” Neither helped and I wound up ruining a new pair of Lands End pants. My next move was to quit feeding altogether. I stored the rest of the seed in the cab of my Chevy pickup for safekeeping. This was a bad mistake on my part. I went out the next morning and my truck would not start. A look under the hood found that the squirrels had eaten through my wiring harness that led up through the cab to the computer and were able to squeeze through the hole to get the seeds.

After splicing 15 pairs of color coded wires I got the truck running. I decided that I would not stop feeding the squirrels completely and hope for the best. We took metal flashing and completely covered a 4×4 post with it. At this point we had moved the post to a flower bed next to a small patio where we had a table and chairs for outside eating. Things looked better, the squirrels seemed to have moved to a new neighborhood. My wife, who could now again see the feeder from her Lazy Boy let me know the squirrels are back. As they could not get up the 4×4 covered with metal they were using our nice picnic table as a gathering place to discuss their next move. Each morning the table was covered with foot prints.

I bought a bottle of ammonia thinking the smell would keep them away. “The only way is to quit feeding” my brother-in-law said but my wife wanted to watch the yellow finches and other birds come to the feeder. At this time I don’t know what my next move will be. I have called the squirrels some pretty bad names, thrown the broom at them, tried to chase them with water from the garden hose. With tongue in cheek my brother-in-law said to install an invisible fence around the property and try to catch the squirrels to put on collars and make sure they could not get on my property.

Our family lived in a two-story house in Chester. This house lacked indoor plumbing, insulation and storm windows. The only way we knew how to keep warm was by having an ample supply of wood and two stoves burning.

Our kitchen had a big range complete with baking oven and six top burners. There were draft controls for the top. You had to be somewhat of an engineer to regulate the draft devices.

The stove provided heat and allowed my mother to cook all of our meals, including the oatmeal and brown bread that she believed growing children needed.

I would come home from school, cut a thick slice of bread, coat it with “farmer’s butter” and a sprinkle of sugar, then put it into the oven for a few minutes. What a delicacy. Farmer’s butter was homemade and quite strong.

There was ample room beneath the range for our pets to sleep. My father would have the fire started in the morning, and we would make a beeline to it to prepare for the day. We also used the range to heat our bathwater.

My job was to see that the box behind the stove was filled with wood each night. Each night I would make numerous trips, arms laden with wood to burn the next day. My father brought home scraps from the factory where he worked to use as kindling.

One day during the Depression I came home from school and found the wood box already filled. It seems that a tramp had called at our house asking for food to in exchange for doing some work. My mother had obliged.

Not to be outdone by our kitchen range was our parlor stove. We were fortunate to have a cabinet type with its cast-iron innards covered by a brown baked enamel shell. We considered it a piece of furniture. When the stove was going, we would open the grate to let the heat go into the frigid bedroom area upstairs.

The summer kitchen had oil stove used for cooking and canning so we wouldn’t have to start a fire in the regular kitchen in the 90-plus-degree summer heat.

We also had a small portable oil stove that was about 30 inches high and a foot in diameter. A wire handle allowed the stove to be carried where needed. I remember taking this little stove to the outhouse on cold winter nights for warmth and a little light.

My father enlisted me at a tender age to assist in woodcutting. His tools consisted of a cross-cut saw about six feet long with handles on each end and a sharp axe and wedges. I can remember my father’s saying: Don’t ride the saw, let the saw do the work. After I had the right idea, the saw would sing and the sharp teeth would send the chips fling.

If we were lucky, we were allowed to cut up the tops of trees left by loggers. When none were available, we had to cut down standing trees.

Getting the wood home was another problem. My father usually split it and piled it up to wait for the horse-pulled wagon that would drop it off in our yard.

We then called a man who had a homemade saw-rig mounted on an old truck. He would go to many homes and cut their wood to stove length each year. The wood was lifted onto the saw table and eased into the large circular saw. On a cold day you could hear the saw singing each time the wood was guided into the saw.

