So I see the old year out at an Italian Docks, with my now so familiar soldiers, discharging vital cargo. Thus passes 1943. A momentous year. Two invasions & some accompanying, & you producing the living testament of our so fundamental love. And this New Year, which comes to us in an hours time ? What of that ? Reunion I hope, & perhaps the conscientious reversion to our natural life. But reunion first to see you & hold you & sooth you & to reward your courageous patience & fortitude. For your courage & spirit are admirable. A brave lady & a sweet mother & an adorable wife. I’ll be with you, alone on the end of the Mole here, the sea & the wind about me, alone with you. Me in Italy, you in tranquil Great Alne. It’s a boisterous night now, the sea  dark in the dock lights, & the wind ripping & tugging at the tail of your greatcoat. And the great Ships stand patiently in their stalls while we tend them. Brave ships.

                        I am content today. Two letters from you, the 11 to 14, & the 20 – 23rd. The writing small & plentiful, the messages warm & loving, the news all good. I’ll recapitulate the letters. The first:- cold nights & no me to share them, Richard Johns teeth, St Anthony sitting on our parcels, arrival of parcels Peters non mail (now cured; she was sending airmail, the juggins, but by your standards she’s inferior, but maybe right for simple Peter,) tea at the Bowen’s, drawings of R.J. Falstaff In his bath. His new chicken Aunt Em. Another parcel. Jewellry ? The filigree ? Dickie’s collars & your love. The other letter was your pre-Christmas busyness, all the cards, of more photos coming, arrival of articles, the arrival of half your Christmas present book, me being here, the Christening, Frank as proxy godfather, Dickie’s  & courage in indigestional adversity, tries to  Christopher there, my future attitude to Christmas Festivities, (agreed !) (pro Bono Ricardo) (solo) You being very tired. Also lots of love & amid it all the essence & breath of your precious affection & love.

                        Grand letters. Dickie. I dream & think of him so much. And I cannot believe that as well as being he is gracious & lovely, by other standards. As you say, it would be enough if he were dull & plain. But to have the additional charms of grace & beauty makes me ache with an impotent gratitude, to God & to you. On this subject I am inarticulate with gratitude & pride, not self pride, humble pride is that if what we are both, all three a part, the family.

                        So articles are arriving. In case the first three didn’t come I’m posting the carbon copies tomorrow. With a radio version of “The King’s Messenger” & a letter for Elizabeth Jenkins. If she turns it down send it to Bertha to try on the Scottish Children’s Hour. I’m also sending the copy of the Bertha version of The King’s Messenger. But Bertha may send you a vetted copy – i.e. pruned in rehearsal. If so use that. I’ll do them any frills or introductions they need for the book or anthology if they bite. We may as well try. All grist for the mill. So you’ve the Radio play, the three old articles & the stage version of the play to come.

                        The above was written at 2230hr. Now it’s 0410 on 1/1/44. Happy new year dearest. I’ve been traipsing round ever since, battling cheerfully with Adverse Circumstances. First it rained, no, it poured down water with Italian passion. At a quarter to twelve only 80 of my 160 Italians arrived, (they change over then). They were wet & damped in spirit & cold & dejected. We put the 80 on the quay & I went off to create at the Labour Office for more. Then at midnight the ships, being traditional, blew their hooters & the Navy yelped in its exciting way. Now that is normally the air raid warning, so all our 80 fled, incotinent. Because they’re not very brave. So we spent half an hour winkling them out of sheds & holes & Ever since me & my cheerful & loyal (& well booted) Sappers have been getting the volatile & wet footed Italians to work. All goes well now. But it has been a do. So my New Year was not communing with you but tackling fleeing Italians & shouting at them that it was not an alert. They’re so simple & so defeated & so on brave & they hate the rain & the work. Bless them.
Oh I had a drink of something called Cockerells Blood at the Docks Clearance office for the New Year. And a double whiskey with the mate on one of the ships. Otherwise it’s been all work, torrential work. But gay, it was all so perverse.

