1021 Docks Operating Coy., R.E. C.M.F.
Richard’s Birthday
No. 141

Dearest
Hullo.   Richard’s Great Day, bless the boy, I have had his picture on my desk all day and have also had him well in mind; and Honor there and all. Bless us all, I wouldn’t mind having been there myself. I am sending a Thing for him, not very good because I haven’t got my hand in again, but it might do, the topicality making up for a certain stiffness of style. Its for Guardy, or Posty, whichever jumps the highest. Please do your stuff.

I had your letter written, after the dance with the Top Sergeant the one with stripes up and down, with the Twins, in Honolulu.    They are like that, so nervous of saying the wrong thing and then when they see you aren’t going to be English and bite they thaw and come all trusting and confidential.    I have a fine technique for handling them now. They do appreciate being forgiven for having been naughty in 1775.

I am thrilled with the picture of the cottage in the Cotswolds where we can park Dickie some times, and Uncle Fred pottering in an old hat around the place and having bees and growing rare tomatoes and your mother and Aunt Jess being there together and she doing nice things and Jess making the home go one way and your mother the other.    It could work perfectly, a brilliant shining idea for which the Lord be praised, develop it.  I can smell a hay-scented wood smokiness all ready and Richard can visit sometimes, and we can see them from time to time. Its the thing I was groping after, Fred would keep them so sane and nice. He could have his books and even do something with a village cricket club. He’d be superb on a village committee.    I can see it all and am in favour, but ACTion, will not they take a few years to make up their minds to retire, I’m not half selfish and realistic about you you know. My word I am. You and your son, my son Richard, aged one year old. I want full news of the celebrations. You said nowt about the vaccination so that may be better now.    Poor lad. I know he wants to do what I do, when the M.O. has done it, wipe it off quick with cotton wool.

Leonard was nice to you, he’d better be.  But he is a courteous old fish.   Did he approve the picture?   I feel a bit oo-ar about that I mean his’un lacks that something Lanave has got don’t you feel.

I do hope his pictures arrived for his birthday, I feel that if I can maintain that standard for his birthdays he will like it.   As well as a windmill and a pair of roller skates of course.

The more I think of the ultimate Cotswoldisation of your mother and Fred and Jess the more I like it, but what about Maurice?

I dined at the famiglia Rinaldi yesterday, a fine meal of broth with macaroni, pasta, chicken, rabbit, Broth L’Inglese (sponge cake in milk whipped with egg yolks, wine and sugar) and so on plus peaches.   Also good wine, red and white.    My little girls, and my special one, wore party frocks and brushed hair with new ribbons and Enzo was furbished up for the occasion and everyone, adults and young, behaved charmingly.   When you sneeze, they say “Salute” out here, solemnly and politely, not as a joke. Rather nice. You pronounce the e at the end, of course. But you’ll know that.   With your amazing memory and your sympathetic understanding of languages and things you’d be fluent had you been out here half the time I have.  My memory is so bad my vocabulary grows painfully slowly.

Bertha has asked for her play to begin rehearsals by September 1st.    I must do it somehow, I’ve not failed her yet. Difficult, though.

Do you think I should write to the BBC to someone who counts to get my name on a rehabilitation list in case something dreadful happens and the war finishes?  I can see it wise to have a pull from behind the scenes. Who, though? Lloyd Williams is in Nigeria. Edith Summerville? I wonder. Good Lord, coming home! Candy and Dickie and you.  And Jim Jeffs and all and all.

What a procession of callers, Honor and the Crofters and Mama. Gwen too and Ame! Don’t you go and overdo it, in arranging and administering.    Don’t burn yourself out on other people, no matter how nice they are, some tranquillity and peaceful contemplation, so far as the Son and Heir allows, is necessary. You’re only twenty seven, no hell, you’re getting on, you’re twenty eight now.

Is Chris really going to Bedford. No one will tell me when his birthday is and which it is.  Sort of a Secret. He’s coy about it even. I sent some Rome postcards yesterday by surface mail, rather nice ones. You’ll need a box for postcards soon. A terrible trial these things must be to you. Fortunately here we have no chance to shop. But I have got a sprig of Rosemary given me by Miria when she found out my house was Villa Rosmarino.  It is in my tent in a little glass and is fragrant in the evenings.    Bless us all.    And bless you all.  Write on, you best of correspondents, wives, mothers and lovers . . .  Ever David  XXX

1021 Docks Operating Coy., R.E. C.M.F.
Richard’s Birthday
No. 141

Dearest
Hullo.   Richard’s Great Day, bless the boy, I have had his picture on my desk all day and have also had him well in mind; and Honor there and all. Bless us all, I wouldn’t mind having been there myself. I am sending a Thing for him, not very good because I haven’t got my hand in again, but it might do the topicality making up for a certain stiffness of style.    Its for Guardy, or Posty, whichever jumps the highest. Please do your stuff.

