Dear Mom and Dad,

Just wanted to let you know I’m doing great! Hope everything’s fine back on the farm. Be sure to tell my brothers, Walt and Elmer, that joining the Marines is way better than hauling hay for old man Minch. They should sign up fast before the spots fill up!

At first, I had a tough time adjusting — they let us sleep in until almost 5 a.m.! Can you believe it? No early rooster, no shoveling, no slopping hogs, no hauling firewood. Just making my bed and shining stuff before breakfast. It’s like a vacation.

The fellas here complain about shaving every morning, but it’s no big deal — we even get warm water. Breakfast is a bit light if you’re used to real food. They’ve got juice, cereal, eggs, and bacon, but not a single pork chop, skillet of hash browns, or even a piece of pie. But get this — some of the city boys barely eat. I just sit next to them and clean up their leftovers. Works like a charm. Keeps me full ‘til lunch.

We do this thing called a “route march” which is supposed to toughen us up. Our sergeant acts like it’s a big deal, but honestly, it’s no farther than walking out to the mailbox back home. City boys get blisters and limp the whole way back. They end up loading us in trucks to return. Bless their hearts.

The sergeant is kind of like a cranky schoolteacher. He’s always barking at us. The captain’s more like the principal — serious but distant. As for the majors and colonels, they just cruise around looking important. Don’t pay us much mind.

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You’ll get a kick out of this: they keep handing me medals for marksmanship! I don’t even get it. The targets are the size of a groundhog and they just sit there — no charging, no squealing, nothing. And guess what? I don’t even have to load the ammo — it comes ready in boxes. What kind of shooting is this?

We’ve also started doing hand-to-hand training, wrestling and sparring and all that. Most of the city boys are pretty fragile. I have to go easy on ‘em — they bruise like peaches. It’s nothing like wrangling that old bull back home. Still, I’m holding my own. Well… except for Tug Jordan from Silver Lake. That guy’s a beast — six-foot-eight and almost 300 pounds. I only beat him once, but hey, I’m 5’6” and 130 soaking wet, so that’s something.

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Anyway, tell Walt and Elmer they’d better get moving and sign up quick before more folks find out how easy this gig is. They’d love it — no chores, free food, and medals just for doing what we already do back home!

With love,

Your daughter