                        Oh, could you catalogue the parcel contents that have arrived, so that I can see what, if any, hasn’t ? You’re so sweet squeals of delight delicious & most gratifying & I’m thrilled at your appreciation, they don’t say what’s arrived ! I’m glad half of the book came for Christmas anyhow. Some of the pictures are very jolly I thought. Some shaggy horses I liked. I’ll enjoy looking at them with you. And if the Doc’s cigarette case came, so might one for you. They were posted together. Maybe it has by now.

                        A sweet letter came today, from your Mother. I love her letters. She writes so typically well & it gives be another angle on you all. And she can talk about you & that always pleases me. She is a dear. I’ll answer her letter. The more she writes the better I like it. She seems to tolerate “John Falstaff” charmingly. He probably GETS ROUND HER

                        Oh, listen, your stoopid, to friends who advise you NOT TO DO TOO MUCH. Your programme of activities in this last letter staggers & appals me. Although I’m full of admiration for your energy & verve & spirit, I do hope you will keep those precious reserves of strength untapped. Take it easy & go quietly, dearest. Your health & well-being are very important, to many people, two of us especially. SO DON’T OVERDO IT. That’s an order ! Grrrrrr !

                        This letter is spoiled by the fact that the calmth of the beginning is lost in the end. But I love you, so very much.

A quiet evening in the Mess. As other people are writing & reading, typing would be inconsiderate & I’ll enjoy the slower association of penmanship. It’s a quiet Wednesday evening. Cliff is reading the Digest “D” sends me, Allan is writing to Ruth, Peter is at the camp as Duty officer, Matt is in bed as he’s on at 2300, & Oakley is at the dock. Jack is in bed with the radio on. I’m with you. I came off at 15:00 hours, & found a letter from you in the Mess. I went to the H/Q to take my novel to the Colonel & bought 1½ pounds of tobacco for 7/6, & met Cliff & we had a superb haircut together. Tea & here we are.

                        Your letter was written on the 6 – 9; & was delicious. It touched on your new sense of domesticity, the Suffields, the handsomeness of our son, Fitz & his box & the throat-bugs, more fitz & us. So glad the cigarette box pleased him. It was rather nice. Made of Olive Wood at Sorento. I sent you one, a trinket box. Hope that arrives. You say in a squiggly P.S. that a parcel has come, but I don’t know which. I sent several but forget the contents & the order. Good old Fitz he deserves some token of my gratitude. So do you. I wonder if the filigree has come & if it’s any use, or the cameoor the book in two halves. It’s good the stockings made the journey. If any China is broken don’t be distressed for me, it’s a gamble worth the running. There were 9 of the tin boxes the blue ones. Oh & some Richard John china. Peters has got home, one lot broken !

                        I share your confidence that Richard John’s sane & natural life & his healthy environment will stand them in good stead in this infection period. Sweet air & his simple & organised live should keep them well. And anxiety & worry won’t help. Faith & common sense are the secrets. How did the Edkins get on ? You didn’t continue that. Oh & another question to answer – what is the radio position at home ? Have you the whispering set still ? I wish you could get a good one. And when do you listen. I heard the news last night, & was deeply cheered by the  showing so much, that the government no longer needed tins as salvage. Better even than the thrilling story of the Scharnhorst. And that’s grand enough. The War goes on, our way.

                        Your descriptions of Richard John are very eagerly read & re-read. It’s true, that we would be fond & adoring were he funny & pokey & ugly. But to have grace & charm & handsomeness is well is over weight indeed. I shall be so humble & proud, and as Lamb, poor soul, had only ghostly dream children, I have the reality behind my dream child. Oh, I shall love him, I do now, & you, as always.

                        But do I discern insidious propaganda in your Mother’s story of great grand aunt Mary & the 7 sons & 7 daughters & 1 son, a Benjamin ? I’m game but. . . . And the “little vests are washed & ironed & Put Away, are they. HO HO ! HO HO ! Bless us all – all. We ought to consult the BBC & Mr Cape.

                        So Bashford has got a Bashfordian job, nice & vague & a tribute to his charms & affability. He’s a SUCCESSFUL man. Hope I’m successful. For Richard John’s sake.

                        Peter’s letters are coming through all right now. May, the Juggins, was still using the non existent Air Mail. She’s reformed now. But Nonie’s letters could be like yours are.