I had your letter written, after the dance with the Top Sergeant the one with stripes up and down, with the Twins, in Honolulu.    They are like that, so nervous of saying the wrong thing and then when they see you aren’t going to be English and bite they thaw and come all trusting and confidential.    I have a fine technique for handling them now. They do appreciate being forgiven for having been naughty in 1775.

I am thrilled with the picture of the cottage in the Cotswolds where we can park Dickie some times, and Uncle Fred pottering in an old hat around the place and having bees and growing rare tomatoes and your mother and Aunt Jess being there together and she doing nice things and Jess making the home go one way and your mother the other.    It could work perfectly, a brilliant shining idea for which the Lord be praised, develop it.  I can smell a hay-scented wood smokiness all ready and Richard can visit sometimes, and we can see them from time to time. Its the thing I was groping after, Fred would keep them so sane and nice. He could have his books and even do something with a village cricket club. He’d be superb on a village committee.    I can see it all and am in favour, but ACTion, will not they take a few years to make up their minds to retire, I’m not half selfish and realistic about you you know. My word I am. You and your son, my son Richard, aged one year old. I want full news of the celebrations. You said nowt about the vaccination so that may be better now.    Poor lad. I know he wants to do what I do, when the M.O. has done it, wipe it off quick with cotton wool.

Leonard was nice to you, he’d better be.  But he is a courteous old fish.   Did he approve the picture?   I feel a bit oo-ar about that I mean his’un lacks that something Lanave has got don’t you feel.

I do hope his pictures arrived for his birthday, I feel that if I can maintain that standard for his birthdays he will like it.   As well as a windmill and a pair of roller skates of course.

The more I think of the ultimate Cotswoldisation of your mother and Fred and Jess the more I like it, but what about Maurice?

I dined at the famiglia Rinaldi yesterday, a fine meal of broth with macaroni, pasta, chicken, rabbit, Broth L’Inglese (sponge cake in milk whipped with egg yolks, wine and sugar) and so on plus peaches.   Also good wine, red and white.    My little girls, and my special one, wore party frocks and brushed hair with new ribbons and Enzo was furbished up for the occasion and everyone, adults and young, behaved charmingly.   When you sneeze, they say “Salute” out here, solemnly and politely, not as a joke. Rather nice. You pronounce the e at the end, of course. But you’ll know that.   With your amazing memory and your sympathetic understanding of languages and things you’d be fluent had you been out here half the time I have.  My memory is so bad my vocabulary grows painfully slowly.

Bertha has asked for her play to begin rehearsals by September 1st.    I must do it somehow, I’ve not failed her yet. Difficult, though.

Do you think I should write to the BBC to someone who counts to get my name on a rehabilitation list in case something dreadful happens and the war finishes?  I can see it wise to have a pull from behind the scenes. Who, though? Lloyd Williams is in Nigeria. Edith Summerville? I wonder. Good Lord, coming home! Candy and Dickie and you.  And Jim Jeffs and all and all.

What a procession of callers, Honor and the Crofters and Mama. Gwen too and Ame! Don’t you go and overdo it, in arranging and administering.    Don’t burn yourself out on other people, no matter how nice they are, some tranquillity and peaceful contemplation, so far as the Son and Heir allows, is necessary. You’re only twenty seven, no hell, you’re getting on, you’re twenty eight now.

Is Chris really going to Bedford. No one will tell me when his birthday is and which it is.  Sort of a Secret. He’s coy about it even. I sent some Rome postcards yesterday by surface mail, rather nice ones. You’ll need a box for postcards soon. A terrible trial these things must be to you. Fortunately here we have no chance to shop. But I have got a sprig of Rosemary given me by Miria when she found out my house was Villa Rosmarino.  It is in my tent in a little glass and is fragrant in the evenings.    Bless us all.    And bless you all.  Write on, you best of correspondents, wives, mothers and lovers . . .  Ever David  XXX

1021 Port Operating Coy.,   R.E.  C.M.F.  No.XXX

Dearest, Your birthday! A happy one may it be. With a quietly busy morning and a bathing afternoon on the rocks and a shower at the U.S.A. shower shop and a quiet evening first writing to you and then visiting my friends at the farm for a hour and a glass of wine I pass it in part as a feste. We go quietly, resting now but active again soon.

The King is out here which is nice of him, I wish I could get him to send you out, and Richard, he’d like it. Especially the sea bathing. But were it unnice you’d like it if we were together and so would I. But it is not unnice, the reverse.

