I'll do my best to follow the letter-writing tips set out in the pamphlet you sent me. I imagine the last thing you want is tidings from the bomber factory (the most interesting part of the day is when the foreman yells at one of the girls for sinking a row of rivets too deep), so I'll try one of the other recommended subjects: "Pets."
Stormy and I miss you to pieces but we're getting along all right. We're both engaged in useful war work: While I'm away building Flying Fortresses she's curled up in a box next to the furnace, dozing in the warmth of the pilot light. She needs to rest up from an exhausting night's labor of keeping the bed warm enough for me to turn the heat down to government-recommended levels.
We both enjoy listening to the radio, but we seem to have different tastes. I dance around the kitchen to Artie Shaw while I'm cooking, but Stormy hides under the coffee table and won't come out until I put on something quieter like Glenn Miller. We do sit together on the couch during news broadcasts. Stormy seems particularly attentive when Churchill's on; it must be the British accent.
Of course we both hang on every word about New Guinea. It seems you and the other flyers and Allied troops are having great success. I'm glad the Japanese have been pushed out of Buna (I know more now about the geography of New Guinea than I do of New York), and I hope they'll soon be gone from the rest of the island and the whole of the Pacific.
I know you've got to be brave, but please fly carefully. Stormy and I are counting on you to come home in one piece. When you do, we'll dance around the kitchen together like this whole war never happened.
Your loving wife,