                        I wrote a Guardian Mail article last night at the barracks – “Desert Chicken” (= Bully Beef). Hope (1) you & (2) the Editor likes it. I think it worthwhile keeping them all, even rejected ones, as they might make a collection some day. Stick any printed ones in the press cutting book for me. Oh, does the Geographical still come for you ? If not, lay it on.

                        We had our Christmas Party on Monday, Cocktails, 5.30 – 7.30. We put a long table in the large drawing room at our end with glasses on a white cloth flanked with an array of Whiskey, Gin, Vermouth, Cognac, Sherry, Brandy & Rum, & four colourful decanters. On another table at the other end we had stacks of chicken, turkey, cheese & salmon sandwiches & a cake (with 2 cups of brandy in it) & cheese straws. In a corner was a small table with tall thin sinister bottles of rare & potent drinks, Topers Corner. About thirty officers came, 3 Colonels, a clutch of Majors & odds & a few sods. It went very well, nice & chatty & fun. At eight the colonels & Strangers departed & I too went to have a nap, being on duty at midnight. I contented myself with many cheese straws, a lot of affability & 2 sherries. But after that the party developed & rugger, vague songs & wild whoopee lasted till every bottle was empty. Then they left, helped to cars by solicitous drivers. A successful evening. 1021 entertained. Diverse foolish things were said & done. None was unpleasant, everyone was fey.

                        The Col sent a note this afternoon for permission to borrow T.T.of T.S. thence my taking of it round !

                        Dickie is 5 months tomorrow ! Bless the lad. He does look jolly in the picture standing up on your knee. And in the Christmas Card one. He is looking so straight at the camera, too. It’s the most English setting. At kindly gnarled tree & the Anderton’s cottage, & you, your nose shows to excellent advantage in the other one. I expect he has reached further stages by now. Has he persevered in his bath-water drinking desires ? I liked water when young. I’m sure plenty of “plain cold water” is beneficial.

                        Letter from Aunt Edie & Mother with yours today. All seems well. We’ll have a trip to London. R.J.S.D. , when I come home if we can borrow car. The petrol problem is all right, for 500 miles. Petrol is ridiculously plentiful here, as it should be. The Govt. don’t stint operational regions. Its you poor folks at home.

                        Yes I got the bootee, so sorry I didn’t mention it. I’ve been carrying it about my Battle dress blouse for a long time. It’s always on me. Also the lock of hair. Also your handsome pipe, is in my mouth at this very minute. You spoil me.

1021 DOCKS OPERATING COMPANY R.E. C.M.F.

Dearest,
It is half past ten on Christmas morning, and here I am in Italy writing to you. I have just filled, with care and suitable pomp, your Christmas present pipe and the magnificent example of the pipe builder’s art is now being puffed slowly and appreciatively. It has been sitting in a drawer full of brandy for a week, and is now sweet, large and beauteous. I thank you, Madame.

I was on the docks until midnight, until after one actually, a strange Christmas Eve amid many cargoes and with two hundred poor Italian soldiers who hated  working at the Fiesta di Natale, they usually have six days off, which is their way of losing wars, and our way- of working just as hard, doesn’t please them.  What is more some of them had to go out in a craft across the dark and choppy harbour to work overside from a ship at anchor, and that frightened them, because it wasn’t really Mare Lei, and they aren’t seaman.  They were sick and it rained and was dark and cold and ammunition cases are heavy and the British sappers were gay and hearty and worked like Hell. Poor bedraggled dears. When they at last went home, I, who had chivvied them and dug them out from slacking corners, and expostulated and put their officer under arrest for neglect of duty and been the typical brutish unfeeling work demented Britisher, I wished them a Buono Natale, and they looked startled, smiled, and chorused Grazie! and went off laughing and singing some foreignish kind of a carol.    They are childish.

Anyhow here I am, idling the morning, having breakfasted in dressing gown – familiar indeed  to you, and shaved and bathed carefully and put on my new battle dress, Christmas  present from Q, and new pipe going beautifully, better than any new pipe before, I am writing to the one without whose company Christmas is a hollow memory. After this Peter and I are walking up to the Billet to see to the Christmas Dinner arrangements for the men. We’ve got it at midday after all. Chicken and Pork and so on and two bottles of beer and twenty cigarettes and fruit.