My father kept the green wood separate from the seasoned because green wood could cause a chimney fire. Only a few pieces of green wood could be mixed with the seasoned. We kept our chimney clean by pulling a cedar tree up and down with a rope or chain. The soot would fall to the cleanout door and be removed.

As the 1930s progressed, so did we. My father had a silent-glow oil burner installed in the kitchen range. This unit burned kerosene. Most homes had a strong kerosene smell.

In between our wood burning and the installation of our oil burner my father had coal delivered. It was only used on special occasions. Getting the coal into the house was quite an experience. A metal coal chute was stuck through the cellar window, and the driver of the truck would ask for a bucket of water to wash down the chute. The coal would then arrive in the bin with the accompanying dust sifting through the house.

When I married in 1946, the summer kitchen was remodeled into an apartment for my wife and me. I was able to secure a second-hand pipeless furnace for heating the apartment. It used wood or coal. For hot water we had a hod-a-day stove in the basement. True to its name, the stove burned about a hod (a measure of coal) a day.

When the summer kitchen apartment became too small I purchased a large old house built about 1703. One of the features of this house was its fireplace. The first time we started a fire we sat around its opening and watched the flames lick upward. There was no way to control the draft, and all the heat in our house went up the chimney.

The fireplace now has a metal cover blocking the air from going up the chimney and is strictly for show. Its mantel boasts an array of old tools, stove lifters and other antique items.

We now have an oil-fired steam boiler with cast iron radiators. The colder it gets, the warmer we are. The steam sizzling from the end of the radiators sounds like an old team trains, or a classroom when steam pipes ran the length of the room.

With fuel oil prices far from steady, we continue to conserve whenever possible, but are happy that the past is behind us.

1990, Robert J. Blair

It may be noted that the name “Peter” is usually associated with Peter Rabbit in
the language of the animal kingdom, as in Leo the Lion.

For some reason, I named a rather forlorn, wet and bedraggled opossum Peter when he started making his nocturnal visits to our cat’s dry food dish just outside our back kitchen door in Chester. For the past two years, Peter has made his frequent visits (weather permitting) to our back yard where I also throw out table scraps along with stale bread which I purchase from the “reduced basket” at the local First National.

I never made a study of opposums’ behavior but assume they are hibernating when we miss seeing them for lengthy periods, especially when storms are coming or snow is deep. As to where Peter lives, I might guess it’s under our barn which is also home to several squirrels living in the eaves and our cat, Gypsy, who goes up the ladder to sleep in the loft.

Last summer, we also hosted a pair of barn swallows who raised a family in a nest built on top of a junction box. So far, there has not been any trouble among Peter, Gypsy and the squirrels. If I am away from home for a period of time, I find myself worrying about getting home to feed the opossum.

As Peter is a loner, I don’t expect to see any young ones tagging along, especially when I don’t know if Peter is a Mr. or a Mrs. Anyway, I will continue to throw out the scraps, fill the cat’s dish with dry food and purchase the reduced price bread and hope to catch an occasional glimpse of my friend “Peter opossum.” I have also learned to put an “O” in front of possum.

1990, Robert J. Blair

Deep River New Era,

Deep River, Conn.

My compliments to the writer of a week ago’s story on “Rags” the dog who was killed by a hit and run driver in Chester.  May I take the liberty of this article to pay tribute to two fine dogs, one from Chester, the other from Ivoryton.

Let me tell you a little about the dog from Chester.  His name was “Blackie” and he was Newfoundland and Setter mixed into ninety-five pounds of real dog.  Being very gentle, he was the pet of all the children on Pleasant Street in Chester.  People would always stop to pet him and say a few kind words.  “Blackie” had a pal named “Buffie” who belongs to the same household.  He is a little mongrel who formerly was wild and lived in the woods.  “Buffie” was gradually tamed and came to live in the house with “Blackie.”  One day last week about dusk the two dogs were out playing.  As they were crossing the road a car hit both dogs at the same time.  “Blackie” was dead the next morning and “Buffie” seriously hurt.

It seems that dogs have feelings as well as people do because the great hurt that “Buffie” has is his missing his friend “Blackie.”