I feel I owe you an explanation and an apology for getting you no promotion with the corresponding local credit. There are, and I am matter-of-fact about it, Captains and Majors out here who are patently less intelligent, less experienced and less worthwhile than your husband. What is more, I have had glowing testimonials and recommendations for promotion. We have staying with us now a staff Captain who is brainless but who has charming manners. I could have had a Captaincy long ago, the Colonel calls me Danny and is very much my friend. But by some peculiar trick of character I have identified myself very closely with this company, in an obvious way. I know all the men and they know me, and one thing and another it is unthinkable to send me away. Therefore we have to await a vacancy in this company. Peter is rather the same. So the first Technical Captaincy will go to Peter, and the first Administrative one to me, that’s understood. We are at the top of the list now which could have been xxxxxxed if I’d xxxxxxxx? transferable earlier on. But we are trying xxxxxxx xxxxxx? promotion of a Captain we have, if we had done so xxxxxxx someone better might have come. The idea is to wait until one xxxxxx is put up in the nature of things, and then transfer Louis out to the new vacancy and leave me or Peter here, me probably as Allan is so technical. So we have to wait patiently. If I’d have been less part of the family after Sicily I’d have gone to Staff, or several times after the colonel thought of pushing me up, but it always meant going to another company.

Thus I have been, apparently, a failure, but actually its been for the best because I could not be as useful elsewhere as here and I’m happy with my own brood. Rather singularly well placed I’ve been, and I have a Captain’s job, and more or less do the second in command’s work, and they all come to me, the captains too, so I have the satisfaction of doing the job, am happy and content and the only trouble is its hard on you. But if only a subaltern I’m very fit and very fond.

I have tried to break myself in again and have started a draft Guardian article. My section plays football, after that I’ll have another go. I’ll get going and then will try to flood you out. Dear poor you. How much I love you, too. You are so nice sitting in a Hotel lounge or holding a golden dog on a lead you in a green coat on a railway station; I like to stand apart and watch and see other men lighting up with pleasure at the sight of you and gloating and crowing and then coming up and there you are. Even with a silly little bag like my silly little bag.

How goes your mother I must write to her and Christopher wxxxxxxxx  xxe home  soon and up to see you all and keep an eye on you, hope his xxxxx xxnal term’s report panned out alright.

The football match has started and my section are playing I must be there. I have got over my old dislike of soccer and understand enough to enjoy watching it. Just shews, education comes sooner or later.

I’m after a portable typewriter for you and may get it.

My greetings specially to Mrs. Anderton please, and my love and good wishes.

These sunny days in steady series, not the angry burning sun of Sicily but a good English-like sun, though hotter than that except for heat waves, rises steadily and shines from a blue sky onto a blue sea and in the evening is soft and golden and we have a last minute stroll, Peter and I, along the cliff path and see the moon path over the still sea and the outlines of great Elba over beyond. Its lovely and little seabreezes tickle us.

Your birthday, and in two days, Dickie’s and he’s one. Lets have more pictures when you can. The last lot were so jolly and are so often looked at. I’m writing to Mr. Cape and paying for the books you had. Hope he sends some more. Can you buy me the Blunden book called Cricket Country please? I am bewitched by the reviews. Peter has sent for it too. Need book cases, shan’t we, soon.

The Rome pictures will come soon for Dickie. I know you will be enchanted with the Virgin knitting the pink vest. It moved me much.

All my love, dearest, keep writing, keep happy and I’ll be with xxxxxxx

Ever your David XXXXX

1021 Docks Opg  Coy R.E. C.M.F.

Dearest: Your splendid letters are still coming, one yesterday, written on St Swithun’s Day, with pictures of Dickie & the milk book.  You had met Keynes-Smith at the Art exhibition.  Eileen & Doris had been & a letter from Dora Hughes had come. Quite enough my part as a welfare officer!  Life is strange, & I suppose Bill is infatuated with this war-wife.  It’s unwholesome & discreditable & sad for poor dumpy Dora.

So Dickie’s granny has heard check, good.  Now she can look forward & plan. But is the cottage idea practicable?  She’ll need, say, £250 a year in a simple life, & how earn it?  Let alone that resultant loneliness.  She must plan, but plan practically & realistically, & with the possibility of action being necessary quite soon maybe.  The rumours & snippets of news coming in seemed to imply a result here soon.  Whether or not that will mean my coming home, and my definite demobilisation, I can’t say.  My age & service seem to be favourable for that.  But if I’d do, the hour of action will have come for the reestablishment of your home, nice though she is, it’s you, Dickie & Candy I want to live with.  All this we know, but it is important to keep it well to the forefront of our life & planning.  If we drift on after I come home, it’ll be increasingly difficult to make the break.  All sounds ruthless, but so very necessary.  Also it will be hard.  One pities.