I was touched by your mother’s remark that you had THREE oranges. My dear, I wish you could have a crate or two but its difficult to send them.    We have two big bowls on the sideboard, piled high with golden oranges which are brimful of juice.

The next time Dickie cries when you are writing to me with Candy, go and say to him “Brrr., don’t be a baby!”   He will then either stop and say “No” or look at you, cry louder and say “But I am a baby.”

We have a man named Umberto I on a pedestal in our piazza, with a plumed helmet and a sword and the bottomest bottom on the horse. Also trees, hot weather looking trees, and a long University Building on the far side and apartments, with shops beneath on the other sides.

Peter is at one end of the table writing to May and telling her that I have pinched two of his three Mars Bars, and Allan is drawing things for Ruth.

Just got a good idea for an article – CORNED BEEF! I’ll send it along.    Also another one, a Football Match.    Oh, if you have only got the third and fourth article I’ll send copies of the first ones, let me know as they come and I’ll mark em off on my list.    I do want to get that overdraft down, but not for you to want for anything, don’t be tied by it.    I’ll makeer de money afterwards.

Again a sunny day, not cold, not hot.    These houses are designed for coolth, in the cunningest way and the electric switches go up to go on, and they’re very foreign, Poor wretches. But seriously we don’t know what it feels like to be a defeated nation, we’ve never been defeated. But it must be iron in the soul, you see it here. No supplies, all uniforms patched, half, nay a quarter of our ration, three lire a day (1½d.) against our private soldier’s   3/9 plus allowances.   After the war, no employment, no ships, no dole, no crops much, and all their own fault. Us brisk, long paced, heads high, well fed, wonderful equipment and clothes, officers in cars, men in trucks, their officers sometimes on cycles, the men always walking, not marching.

But you, more important than all the Italians.  Peter will have come with the records and the books, with my love, Uncle Jack will have come, Richard will be allowing his first Christmas to pass him by, but later on it will be brown paper and string day, and there will be an indefinable spirit of Christmas about the village. So long as you are happy, all is well, I wonder if it is next Christmas that we revert to normal living.   I pray so.  But I am happy and busy and my time is not wasted, nor must these years from our lives be wasted.  All will fill a pattern, and with you it must be good.  Bless you dearest and all my love.
Ever your own. . .
David.

Dear Richard,
A happy, Christmas and a good New Year, my lad.    Be good, be patient with your Mother, and listen well to the advice of Edward, The Knowledgeable Bear.   My love to Candy.    I’ll be seeing you. . .

Daddy.

Christmas Day.
Cliff’s telegram arrived at 11o/c. Christine Gabrielle arrived safely 14”. Both well.
Your letter also came Christmas morning. I’ll answer it this afternoon if sober. Good about the
G. Housekeeping’s £8-8-0! All for you!
I love you
David.

Postie has repented with a vengeance, and brought me two letters from you, real first class ones. I’ve just read them quietly and shall read them again before I go to bed. He also brought me one from Mother, One from Granny-Distaff, one from Stephen Sunderland and an airgraph from Bertha, a wollop of Postie. It’s been a backwards day, Docks from 00.00 hrs till 0800, breakfast and bed until four, sleeping without a dream, then tea and buttered toast in bed, a blazing bath in our luxury stream-lined bathroom, careful dressing, high tea, and the Mail came. Off to the pictures with Peter, a silly one called “The More the Merrier” but quite fun, then up here to the barracks, were I have read my mail, fondling the letter in the pictures and ever since and gloating.