Now the story of another dog named “Peter.”  His home is in Ivoryton where he was raised into a fine misture of Collie and Police.  “Peter” disappeared about two weeks ago and the owner despairingly gave him up for lost.  Eight days later “Peter” came home dragging a large fox trap on his hind leg.

If you do not know how a fox trap works, I will attempt to explain it so that you will understand the fierce struggle the dog went through trying to get home.  Instead of the trap being staked to the ground, it has two or three large grapples attached to a long chain.  These grapples catch at the slightest obstacle making progress very slow and difficult.  The purpose of these grapples is to make the animal caught in the trap think he is getting away so that he will not attempt to get out of the trap.  The grapples leave a trail which the trapper follows until he gets his animal.  Not so with the owner of this trap for he evidently seldom tended his trap.

As I am writing this article “Peter” is lying by my chair.  It is rather a sad thing to look at him as he has just had his left hind leg amputated and is still suffering from the effects of the operation.  A dog that will struggle without food or water for eight days deserves much credit.

Let us hope that a thing like this will never happen to any of our dogs again.

Sincerely,

Chas. Zuppe

Robt. Blair

U.S. Army Air Forces, Sept. 11, 1945

To the Editor

The New Era, Deep River, Conn.

I am writing this letter in order to give the public a general idea of conditions prevailing in army camps all over the country at the present time.  We in the armed forces realize that it takes time to start the demobilization of troops, but still the men in back of it must have some idea of how many surplus men they have, and a convenient method could be devised to release them.

The point system seems to be a joke because there are still a great many men with the required number of points who are still waiting, for what they do not know.

Our daily routine surely isn’t doing anything for the benefit of the Army unless you can call picking up butts or cutting grass essential.  Surely this isn’t what we are being kept in the army for.

Another thing to help cheer us up and bring high morale is the officer situation.  Now that there is nothing for them to do, they have been assigned to keep on the lookout for GI’s with their sleeves rolled up (the temperature usually is over the 100 degree mark), or who are wearing low shoes.  I don’t believe the public really likes to pay the men the high salaries which they receive for this type of work.

I am only one of thousands back  from overseas who can tell you the same things are happening.  It is certainly a waste of manpower to keep men hanging around, and a waste of money on the government’s part.  If they are worrying about us not being able to find jobs in civilian life I think I can remedy that.  We are being paid now for hanging around, why not let us go home and if we can’t find jobs (I think we can) the unemployment service guarantees $20 a week, which is equivalent of what we are getting now.

It all boils down to the fact that there are too many men in the army, and no suitable way has been devised to get them back to civilian life, which has been the goal of every fighting man since the beginning of this war.

Sincerely,

Sgt. Robert J. Blair

FROM THE STATES

Dear Cpl. Russo:

Received the copies of the Medic a few minutes ago, and wish to thank you for them.  It’s great to hear news from Barksdale.

We all did a lot of complaining about Barksdale, (I, especially) but it was the best field I’ve ever been on.  (I have been stationed at 12 fields.)

The Medical Detachment also was something to be proud of for it is well managed, housed, and has plenty of comfort for the personnel.

I am in charge of 40 men down here, and have started gunnery school.  It’s rather rough after the snap job in the Dental Office.  I have never met a better office force to work under.

The mosquitoes are very thick around here and it’s very hot.  Barksdale Field hasn’t got the ocean but the crabs and other sea creatures are always bothering us.  Our day is pretty busy and passes are a forgotten thing.  We arise at 4:30 a.m., eat at 5:10, start school at 7:00 and finish at 6:00 p.m. if we are lucky.

I miss that K-9 beer–no kidding.  Tell all the boys hello and thanks again for the paper.

Your friend,

s/CPL. ROBERT J.  BLAIR

Editor’s comment:

(THANK YOU, CPL. BLAIR FOR YOUR FINE LETTER.  WE ENJOYED HEARING FROM YOU AND WILL CONTINUE TO SEND YOU OUR PAPER NO MATTER WHERE YOU MAY BE SHIPPED TO.  KEEP US POSTED.)