Scarborough. Friday, and a magnificent Friday, 27th. Feb. 1942

My Dearest
Here I am, typing in the Bren Gun Room Its just after lunch and we have the windows open and the sun streams in and the Square looks hot below us. A Battery march about trying so very hard and one of my crew sleeps, one just sits – he’s that kind of bloke and the other is writing a slow and careful letter, tongue in use exploratively.

I can’t remember posting last night’s letter, yet I haven’t got it, I feel I must have yet I don’t know. I hope I did but in case not, I had a long interview, a chat about many things including “hairies” – the R.A. word for horses, fishing, chickens eggs in February, his own life etc… with Waddy yesterday and we also discussed the W.O. letter re my R.E. OCTU.- He was staggered too and eventually went off and saw the Adjutant who saw the Colonel, who wrote a letter, to the W.O. to find out if it is not a mistake and to try to get me into Field if it is. I saw him again later, and we gassed a long while again and he told me they’d put it right if they could, it could still be nipped in the bud. So we have hopes.

The little parcel came yesterday with the hankie and the dear brush. I was mystified but used it on my buttons with great effect. It is a wonder, dear you. And the shoes, good for you. Well shod at the stem, blooming at the top, that’s you.

A nice letter, herewith, from Humphrey which you sent on. Say nothing to anyone please, not even Uncle Jack or your mother, about his regiment being trained for airborne troops. Its the sort of thing that can leak through many sources, all safe and confidential until it reaches one that is not so safe. So not a word. We had an A.C.I yesterday about 1, I had to parade the Battery and read it out and ask for volunteers for special training as Airborne Troops. Two young bloods did so, bless them. But thereagin, I didn’t ought to tell you. So not even a whisper, read Polonius’ remarks and questions on, no Hamlets, pledging his pals to discretion about the Old Man’s Ghost.

I say, FOUR EGG! I SAY.  The darlints. Oh, a bloke here’s a poultry man. He   says you don’t want to starve broodies. Get them at once, and then put them in a box, small and uncomfortable, with a slatted floor, for draught. Then feed her twice daily, as the others   are. If she’s starved she goes off laying. Do that and she’ll come back in two days. So try that on if ever they misbehave. With all their love of duty they have natural instincts, bless   them, like all of us.

I had a nice domestic evening last night. I went to the Vic. and refused supper,   one feels slightly doubtful about scrounging too many meals, and had a grand bath instead in the Garbetts private bath room. They had a sister and a niece there, Mrs. G’s Sister, Peter’s Aunt. When I had bathed they had fed, and the niece cousin went off to the pictures and the two ladies went out visiting and Peter and I sat in comfort in a cosy sitting room and swilled Cider and made out a book list for our B.S.M.’s young son – who doesn’t read and is   wanted to read – and then read Falloden’s Fly Fishing. I sent him to bed at nine, and bandaged, up his poorly bad finger, all domestic, and then I sat and read and finished the cider by the fire with the wireless on and departed at 10 o’clock, or for the bus rather. All very domestic and neat, and a change from the barracks. Tonight we go to the pictures to see Honky Tonk, not Hatter’s Castle, too doleful and grim for Peter, with, suicides all over it.

Later . . .

The best laid schemes. . . . . This afternoon the office typewriter broke down, and I had to go down and do some typing, orders, and next week’s programme, also solve a works ticket problem at R.H.Q.  (too complicated to say more than that) and now its after four! That’s how things are. I enclose the faintest copy of the timetable, its the work of the   two depot squads next week, and 96 is mine, so you’ll be able to see what I’m doing at any given time. I’ve got it all to myself, with Bell to help me, which is nice. They’re A Battery boys, and we should have some fun. I don’t do the P.T.’s etc., just take them over and collect them. I might do some as a matter of fact.

I’ve also been trundling an unhappy Fordson round with a Mechanic to find its sorrows. Its all right now. Its a gay vague Home-Guardy life in Depot, always amusing   little jobs to do, or rather, I snaffle them all. But I’ll do your article, there’s time even now to have a smack at it, but wanna write to your mother and Andy and my mama and Auntie Edie and Humphrey and various folk.

Its so Springy here, the sun’s warm in the windows. Oh, on the timetable, MD is marching drill, RD rifle drill, Bzr buzzer, Lmp lamp, Flag is flag, Mp. Rdg. is map reading.

Good luck to you all and bless you all. We are crowded out in this Regiment now, recruits flock in every Thursday. Our man-power is being tapped all right.

