My Uncle Bob writes, wondering how many points Babe has and whether he has enough to be discharged from the service.
"Some people here make you sick. They act like kids. Are drinking and making merry. N.Y.C. is full of paper (the streets). You boys are the ones to celebrate."
"I know it is too soon to hope for anything yet concerning you. But I can dream, can't I? At least maybe now you will get to see your cousins & uncle."
Babe's brother writes to him the day after the Germans laid down arms in Italy, but the day before Babe was killed.
As if the last line of this letter wasn't tantalizing enough, there's also this one: "I know I haven't written much lately, but someday I'll tell you why."