My Dearest Mr. Daquano,
Jocularity has returned to Forward Operating Base Frat House.
I dared not to speak of the foul mood most of the men in Frat House had adopted. Fifty-two days without gazing upon the fairer sex can do that to some men. But yesterday, a veritable breath of fresh air blew out the gloom and swept in frivolity.
Fear not, my delicate primrose, it was not a wanton jezebel who restored mirth among the men. It was Boot Duhe.
For the better part of our sequestration, the young lad has kept himself far from Frat House, almost as if we, inside, had fallen victim to the cursed virus. Personally, I think the malodorousness sullies his spirits.
Just seeing his strong jaw and dimpled chin lifted morale — not because anyone was happy to see him — but rather, it gave the men a new target for their bawdy humor.
You see, mischief had become drudgery. One can only crack wise on Captain Crank’s crooked, or waft a poofy in Private Slappy’s face so many times in 52 days before the hilarity leaks from the deed like sand from a gold miner’s sieve.
Even now, two full days since the boot’s is visit, the men still smile at the mention of his name. Boot Duhe may have become the savior of our camp.
Don’t tell Private Slappy, for it may hurt his bruise his delicate ego, but a field promotion may be in the offing for the boot. The thought of Private First Class Duhe could send the Slappster off the deep end.
Warmest personal regards,
Sgt. T. Polisher
1st News Division