Ever played Duck-at-Stones?  It’s very stupid game of Allan’s.  Ideal for us & Them at the seaside.  All that is required is a stone per person.  Its glorified Tig.  I’ll teach you & – later – Dickie & Them.  We’ll adapt for the family.  Its full of odd aspects & is very ancient.

Soon, in half an hour, I play football – Pen Pushers v Tin-openers, i.e. Admin v Cooks.  Peter, as Messing Officer, is also playing, against me.  Great is the excitement.  Bless us all.  Don’t tell Dickie, please.

Still no Things – very sorry.  I will.  Doris, you said, liked the portrait.  Eileen would be very disturbed & embarrassed.

I think so much about you & our little boy, his looks & ways.  The three of us. I look at contemporary Italian children, and they’re different of course.  His achievement in going upstairs is terrific.  Such enormous stairs.  Does he eat meals now?  I’m so sorry they give you troubled nights.  I should share that of course.  All that.  I’d love to arrive, unannounced at bath time!  And mornings sounds such fun.  I shouldn’t wonder.  I certainly should not.

Please tell J.J.H. I am sorry not to have written.  Busy days & a canvas home make writing difficult.

This time last year while wondering definite cable arrived.  And soon after this my first letters arrived in Sicily.  How I revelled in them!  Those days.

Some new travel books have gone today, of Rome.  Now that my first transports have steadied & the heady fumes of such splendour have settled, I can give a dispassionate opinion.  Its a splendid place & almost worthy of the riches in pictures & objets d’art it contains. It’s name & history, the Forum, & the many treasures give the city a glow, which is  by the fine clear air & the jewel light.  There is magic in Rome.  And you must taste that magic with me, hand in hand. Pieta is enough, it lives.

Docks ops!  We are changing our name shortly.  You’ll notice it on the next letter or so.  Very swish company ours.

The men are on the field, there is a good turn out.  Peter is changing.  I must.  A few lines after.  Off I go!

We went!  A full game, 40 min. each way, & for all my middle aged paternity I did really quite well & scored!  Ran hither & thither and got quite rough.  I was even warned by the Ref.  twice for being rough!  Bless us all.  I’ll release the news for Dickie.  I’m to play again in other games.  So there!

Like three kippers, Allan, Peter & I lay naked on a hot flat rocks yesterday afternoon after our swim.  Blue sky & rustling sea.  One thought of you!  One does.

Spent a couple of hours last night with my family, & a jumping handkerchief bunny rabbit was most popular with my Mina & her younger sisters.  Mina in bed, throat.  I feared dip. last week & got her away, but a test proved negative & she’s back at home rejoicing.  Bless you & bless Dickie.  How I do need you. Ever your David.

1021  Docks  Operating  Coy.,  R.E.  C.M.F.
137

Hullo Dearest,
This continues the letter written before dinner.    I am very perturbed about the Baby Show, more than I am with our little parties here, and the shows we may have to attend in our progress forward,   We are rather lucky, detached from all the other companies, who are far far back at bases, a kind of an independent brigade, sort of acting as part of the stiffening to the Americans.    Its very honourable, and the Americans are nice and friendly.   And always we get nearer to home. Also we travel more, have better treatment, better rations and a sort of an aura, as being the elite of our crowd.  So we are very perky. Chip would like being with us, we have football every night, inspite of unusual circumstances and on a most wobbly ground.

My little Miria is reported to be all right this evening, and the family are trusting and upset because they were told and believed, naturally, that the British were bullies, and would come as conquerors, and would rape all girls, shoot men and bully children. For the three weeks when the Germans were preparing to retreat these people took in stocks of food and loaded shot guns for when the English came, and the mother lost thirty five pounds weight through worry.   Now they find a rather silly sort of   British officer who spends all day over a little girls throat and also soldiers who play ball with the children and everyone, sort of avuncular and kindly.    They find special hospitals for Italians, dentists who see to teeth the fascists neglected, and a general atmosphere of cheerful friendliness.    So they are bewildered, and try to give us geese and we refuse and soldiers smuggle tins of bully beef and biscuits in and even gather in the corn stooks before putting up their tents.   The behaviour of the British soldiers in Italy will do more for keeping Italy from letting silly governments make them do tragically silly things than all the pacts and speeches.   And the number of children walking about in Italy in trousers made from camouflaged capes anti-gas is enormous.