                        The letters are rare and fine, sent on the fifth and ninth of December. The first was choir practice, Chip on leave, and the parcel arriving. Glad the stockings made the trip and that they fit and please. They pleased me, to be able to send them. Then you went on about us, very agreeably and soundly, and then Mrs. Spencer to tea, the plans for the Christening, Mary Hanson, Sunday morning with Dickie-Dido and uncle Jack Hancox, a fine idea and gratifying, a Good Liberal Influence, and charming of each to like the other, and altogether a fine letter and makes me inly glad indeed. The other began about flashing foreigners dancing the Tarantella with me, – they don’t, flash or dance. I find them all insipid and only danced for politeness sake and shot off to my room. They confided to Cliff that they couldn’t understand me, I was typically English, so very cold and well mannered. I’m not, you know, not with the right person. Not very anyhow, or shan’t be. Oh no. Then you said that Careless had cancelled the Sadgrove guarantee, which is good and thought the account was healthy. By a winter or spring coat directly we revert to black ink on the statement, and muck it up again. Do buy a nice new coat, please. I mean that. Then you say write, and I will, when I can, and I shan’t tire myself, because I have so great in need for the proceeds now. Your mother was at a whist drive, a good thing, And then memories, see below. . . Then Dickie swore a bit and you coped, Then Caporale which you like, good, then the other presents, money box does open, I’ll show you when I come home, or Dickie only, it’s his box and I might want to sub from it to balance cricket club accounts, the other parcel has arrived, the whirligig and the other stockings and the face creamy things. Were the the mad beads with that lot ? The bead and wooden ones ?, and you liked the cosmetics, good. Did we get those through duty-free, rather naughty of us if we did, then the drawing of Dickie-Dido in the Moses basket, and so to the end of delight no. 2

                        I find stockings unavailable here or you should have some more. There are none of the shops full of nice things here as in Napoli, but I may get a few days leave to Napoli, stay at the club, and go La Boheme at the San Carlo every afternoon and shop in the mornings. There is talk of local leave for officers.

                        The Christening, do as you want and I’ll play and back you up. If I know the date and time I’ll synchronised my watch and be with you. I think there were other stockings, by the way. I’m not sure. It’s odd that the book parcels got there so soon and the others sent a month before so long afterwards, maybe the box went ordinary postal something. So many things I want for you, and shall provide.

                        Yes, I was remembering only yesterday bananas and coffee at half past two in the morning, and I also have vivid and dear memories of Mrs Pearce’s sofa thing. And Chaucer, and the buses we just caught and the one we missed, and how I used to think and wait and work out the time all the afternoon when you are coming, and wonder, in the very earliest days only, if you would not bother suddenly and go out with someone else, of your own age and someone clever and orthodox and sensible. But you are blessedly unreasonable and impracticable and dotty yourself. I remember too, and in a crossing letter have reminded you New Year at the Vic. And Scarborough all still and silver in the moonlight. I want to walk with you above Naples in the moonlight, too. It wasn’t coffee with the Banana but milk.

                        And our memories contain also a myriad of nameless unoccasions, visions of each other, special intimate smiles in public, singing drives in the car, stupid word games, and unnecessary and unrecords strolls round the garden. Yes, I remember those early cricket practices at Great Alne.

                        I’m glad you’re doing Posters, everyone loves you and its good that you can do something for the village, our village. And as for you and I, my dear it is for us a miracle and a sure sign that there is a God.

                        This will come after Christmas so you will have received the things from Peter. I hope he succeeded with some of the records I listed and the books. One chapter is about “Monkey.”

                        This son of mine ! Your mother was so charming and admiring about him and she’s an honest person. Bless the lad, he’s been very clever, making me a father; me. And you are nearly 30. Shshshsh. What about ME ? But I’m so fit and bouncy and elastic and vigourous and not fat that I’ll not be forty, not for ten years yet. Bless you, sweetheart. . .

1021 Docks  Operating  Coy.  R.E.  C.M.F.

Dearest Heart,
Such a pile of letters must be coming! None yet. But they will and bless you. I’ve had a busy two days, docks all one night, and half the day, then docks all day today, and this evening the defence of another Court Martial to prepare. Its tomorrow, and the accused, who can choose his defending Officer plumped for me, and its not so easy because he admits to calling a Sergeant Major a “Barley necked Bastard”. My defence could be to prove that is a good thing to be barley necked and sergeant majors are bastards anyhow.  But I’ve taken a different line, to plead Not Guilty and to put the S-M into the box and try to tie him up and prove him to be a bullying, threatening, victimising tactless bloke and so establish justifiable provocation. A forlorn hope, as he admits the language, but we’ll get the verdict lessened or bust. I can see a chain of courts martial now.  Getting Pattinson off has been a sensation in the company. The R.S.M. is very cross about it as he put him on the charge. But poor little, Mullens is small beer.

