Everyone’s at the Naafi queueing up for cups of coffee & I sit here glowing with satisfaction after reading your Saturday morning (before going to Stratford for Red House) letter. And some conceit too. What a value you set upon me, what a standard to try to reach ! Leadership I wonder ! Howsoever, we’ll see. For now I’m just one of 75, though I do organise the fatigues & the Bridge & so on.

                        I fear my last two letters have been below standard, in cheerfulness anyhow. Maybe it was a mild fever which possessed me after the inoculations. It’s gone now, & although I feel meek & mild & have a slight cold, I’m my old self again & full of beans, little young beans, but beans nevertheless.

                        Thanks for the Times cuttings. Their great consolation to read. I know what a sweat it is to cut them out too.

                        You & candy at lunch ! Candy in my chair. Bless her.

                         is Ernest. Not a Mrs Brown. Just Ernest.

                        I worked out the script from 3 – 4.30 & from 5 – 9.30 last night, & battled exceedingly hard. There was a Snag about Rhoda’s opening, for a natural conversation between Mark, Sarah & Godolphin would be miles above the listeners heads & I couldn’t make them talk gently & simply. But I’ve hit on the right compromise I think, & all is well. It’s after dinner now, & we going on Company training, full equipment, gas capes rolled up, respirator at the alert, water bottles filled, 60 rounds of ammunition, haversack filled with billy cans, groundsheet, holdall,  & oddments. We’re inspecting Defence Posts & practising taking up positions. Rather fun. The Major will be in charge. Deprecating “this bloody Infantry work” he’ll get muddled & excited. Now I must adjourn to hoist my equipment on my back & ease it all for a good march. See you later.

                        Later. 6.30, after tea and the land signalling lecture. All about Ack Ack & Freddie space ( . . – . = Did it hurt you) & so on. They’re getting us up in signalling in our spare time in A Battery so that will get more proficient in C. Very interesting though. We have to do 12 words a minute.

                        The Company training was great fun. On the clifftop. Our 2nd in command came, Capt. & we had 3 sections, me as one section leader, my first command. We manoeuvred about the cliffs & divided & deployed & I was commended. Conceited David. The other 2 blokes made a hash of it a little. It was fun in full Kit.

                        Your Red House letter came this afternoon. 2 today! With the lavender in it Bless you. It smelt so sweet – nostalgic. Your letter was very lovely, the atmosphere of the Red House had got to you, it came through charmingly, me on my barrack bed. Did you buy Candy a real DOG TICKET ? Was she thrilled with the train journey ? Bless her & her dog basket & Bless you.

                        Yes that was a memorably happy weekend at the Red House.

                        My fever has gone & I’m quite well & happy. No nuzzling & your stout hearted philosophy about my job here has stimulated me greatly. All right, no nuzzling & I’ll see it through, to the hilt. But don’t expect too much recognition for your David. You are slightly biased you know ! There are many taller, browner, cleverer & more confident chaps here.  And I’ve a long way to go before I’m even a Lance Bombardier, if ever. They make so few here, as the permanent staff are all stripes. This is like a University, & instead of 3 years we have 3 Batteries, the raw ones in A Battery on the Square being licked into shape, the model cocky ones in Denims doing M.T. for 5 weeks, & then the Lordly C Battery for 11 weeks,        signalling all day. We have lots of lectures & notebooks & so on. Then we graduate & go out as trained men.

                        Oh, Sergeant.  He’s sweet & rather pathetic. Patrick Mulrooney, Irish, & about 50. He’s got the face of a hard fighter, bitter & lean, He barks a lot & swears awfully & then he suddenly comes over tender & maternal. He comes & sees us at night & sits on our beds & tells us his life history, nostalgically. It’s a fairytale. He claims Stonyhurst as his school & says they wanted to make him a priest when he was 16. But he said he’s human & the good Lord give him his full bodily parts and by Christ he meant to use them, so he joined the army. He says someone once thought he was from Bally – oie College, Cambridge (!) Because of his accent. He uses long words in just the wrong place & thinks he’s well educated       . Bless him ! He’s been a full B.S.M. (Battery Sgt. Major) & was mysteriously degraded to Bombardier last year. He is now only a Lance Sergeant. His reason is that he told an officer off for bullying his men, but I suspect it was for fighting. He’s charmingly rebellious & gets very muddled over his drill. We’re his first squad & he is under Observation. It’s up to us to pull him through. If we do well he’ll get a full sergeants rank. If not, he may get the push. Today Capt.  came in & listened to his lecturing us on the Bren. Poor Sgt. he was so distressed because he’s a bloody awful lecturer on Small Arms. He lives for the 4.5 & 6″ stuff. He floundered, but we helped him out. I asked if we could take it in turns to strip the Bren & his face lighted up & we did, so he only had to put us right. Usually the Bombardier, a pale faced cocky little chap who is very keen on getting promotion, takes us on the Bren gun. The Bom’s a good lecturer, & Sergeant’s a splendid soldier, a hell of a good leader in a scrap, & grand on the square, but not at his best in the lecture room. He does want to make us into good soldiers, so badly & the chaps are rallying well. But I’ll have to tell you his ways. At gun drill today this dialogue occurred.

Sgt.   “Everyones got to move quickly at a gun in action, & know his job.
You’ve seen B—- bees & F— ants haven’t you.
Us     “Yes Sergeant”
Sgt.   “well, they’re is silly B—-s who don’t know what they’re doing, dart about anyhow. You haven’t got to be like them !

Bless him.

                        The Times Cuttings will be a great joy. I’ve just had mess supper, soup & 2 slices of bread. The soup was slightly over peppered. Shades of my dear mother in law. Have you sent me her address. I’d like to write to her.

                        How are the Andertons ? My respects to them every day. And I did enjoy their cigarettes. It was a sweet gift.

                        How are the tomatoes ? Well trained, well cared for. You can sprinkle a little of the Ketchup (in the tool house) (a tablespoonful)  every other Sunday morning if you like. And don’t dig up all the spuds. Give em a chance.

I am eager for news of the tomatoes.

                        Miniature range on Wednesday & big range (.300’s) on Thursday. The last 3 shots on the 300 range from the Bren. My cock-eyedness will probably debar me from being in the first flight.

                        I’ve asked for many things lately. Here, for your help, is a recapitulating list:-
Sandals
Letter case
Books (not urgent)
“Tristram Shandy”
Tomatoes
You
Typewriter.
You:
Some foolscap paper
Some of those ration biscuits in my desk draw if you can spare them – for extra little suppers. A biscuit or sweet tin about the size of this paper, & abt 6″ deep, no lid necessary, for bathroom articles.
You.
(I WILL WRITE BETTER
That’s all I can think of Oh:- Pyjama Tops.

And now for  Bye Bye my love. Happy Days. My love to Klaus & Mr Atkins & Mr Hobbs. &  & the Nightingale family. Bless you so very much. I’m with you in the   in spirit for now, later altogether.

Do some pictures. Send your photo to mother.