Be happy, and can’t we find a gold mine so that you can come up. I don’t half like having you near the place.

                     Go on writing when you’ve time and be kind to the birds.

                                                All my love,

  ever . . . .

Wednesday 25th. February 1942.

My Darling,
Your husband, the Battery Orderly Sergeant, writes in his official office. How are you ? Two lovely letters came this morning, one written at Kettering and one in the train. Pair of shoes – hooray you lucky and deservedly lucky girl.

What news this day ?  Oh first a lovely parcel from the seven girls, your mother who did the sausage rolls and the six sisters who did the two eggs which I have just ate, carefully and, luxuriously scrambled in a billy-can on the office fire, bless them all, and  thank your mama for her letter which an answer shall have. Dear thing, she made me, squirm by apologising for being crotchety last week, be sweet to her.

This Morning I had my sweet little Squad on the Square and marched and counter-marched them, and then went in for a buzzer with them and then the BSM came along and broke up the party. Three mines were swishing about in the North Bay and we had to patrol the front to keep civilians back. I had the job of supervising. I drove down with Waddy and placed the men, one at the corner of the golf links lane where we often parted to keep people back from going down to the Kiplings or along the path below the links, one at   the links and others at various spots. We watched one mine roll in with the tide, huge and round and prickly, but it didn’t go off. We did the same all this afternoon and that was this day. I then became BOS and paraded the Guard and saw to Black Outs and now I have to do   the Roll Call at ten and lights out at ten fifteen and sleep here and call them all at 6 and so on. The BSM came in a while back and we chatted. He was watching me on the Square this morning it appears and complimented me and next week I’m to have a squad all to myself for   the week. I only help Bombardier Fry with this one, do the signalling and flagging and so on.  Next week he’s having one and I’m having one all alone Twenty two A Battery boys for a week’s programme, marching, morals, calling, kit inspection and everything, buzzer and lectures and map reading and all. It will be fun. One of this squad has a feverish cold and he’s all hot in his bed. I’ve given him some whisky and some aspirin and I’ll get him moved to hospital in the morning if he’s no better. He’s so sorry for himself and so tousled under seven blankets.

Oh, an astonishing thing has happened. I have it by a rumour from the Admin office, so it should be true, damn it, that I’m attached to the 43rd. OCTU which is R.E.   Transportation !! It’s so disappointing, at first, my heart was set on Gunnery. But one can do so little when the W.O. take a hand. It may be a stupid mistake, reading Robert Ack and Robert Eddie, but it may be the result of deliberate discussion and careful pong by some high and mighty authority at the W.O. they may want me, for some special kind of job. Its most unusual, in fact, for a man to be sent to an OCTU different from the one the Board say. So it implies, I think, purposeful change of plans. Maybe they think my age and qualifications suit me for a Sappers job. What Transportation is I don’t know but I do know that I am quite ignorant of drains, bomb disposal, bridge building and road making. But I could handle troops and cargo at ports, I suppose. But I said nothing of my African experience, nowhere, and they can’t have guessed it. We can do nowt till I hear officially and not much then.     After all, the thing to do is to serve as best one can where one is most useful. But I would have loved a troop, or a section, or subsection twenty five pounders. This R.E. job would be safer and quieter and peacefuller and more comfortable, but the R.A. is such a grand family and twenty five pounders are such darlings. All I should see of them would be unloading them from ships. It’s very odd. I’m disappointed but I mustn’t be. If Waddy says anything I’ll try to plead to see if he can ask why it was changed.  Anyhow at the moment I’m attached to an OCTU definitely and wait only for the Squad to be made up. So my Depot days are numbered and its a sweet life here. But not very war-winning.

Fancy wearing the blue first on the flash ! After all I’ve said. But perhaps the Sappers are a good crowd, they have such disadvantages, poor dears.

Don’t despair, we must face the facts and they may have some nice juicy job for me and others taken from other corps.

S.O.S. envelopes.

Oh do telephone or see Leonard and beg a fishing catalogue, a Milwards   one if you can, for Peter the supper provider. They depend on me and are so sweet. I call there tomorrow for an hour or so, to confirm our Great Outing on Friday. It seems that Hatter’s Castle is a bit grim and rapish for a Peter so I shall go to Honky-Tonk, Clarke Gable all gay as a Wild West Crook.

Dear you being sweet with dear mother, and the step uncle of mine with the giggly wife-to-be and the goat beard. And Mother will love those chair backs. Do the other one swiftly. Dear birds laying eggs, dear everyone but dearest you.

My love is yours, and those were grand days, and more will come, also grand.