Birthdays, I think they are good things, and in our family, what?   An outing always, a family Feste?   No lavish presents, but something together with the birthdayee, the Guest of Honour, except the Old Man who will mark his declining milestones by making presents. Go into committee.

Your descriptions of my son, my son, My Son, MY SON, Richard, Dickie to us, are embarrassing, golden complexion great eyes, soft hair and an engaging disposition.   I am excited about the Show.   Favourite or not enter him, and if old Fitz is fair he’ll have to tie the red ribbon on his tail or ear mark him or whatever it is he does.    One year class, eh?

So glad Marjorie is getting our Christopher to Bedford, because unless much has changed, and I think tradition is continuous, it will be a good setting for him.   Manly and forbearing, qualities one admires most I think. And we will go and see him from Kettering.

I Will Do Some Things for you. Sorry I’m such a cad, living rather a full life just now.   Sort of gathered all the reins into my hands which I think is the best thing for the company.   Every one has given up minding and takes it for granted that a subaltern sort of drives. Jimmy is very good about it, and between us we manage quite well, he is obedient now and easily handleable.   Allan keeps to the technical side and works with me and Ulocq does nothing apart from my real subaltern job and the others play pleasantly. Sort of Daddy to the lot.  Nice children, too. That is not boasty its an observation.

We could have heard Gigli in Rome but preferred, on careful consideration, to see the sights and walk the ancient streets and squares. You said in one of your last three letters that I’d been a year in Italy, but being with the army it was different.    It is except that I’ve taken pains to get to know the people apart from the war and to go into byways, and I have developed quite a knowledge of the place.     I have always wanted to come here.   Now Firenze is near.

I understand about the trousers, its one of those things. You can put them on when Mother comes, but let her see the usual things, I’m all for the minimum of clothes. The new idea, the cream and blue, sounds  promising.  Oh dear.

Oh dear.

I must think of Bertha’s play. Sedan chair is the focus, did I tell you? Oh, how nice of Mummy to give our Orsochiotto a jar of honey. Thank her for me. A typical Mummy trick.   Chris will be home soon, my love to him.   He may like to look at the Rome pictures I have sent Dickie. I commend to him especially the Virgin mending a pink vest. We shall need a cabinet for the various picture books I have and am sending, so as not to have a dangerous wobbly pile on the elephant always, we must think one out.   Much to think out.    Oh dear.   But in the core of this dear whirl which is my life, my little son, my books, my home, the village life, my little dog, amidst it all, the rarest diamond in the whole crown, is your self.    Outvaluing the rest, making the rest lovely because of your self.   And your letters come so often and are so gay and uncomplaining and rich.    I cannot conceive a life without you as its centre and motive force. Which means I am in love.   Here comes that Allan, and much worse, that Peter, to make me swim in our cove.   Wish you were here, and Dickie and Chris.

 Ever  David.    xx

‘Straordinary life here, letter writing is difficult even for me – ours is  a cut-off life & of news there is but little. But we are all well & lively. I now arrange my day with Parade 0800 – Inspection of Lines 0900. Company Office till 12. Lunch & read in the shade till 2. Office 2 – 3. Bath & lie in the sun 3 – 4. Cup of tea & office till 5, & thereafter this & that & bed by 10o/c when it’s dark. Soft and velvety evenings too. Oh, two evenings ago I dined out at the local farmhouse & had a genuine Italian country feast. Much rich soup with spaghetti, pasta, (a Mountain). Chicken & creamed potatoes, pigeon & chips, little fish baked in batter, dough-balls – honey mixed, puff cakes in cream & wine, & peaches & fresh figs. Much good special wine. Heaven ! After, talk ranged over affairs international. They were eager to feel the British point of view. They’ve been partisans & anti Fascist since the Armistice. All very nice & happy. Enzo, the small son, very beautiful & with a tendency to gaze at one, is diligently learning English & having been starved of school since January 43 – when the RAF destroyed it & the local steel works, he is greedy for learning. They’ve three little girls, 8 – 6 & 4 who are wondrously beautiful & shy. Their address, for future reference is Rinaldi Alfredo, Salvioli, Falcone 19, – The town I’ll add later, when security permits.

                        We are now free of the Group leading  & are once more a kind of free-lance body, always nice & an honour, too.

                        Your letter about Williams, the RN wallah ringing up, & you & Dickie & Candy at the Post Office, & the salute the soldier’s campaign. Bless you, you giving your skill to the war. They are lucky having you. So am I & so is Dickie.

                        Dear me, I’d like to see that person. Is he browning off ? His Daddy is. Stripped I’m sort of tawny brown & no burns at all. Sunny side up.

