Dear Jane, You’re probably not gonna be seeing me around the Fourth of July picnic after all. Sure wish I’d gotten around to writing before now, cause I doubt there’s mail service home from wherever it is I’ve found myself. Some tropical island in god-knows-where. That’s not me trying to keep secrets. I figure you must’ve heard by now that I never made it ashore in Normandy anyway. Nope, no Ratzis here. But just about everyone and everything else is trying its damnedest to kill me. Get this: there are living, breathing DINOSAURS on this island. I can guess what you must be thinking right about now: Bobby’s gone clear off his rocker. But I’m writing you hand-on-heart, swear-on-my-dear-Momma’s-grave -- somehow those things are still walking around here, just as alive as I am. Makes about as much sense as me finding this hand-made camera and typewriter just lying around on the beach. But maybe these picture postcards will prove I ain’t making any of this up. They do say seeing’s believing, right? Anyway, I'm still trying to work it all out myself. But I promise you, I'm gonna find a way home. Picnic or not, we'll make some fireworks together when I do. I'll write you again soon Janie, but just now I think I hear a dinner-saur clucking in the bushes.
I’m so hungry -- BOB
P.S. Tell Bill he still owes me that $20 from the big New Year’s poker game, and we ain’t waiting until 1945 to collect.