But enough shop. We have a new home, a series of connecting rooms in which I get lost, which is two large flats converted into one. Its in the middle of the town, opposite to a piazza with trees and a statue to Cavour.  The owner was a Fascist of the worst kind, with pictures in uniform with tassled sword and a pigs face. He’s fled and his wife and relatives fled recently and came back this morning and wailed. It was furnished violently, Victorian mode in excelsis. Little chairs, terrible painted ceilings, vast cabinets of nick nacks, carved mirrors, china dogs and fishes and bathing belles and everything. But plenty of food they had hoarded and some really promising wine. I have a fine glass of Kummel on the desk as I write. The bathroom is modern and luxury and excellent and electric water heaters and showers and concealed lights. We have cleaned it, removed 7/l0ths of the furniture and it is liveable.  Peter and I have a room with big breasted angels on the ceiling, domed, two beds with spring mattresses, a fine desk for me, carpets armchairs and a funny clock.  Its very fine with the usual tiled floor. The pictures of Musso were so fine and the Fascist character so marked, as we were told before hand, that we have no compunction in drinking their wine and eating their food. The Town Major has given us the flat and the family can moan. “They should have thought of that three years ago.” It’ll be a jolly place for Christmas. Especially with the spumante, champagne and liqueurs there are.   Also bags of nuts rows of apples and so on.  The men move into the new billets soon, day after tomorrow.

Dickety Dickery Docks on and off all the while now, and nice busy days they are, too. Its quite fun. I must get a-writing again though; here I shall be able to, now we are settled in a little.

You haven’t sent me details of the play in the book yet, and the others. Do, please I’d like it.

Oh, some superb gramophone records here again. Caruso, Galli-Curci and two other top notchers in operatic quartettes, Caruso alone, and all the operas.  Sheaves of H.M.V.  (continental) white and yellow labels. We may take some among us, as legitimate spoils. I am getting to like Italian opera, it is complete music, a full orchestra with the human voice to make it alive. Its so inspiringly sufficient. See what I mean. We must have some opera when we are here.

And how is Dickie-Dido? And his smile and laugh, and plumpness? It will be a miracle moment when I see him. Peter says his had tiny finger nails with half moons in them. It seems incredible.

I’m glorying in the Swan Song. He is good, that Galsworthy, I recommend you to read the Forsyte Saga again, now, he has such wit and feeling and skill, and such competence. He Is admirable and I chuckle a lot. If there is a Swan Song at home, in Modern Comedy, read now, for me, chapter XIII – Soames in waiting, and “Son of Sleeping Dove” and “Soames goes racing”. And after lunch where Kit is described as “he stood there, blue and rather Dutch, with a slight frown and his hair bright staring at the company”.

But read it. You will like it, you who likes all good things, red cockers for one thing, little plump boys for another, and even dubiously nice things like middle aged sapper subalterns. Who do like you, so very much. I’m you-conscious. I hope we stay in the VIIIth. now because they’ll certainly get home early Afterwards.    I wonder when that will be, who knows?   Time will come, you know, and we shall be us again. The nicest form of me.

Peters for bed so am I, to read Swan Song and to sleep. Tomorrow Court Martial at 9 and docks at four, office work in between and censoring But I love you very much dearest of all.

Go on writing even if Postie saves them up for me. Hope mine get through smoothly. All well?  I pray so. . .

Ever your own. . .
David.

Purse for Mother Anne,
Stamps for Richard or Christopher
Picture for you !
My love to all three.

This is not a real letter, its an intermediate one.  Just because I love you so much.  Its in our early days in the new place, remember ?  The picture I begged of Cliff for you just now.  He was foraging in his writing case & found it, so I thought it’d amuse you.  He is not nearly so funny looking as that, nor is the Colonel !

Kiss Candy for me.

Oh, here are the words of Un Po di Lune, our song of the moment :-

 A dear little song wherein I think of you, but you do “rispondare”

———–

Peter has just played Tito Schipa singing “Ombra mai fu” (Largo). Its D.B.1064, H.M.V.- Italian Market. See if Priestleys can get it.  In full its :-

“Ombra Mai fu”
(Largo)
Sung by Tito Schipa

The other side is M’Appari Tutt’Amor, also by Tito Schipa.