                        We’ve got an old Punches; 1935. The Cheetah &  joke is in one of them. Also the attitude towards Germany is amusing. A 19th Century of 1939 (May) is very sound & prophetic. Tell Uncle Jack that.

                        Do all the Menagerie still live with Dickie – the Bears (i/c) & 2i/c, & the weird & strange fauna he had at the last census ?

                        Yes, I’ll send a letter for editors with each Thing. So sorry no Thing lately, this “in the field” life is simple & sort of inappropriate. Awful slacker me. Oh dear.

                        Bread today ! Came up by schooner. Yoiks.

                        There are a range of low richly cultivated hills to the W – N of this shallow valley & in the evening they take & absorb the mellow light & they are entrancing, slow smooth curved hills, & gilded & gleaming. The sea too is deep blue, shining deep blue. All the sort of things one needs you for. That is often the ache of these travels.

                        How are relations at home with the family ? Good-oh ? , spitfires in the sun, all silver and off to t’battle.

All my love, dearest, & bless you for your so precious letter.

1021 Docks Operating Coy., R.E. C.M.F.
No. 133

Dearest Heart,

A letter yesterday you good person and good person the postie too to bring it to our field so far from you and anyone else almost. It was written on my birthday, which was quick coming. A nice letter indeed full of news of Things; I’ve a lot more material, for three or four and am getting more like the chance of writing them. Bertha wrote yesterday too all about her theatre, wanting very much another play and saying not to let Bill Hughes and Co. have my plays as she is running two companies after the war and sending them down south, and wants mine to do then, and will pay again and more – a spot of bidding being set up! I’ll see if we can sit in the opening of a tent here away from all things like that and do one. I’ll try hard I will.

As usual I have made a civilian contact, a good thing as it helps me to get the real insight into these foreign parts and the history of these days, a family of farmers, in a communal way, three families all interrelated, where they give me good wine, and I provide coffee and they talk and ask things after we have got unshy which reveal a great deal and help me to understand something of this tangle. Its very peaceful and peasantish.  Its the only farm for miles, and they have three cows, great white animals with long horns, and one horse. Its very feudal and unlike anything else. Not the class I knew in the South, but hard working Lloydish folk. Comic somehow. I mouse along in the evening for an hour in the gloaming, overlooking the camp, and mouse back for Staff parade after Lights Out, not that we have any lights.

Made a proverb today please note down and remember, I like it. “The black sheep bleats the loudest”.  Perhaps not.  And from a letter I censored. “Don’t mind what Pa says. I never do.   He’s getting old and miserable”.  Poor Pa!  Will Richard ever write that his pa is getting old and miserable, check any tendency you see, I pray you.

This climate is well-might perfect. Sun all day, but not the burning oppressive heat of Sicily or Tripoli, clean fresh sun, and always a little sea breeze playing up our long shallow valley between the tents and through my Company office, a marquee running fore and aft.    But two days ago we had a thunder storm and torrents of rain and many holes were full of water with kit floating sadly in it, and all tents wet.    But being campaigners, the men soon had things out to dry, the sun and wind came, and now everyone is fully efficient and clean and tidy and dry. A good show.

This is wonderfully healthy life, we are all sun burned and clear eyed and bleached haired and with simple army field rations, biscuits and plain good food, and early to bed, we are all very elastic and lively. Very. I shouldn’t wonder, but I do.

Good about you doing the farming when Marjorie’s Betty was dehydrated at the hospital with Blood confusions. I bet the cows and sheep liked it. You have a flair for it, farm fingers. You shall have your cow and your geese and your ducks and a sheep, yes a sheep, we’ll have a black sheep.  Bleats louder.

So Dickie’s vocabulary includes Gee Gee, Duzza-duzza and diggle diggle diggle.    Bless us all.  Rather basic, isn’t it? I feel rather basic, too.    Oh dear

Yes, eleven years older than you, a very father indeed for Dickie, little does he know.    I wish I had a Lanave of you to go and look at from time to time. Oh, have you sent May her Lanave, I expect you’ve done what I’d have done, postponed the problem, but Peter sort of hankers. Bless the man.

Breakers in the cove this afternoon and after rather an administrative morning and amid a busy afternoon I upped and went down to the cove, picking up one Enzo on the way, a grandson of the padrone and an English looking eleven year old and we shed our clothes and leapt and rolled and splashed and were tossed about in the breakers and it was very good with much sea weed, Peter turned up, and stood watching and a breaker overtook him and he came in, once he was soaked.    This is not a hard life. Our job goes well too and the hardest part is over.    Like Sicily, it eases as the time passes.

