Free Proud Highway:Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman by Hunter S. Thompson Page A

Thompson immersed himself in the works of F. Scott Fitzgerald—as evidenced by the “green light” here, among other things.
    November 18, 1956
Eglin AFB
Fort Walton Beach, Florida
    Dear Judy:
    Sorry I haven’t written sooner, but as you will see when you read a little further on, I’m busy about 25 hours a day, and must squeeze my letter-writing into odd moments.
    Right now, I’m about 6000 feet above Montgomery, Alabama, en route from Shreveport, Louisiana to Eglin. I’m ensconced in the rear of a C-47, sitting on one parachute and resting my typewriter on another. Having just finished writing up the two games we played with Barksdale AFB this weekend, I became rather tired of writing about basketball and remembered that I still hadn’t answered your letter. Even though my fingers are almost numb from the cold, I’m still able to pound out one or two incoherent, but faintly intelligible sentences.
    I’ve recently discovered that this traveling with the team is quite a racket. We leave on Friday morning and return on Sunday night. I getthree dollars a game for acting as official scorer, am exempt from the training restrictions imposed on the players, and have all but about 2 hours of the weekend to myself.
    All in all, my whole setup here is almost too good to be true. I no longer am forced to pull that ghastly KP—or any other degrading work for that matter—I have no regular working hours, and considerable power. Actually, it’s no power, but a control of what gets into the sports section and what is junked. You’d be surprised at the things people will do in order to get their names or pictures into the paper.
    Pause for dramatic description—it is now becoming dark outside, but it’s a different kind of dark than we see on the ground. I can look down and see that it must be quite dark below, but there are no clouds up here to blot out the last rays of the sun. The little green light on the wing-tip is blinking against a background of a combination of orange and grey. Looking out at the quivering wing, I expect it to break off at any moment and send us all hurtling to the ground. Needless to say, it would be quite a fall and this letter would undoubtedly not be delivered. Now it has suddenly become pitch black outside and I can see nothing but the little green light—ah well—it really wasn’t such a stirring sight after all.
    As this letter probably won’t get to you until after Thanksgiving, there is no need in my saying that I won’t make it to New York for the Holidays. Instead of going to Bolling (in Washington) with the team, I’m going to spend a few days in Louisville; submerged in deep discussion with Joe and Noonan. 15 From all appearances, they will be the only people who will make it home and not to New York. However, we’ll probably become liquified and drop in on Butler for a quiet sort of orgy. At any rate, it should be pleasant.
    One last note before I go—I think we’re getting ready to land—I have a somewhat urgent desire for my Male ring. I have no idea whether you still have it or not; but I imagine—and hope—that you do. It would be awfully clever of you to bundle it up in a small package and send it down this way. In return for that kindness, I shall steal a very valuable model plane from the display case in the office, and make you a present of the thing. I’ll probably have to get all my Christmas presents out of that case, and there will undoubtedly be some sort of uproar concerning the disappearances. However, that is immaterial.
    There is no more time to be had; we are bouncing around in preparation for a landing and I must finish here. Write again soon and I’ll try to give out with a better reply. Chances are that I won’t make it home for Christmas, although I’ll make a wild effort to pull some sort of string.
    That’s all—
ears popping,
Hunter
    TO PORTER