At the moment we have Caruso & Melba singing “thy tiny hand is frozen !!” A fine pair.

These letters, these long distance ones, cannot be more than notes.  I’m too impatient for these.

God bless & keep you.

1021  Docks Operating Coy.,  R.E.  C.M.F.

Dearest One,
In our school, with a few windows in our classroom-mess as the move to the barracks reserved for us seems to be no nearer.  A fine billet this if only there were some windows, but the sappers are real soldiers now and have improvised doors, shutters and strange window coverings. Nice folk.

I’ve been occupied all day preparing the defence for my nice Sergeant Major who has a Court Martial on Tuesday.    I’m defending him and am determined to spare no pains or effort to get him off.  Its a serious affair, and if I fail its reduction to the ranks at least.  Charged with being unfit for duty through indulgence in alcoholic stimulants.  I’ve been reading the Manual of Military Law all day and have been working out lines for cross-examining witnesses, confounding the prosecution and for making my witnesses say the right thing.    I do hope I get him off , he’s such a splendid bloke, a tower of strength, enthusiasm, technical skill and loyalty. He trusts me implicitly and touchingly so I must wage careful legal war, be intelligent and cautious, and fight hard.   We will, I pray we pull it off.   Eighth Army F.G.C.M.’s are pretty sharp I’m told.  But British Law is the sweetest kindest and fairest law in the world.

Some surface mail has come through, two pairs of papers from you bless you and a Christmas Card from the Thoms.   Do write to them, no send them a card.   Your tinned loot has gone off, the Fascist gold banner braid. In a cigarette tin unwrapped but well stuck down.   Hope its all right.

I did enjoy the Spectators, of October 22 and 29th. Not at all bad.  Uncle Jacks pencilled comments, or Marginal Notes are just as good as Harold Nicholson’s.  Tell him.    And how is my glowing son, for whom I have constantly recurring thoughts of affection, and for whose future I have a steady stream of purpose.    And how are you, busy with the child, with the house with our friends with the choir practises, with your letters to me and your many activities, all charming and made good by and because of you. I am wanting you and your son, this week, maybe because we’re in a betwixt and between state and not yet settled down to work.  Shall do.

This will come for the New Year, or even for Christmas. I’ve tried often to gauge the Christmas post, this may be it.    If it is, my wishes and May Santa Klaus bring you Something Nice.    I wish I could play you’re Santa Klaus as at Scarborough.

We brought a small boy, thirteen year old, with us. He worked in the cookhouse in Napoli and worked so hard and became so fit with our food and smiled so much all the time that when we came to leave and he wept and wept the Sgt. Cook rigged him out in shorts and shirt K.D. and brought him.   He has no parents and just belongs.  One of the Sergeant Majors is going to take him home with him.   All the civvies tried to join our army and implored us to take them with us.    But only the little ragazzo won through.  He cleans dishes and scrubs and peels potatoes and sings Italian opera delightedly.

We get fresh meat this side, beef for dinner, real gravy-y beef, its grand. And the colder weather has brought out our appetites and our sweaters.   We are fattening up again and feeling so very bouncy and fit. That’s one reason Iwannagohome.    But I can bear it, if you can because homecoming will come.

They’ve all gone to an Ensa Show this evening except myself, who preferred the quiet and your company and my defence preparation. Peter stayed too, and is writing to May.  I’m smoking a pipe well now, and have only a few cigarettes a day, only a mood, but a nice one. So that when your Christmas pipe comes I’ll he be ready for it.    I must send you some   more nice things, maybe there are bookshops here to explore. I may send my Voltaire’s home, for safer keeping in the library. Richard shall read them, untold and for pleasure some day. He’s a wicked man, but so shrewd and graceful.    I always refer to our son as Richard in letters to other   people, only Dickie to you.    That is important. How did he fare at the Infant well?

Washbrook brought in some fine coffee and two large sandwiches each.    Then a golden orange, full as only oranges here are with succulence and sweetness, no not sweetness, clean sharpness. Are you getting any or only the bottled? That was good expectant father liked those.

Bless you all, you and Candy, Dickie and Teddy, your Mama and our home, Mrs. Anderton and Uncle Jack, all of you.   And be happy, dearest, therein lies my happiness.

ever your own and only….