Have not the books and things I have sent you embarrassed you from the point of view of space?  If so get rid of a lot of those useless ones we have so seldom used. A good clear out is wise from time to time, keeping the best and getting the quality improved all the time. Also raiment and garments of mine can go too to make room, be ruthless. Like Allan. (Joke RUTH-less)(Ruth)His girl.  see the joke?

Now for an evening parade in the sunshine, slanting across the little hills, low and rich and so soft in the evening light.

In the Field as indeed we are, and with no gate, they think it cheaper here to have a length of rope round an anlmals neck than to build hedges, fences and gates, which is all right from their point of view but not so good from the animal’s, in the Field, then, the prompt and delightfully frequent arrival of your letters- is a delighter beyond all others, Yesterday came the one written from Dotheboy’s Hall with the Chapmans. A nice letter wherein were reports of Richard sleeping in an old oak chest,and of you going to Worcester a-shopping ? Did you get as far as Ross to see May Carter ? No, I expect not only just thought of it myself.  Oh dear, aren’t you nice; and Dickie diddleum was company in your great suite, and he liked better to sleep in your room, most wise and sagacious youth, I too would prefer,….but never mind that, heigh ho and likewise hey-nonny-nonny. Yes indeed, I shouldn’t wonder.  I shouldn’t but I do, often and at all times,

                        I’m glad you got away and left Candy in charge. Your remarks about old houses are very shrewd, and few people are so clear sighted.  They are charming, and fun, other peoples, but they make work. But a new modern house, of some size, of good design, and well placed would mean the writing of a book which sold quite a lot of copies, and we don’t really want that, do we? I think what we want from St, Anthony, Uncle Jonathan and Cousin Careless is a nice yearly book which sells a quietly increasing number of copies, a steadily rising graph as our domestic needs demand. A sudden wumph upwards would make us unhappy in a silly way. And if we are to be dressed domiciliarily by Luytens we’d have to spoil a lot of things by making a whumph. So a sensible farm house would be the dream.  But I agree that the ideal would be modern, regular, solid and sensible. However, for now, Rosemary Cottage is paradise enow., or the Fitzgerald tree with you as the Thee,

                        Marvellous, another letter, in the interval between the last paragraph and this one ! Written at Dormston and then finished when you had withdrawn from Scarlet-fever doubts to your home.  I loved the idea of your trip to Worcester and the place where we once got out and walked….. I Know. And Richard sleeping in your arms.  Oh dear. And then watching the people and choosing brogues, good good Good,

                        Dormiston. I am perplexed, Marjorie’s cows are called that, Ewart lives there, Marjorie is not Ewart, yet the cows….howsocome please. Oh, in the box I have sent home by M.F.O. is an Italian revolver. Will you give it to my friend Christopher please ? Richard will not appreciate it and maybe he won’t want one later and Christopher will probably like to have it as loot. It comes from a genuine battlefield in Sicily, picked up almost warm as one might say. Its a lousy weapon compared to ours but there you are, its a revolver and is for Christopher,  I’ve sent him some local currency and a few stamps today, by sea-mall. I’m so grateful to him for being friendly and for reacting as he has, its the richest compilment, and such friendliness from a Suffield is touching indeed.

                        I said but little about Rome, I couldn’t.  It will take time. We stood above the Piazza del Popolo at nine in the evening and saw the city all gold in the sunset and St. Peters was bronze with bell for Compline.  And I saw Pity, Michelangelo, over an exquisite altar in a chapel at St. Peter’s and it well nigh turned me papist on the spot, the breathtaking quivering beauty of it. And I saw the sun set behind the Coliseum, and the Villa Medici, with a great walled garden, wherein such as Raphael and Lorenzo could have walked, scented and colourful, with string music among trees. And the squares and fine streets and the queer corners with exquisite churches, with fountains in front and pillared porticoes. And ancient Roman gateways. It was astonishingly startling.

                        We have a little boat, a fourteen foot boaty boat, a fishing boat with a lug sail, made from a light tarpaulin, and I’ve been sailing in the nude and swimming in the deep clear water, and lying in the sun on the floor of the little boat with Allan and Peter. It was glorious.  I seem to be deeply ensconced in admin now, and have my company office in a little marquee and the tent lines stretching in front of me, its all very much like Camp Coffee labels !

                        Did you mean on the left hand wall of the room for the Lanave or on the wall opposite to the window on the left of that wall, I mean this or this.
                            Now, – I love you to like my own style of spelling, I will not be cross and have only pretended to be so on the outside. I was frightened that, once long ago, when reading anything, you were laughing at what I had written and not the misplaced e’s. But you were ever too kind for-that,

                        Richard does sound a good person, -They aren’t all calling him Dickie I hope, try to make outsiders, except the very special few call him Richard and only the inner few on special occasions to be familiar. And no Dicks for a long while Oh no.