Bless you for ever, my dearest,
your own . . .

This sweet pure and healthy letter came today. I’ll answer it.

Scarborough, February 24th. 1942. seven thirty in the evening.

In the Battery Office.

My Dearest,
Here I am, snug and cosy in the office, where I am sanctioned to be. It’s nicer than the other place, and moreover there is paper, a big fire and authority of a better kind.    You will have had my letter-card written in Town. I went down after tea to get the Geographical prints made, and then bought some stamps and realised that unless I wrote then you wouldn’t get a letter for a few days.  This is after my return.

Now for my story of my doings, gentle and innocent though they are. I travelled up to Leeds in a corner seat and read the Slyp and ate Mother’s pleasant lunch and arrived at Leeds fresh and blooming.  I found a train about to depart for York so I got on it and had another corner seat.  I was in York soon after half past four. There was a train leaving in a quarter of an hour but that would get me to Scarborough much too early it seemed, so I went into the  city. I bought Peter’s book in a charming edition for a reduced price – slightly grubby on the cover – and then mooned round the Minster and admired and worshipped, worshipped Stone and the beauty of the arch, I fear. Then I went back to the station, had tea and a bun, scribbled a note to you and caught the 6.38 train, a leisurely   journey. Peter was at the station to meet me, a welcome surprise as it banished the dreariness   of arriving at an evening station so far from home. At the Victoria I washed and then dined as their guest, soup a huge pair of slices of cold ham, and apple tart and cream and coffee.    Then I sat with them in their room until nine, caught the nine thirty bus and arrived after the most elegant of journeys, at the Guard Room at a quarter to ten. I found that people had kindly kept a bed for me near the fire in two rooms D 4 and D 7 so I chose D 7 and someone unknown had deposited my bedding there and blankets.  Everyone is childishly kind and nice.  One can’t be a fierce soldier or NCO in the teeth of such cissy gentle well treatment!

This   morning I saw the M.O.  and reported back fit and he said “Come and see us if you have any trouble” like a nice woolly G.P. Then I was given an A Battery squad, of nice fresh clear eyed young babes of 18½. I  marched them  about  and drilled  them and buzzered  them and this afternoon we went  onto the cliffs  in the grand sunshine  and bashed flags, and  then buzzed again and we love each other. They’re so keen and willing and docile.     They even asked to do some P.T. this afternoon.   Such a change after the artful, warty old dodgers of the 30 upwards squads. Even the toughest Ack I’s don’t swear at them nor use profane nor bawdy language. Their keenness is disarming and delightful. We went up from 4’s to 6’s in one day, by various amusing devices of my own patent.

There’s a big Posting of 36 men to  Christchurch tomorrow and I was going to  go as well as escorting NCO,  but the  BSM thought I’d better  do  some Writing   instead  of   gallivanting  about  and  made me B.O.S. instead, so I’ll be here all day after noon, but  I have my Squad until then, and they’re out  map reading  all  the  afternoon. But I hope I have them for the rest of the week. They do deserve sympathetic training and they forge ahead. They go to B Battery next Monday.  But another lot will come. This is 98 squad.

Boots are doing my negatives, six of them I picked finally, quarter plate. I only hope that Miss Davison likes them.  She has such grand pictures.  But she might take the article and be helped by the pictures. I’ll write it this week.

I’ve found a nice book called “RETURN VIA DUNKERQUE”, by Gun Runner or  some such name,   I’ll write it  on  the  envelope  the books in, my locker. Its the   story of a Field-Battery in France at the beginning of this war.  Its a library book or I’d send it. Ask Uncle Jack (Scarfe) Hancox to get it from Boots, he’d love it and ask him to lend it to you.  Its the absolute essence of what we do.  You’ll understand my work by reading it.

I think I left the carbon of the novel at home, in a black shiny exercise book, if so please send it. That embroidery was good, you know, very very good indeed. You are a wonder. And a wonderfully attractive fascinating beguiling and bewitching creature. As Kenneth says in todays letter which I’ll enclose if I can find it, you’re a wonderful person.

I’m going to the pictures with the Garbets mere et fils on Friday to see Hatters Castle, and it’ll soon be March and Peter is teaching me to fish for trout then at his cottage. I am spoiled. These sane, comfortable, attached and forlorn couple are so cosy to have in the offing, but I’m strong minded and I shan’t go every night, as I could I believe.

Dear   girls, dear  dear Candy.

Will you walk along to Eleanore’s with the typer and thank her and crave her pardon to me for not returning it in person?