In this most lovely spot, a shallow valley curving slightly, running inland from a rocky, cliffy, covish coast where a lazy sea whispers over rocks and polished stones, – in this spot, with my camp all established and smoothly running, tents camouflaged with corn to match the corn fields around us, and dug in, here I have been thinking a lot of you.  The moon, great and silver, finished the mood, no accentuated it. And the Army Post Office, most efficient of all the efficient British Army produced mail two nights ago, with one from you, one from Mother, one from Bill Hughes and one from Uncle Jack (Scarf) Hancox.  And now even the typewriter is out of its case and is in use.  Bless us all.  Its great fun, this Forward life, and everyone is brown and hearty and eats mightily,

                        I sent off the two parcels for Dickie and for you and hope they’ll make swift progress. They are aimed at your birthdays but might miss the mark. The pictures are for Dickie’s bedroom in due course when he has a bedroom and wants his own pictures. I like them immensly and think you will,  I have seen nothing like them. Nor like the lovely materials I resisted buying, largely because I had no money !

                        Its good that my advances up to May are in the debits but they shouldn’t have pulled us down to £45 minus, Have they credited us with (a) pay, (b) Corps pay, (c) Med, allowance ? My witdrawels can only be £13-10-0 a month, which is less than two thirds the full intake. I’ll be saving up here anyhow, unless I get a trip down to Rome as I have arranged for Peter ! I fixed a Duty Visit for him, bless him. But to return to mondayne matters, you might check up on the balance sheet that we have received, each month, about 30 or 31 times 13/-, plus 30 or 31 times l/2d. Corps pay, plus 30 or 31 times 4/6d. Med. Pay. If there are diserepeneies ask Careless to write to the Paymaster, (officers Manchester and ask what-the-hell ?.

                        Tullock has come back to the Mess having been relegated to his section for laziness for six months, you remember him coming to the Read’s cottage with ill-gotten rations for you at Broinborough ?

                        Living dangerously as you do at home, with these disturbing aerial bombs and poor living and rations and no travel and coupons and no petrol I hesitate to tell you that yesterday when we drew rations they gave us twenty eight turkeys, great fat turkeys, and the men today have turkeysfor dinner with apple sauce and spinach and beans ! And turkey broth for supper and turkey mince after that ! We are on American rations for the time being, and get American cigarettes and vast tins of fruit juice, pineapple, orange and grapefruit. Quite silly, I do hope Great Alne is out of range of the aerial things.  But it is, I feel Jerry’s last shot, I am most ashamed of our luxurious life, abundance of everything and even the best weather of Europe. Frauds, the lot of us. This, for example, is the ideal holiday camp, scenary good, weather constantly good, a little boat for sailing, bathing in two places, a cove a la nude and a little lido with shorts P.T., and but little real excitement to disturb our slumbers. The enemy has a pronounced tendency to go away from us. And you have War with you all.  Its hard and anxious making for sappers with folk in London and coastal towns. Heigh ho. May it all end.

                        I think of your son Richard much, my son Richard, – sharing to the full, with children – and wonder. He is of a friendly disposition I gather, likes people and is affectionate to you – as all people of good taste must be,  I wonder if he’d be affectionately disposed towards me and let me bounce him about – oh so sensibly.

            I’ve named you my voting proxy on the army form we are all doing.  I have no objection to you voting for Tony Eden, he seems to earn his keep and would be fun in opposition I should think. Failing that do as you wishwith my vote.

                        I must try to do some Things.  I’ll think it out and find (a) time and (b) energy. We need it.  Some time before Dickie will bring in much except in the presents he wheedles by sheer ingratiatingness it seems. How much has he made so far ? A fiver ? Like to know what we have in the way of hidden resources in the family.

                        The people here are better than in the South, more adult, more careful and fond of their children, who wear diminutive shorts only both sexes, and look brown and Upright and have good teeth. They are honest and when you give a woman a piece of soap for washing your things she brings back what she doesn’t use, unlike those in the south. They are more dignified and cleaner, and were violently partisan until Jerry moved away tactfully a few days ago.

                        How does the garden grow ? Fruit yet, currants and plums ? Dickie, your goodmother says, propels himself around his cage, so said also Bill Hughes, Good, very. Maybe a letter from you this evening. Dear how I need to see you both and all. I am a fond person, and think, in my hole in the ground, on Christopher’s bed, under my bivouac (I’ll try to hang on to it for Dickie in the garden ) think of you for a sweet period and then to sleep.