The sea was emerald blue this afternoon and lazy Wellingtons purred affect-ionately overhead shooting at drogues and a spitfire practised dive bombing through sheer  lust of living. And everyone is most amiable and friendly and my little Squad is so respectful and light hearted and serious on the Square. Marches damn well, too. I told them how lucky they were to-be in the Royal Regiment this afternoon and their chests swelled and they looked worthy of any Royal Regiment.  I don’t think they shave, not really. Poor dears.

No more, but assurances of a great love, my dear. And don’t, fret about things not happening always at Once, there will come a day, I betyer.  For now we must show that our race has the right to lead the world in peaceful ways by its ability to subdue unworthy and jealous aspirants to our All my love and thank your mother for all she did. Find patience, my dear,   she has so little, you have so much. You can afford, to be generous, and that is your nature.

                                                                   And above all, we have us.

                                                                                    Ever your . . . David

I have popped down town to get my Geographical prints taken in hand at Boots, & unless I write this in the P/O you’ll get no letter on Thursday. I return to the Barracks after this to type you a really letter. This is to stop the gap.

                        All is well & it’s a grand day. Balmy. Blue sky, bright warm sun & an exciting bite in the air which turns my thoughts to you. Freddie Pickles Ch.1 feeling. I arrived in good time & style, & fed vastly as the Garbetts guest & arrived at the barracks at 10 to 10. I settled in & have spent a happy day with a delightful handful of enthusiastic & hearteningly handsome 18½ year olds. We’ve had buzzer & marching drill & flag & we do like each other, the squad & me. Our race will survive, these youths are splendid & so fresh & keen. They’ll be magnificent young soldiers.

                        I nearly went to Christchurch, (B’mouth) tomorrow, with a draft !! But at the last minute it was changed & I’m B.O.S. & Owen goes.

                        How are you ? I’m so well, I haven’t coughed once & I feel springy & full of life & resilience. Pleased to see everyone & such a nice lot of people pleased see me. A fluffy old lady at this P/O desk has just leaned over & asked, “this is 1942, isn’t it”. Bless her.

Be happy my dear. I quite love my soldiering & you too ! They’re interknit. Now I return to the barracks to do some writing. Bless us all.

Scarborough. Thursday evening, the last night before classification      15/2/42

My Dearest,
So charming a letter came from you to-day that despite the strident masculinity of the Corporal’s Canteen and despite a cup of coffee and a custard tart balanced on my knees, my eyes moistened. It was written on the night of the twelfth and the morning of the thirteenth, and dealt with divers private and precious matters, a pork with a frozen river, Tom and Klaus sliding, scarves, I hope, streaming, Eileen at tea, the W.I. man and his neat clean little thing, snow and snow-matters and the import of names.And the bulbs like this     They do “peep” don’t they, timid and enquiring. Bless them. Encourage them.

Yes, I consider JULIAN a charming name, or Juliet, or Julia. Julian is a nice manly name, not too tough, yet a man, not cissy, and not yet, – and the supply is getting limited, used by us and our typewriter. Julian . . . yes, certainly. Just right. Will the other Julian mind? He ought to consider it a compliment, but we might get mixed, “Julian hasn’t been in for four days. .” Julian courting in the raspberry bushes again! Julian’s milk. . . . . But it would work out. So, if ever you need a name for anything use the name Julian. Yes, do.

We are all end-of-term and wraught up, rort-up, wrort up, worked up. First we have two buzzer messages at twelves, with Mr Dunford watching and Sgt. Noble sending.     Then we have the lamp, two messages at sixes. We have to get one message with not more than four mistakes to pass. Then we have forty minutes written paper on the R.A. code – I’m hot at that and don’t mind. In the afternoon we have instruments, turned loose in a room one at a time and three sergeants sit amid a cluster of instruments and ask us to make them work,   tune a wireless set for send and receive, put through a multiple call on a switchboard, make a don 5 work and align a signalling lamp, and so on. Quite easy. On Saturday morning we have an interview orally with three sergeants and one asks us about wireless procedure, one about lamp and line procedure, and one about general signalling questions. We know the results, as we go and if we pass we are posted as Signallers and can wear flags and when posted receive 6d day extra and that is that. If we fail we can be re-tested, on the failing subject or put back two weeks to try again.

My only consolation is that if I can’t read buzzer as well as most they can’t write English prose as well as I can and which is better? Jah-harriboo!

Yes, I got Malaria, then, didn’t I! Serve me bally well right.

(You must have had the end of this story)