Your letter dated 31/7, that’s Friday, with drawings of Cheltonians, arrived this Saturday morning.  It was a very happy and happy-making letter, for which my thanks.

                        Now you’re back in Great Alne, & getting Things Into Shape & seeing the girls.  They won’t have liked Andertonian hennery, I bet they’ve all gone broody !  Report on their six healths.  Plenty of fresh water for hens & dog, please :

                         Ernest & I are sitting at beautiful leisure on our own iron seat on the ” spa”, a sort of “front”.  Its 14.45 hours, & a nossy kindly and jolly sea is rolling ashore at our feet. The sun shines & the sky is blue.  Two Wellingtons lumber playfully overhead & a few people, mostly mere civilians, are sitting about the place.  But we are blessedly alone & away from the rest of the squad, nice folk though they are.  A spot of peace & quietness is a great joy.

                        Oh, I’ve not written since yesterdays letter, the one with Molly shirts & Rogers letter in it.  That was a gay happy letter, although the first part was perturbed because youd not heard from me.  I write every day, except Friday, which should be all right.  I can’t post them before 530 so they always leave here first post on the next morning.  Some days I may miss because one is kept on the go here pretty hard.  But I’ll write daily whenever I can.  I love doing it, anyhow, its a compensation for being only half present, as it were.  Thanks for the Radio Times cutting.  I’ve passed it on to the Education officer.  It followed up my talk there very nicely.  This idea of a trip to London is very much in the embryo stage, only I know of that.  My idea is to launch a scheme which necessitates my conferring with Lloyd Williams in Town !  Its a 10.1 chance against it coming off.  But it might.

                        And the Majors kindness & OCTU remarks are only straws in the wind.  I’m still only a “rustic” & people don’t bow as I cross the barrack square. (oh 3 dogs in barracks today, just dogs, friendly & apparently in on their own.  One came to breakfast & had bits from 175 men !).  I may not pass out of A battery even, though I feel that’s unlikely.  I get on very easily with the dull & haven’t been strapped by sergeant yet, or by the Bombardier.  I want to stay here for B battery, anyhow, as its such fun, & I don’t expect I’ll have any option. The OCTU may (may) come after I pass out of C. battery.  For now, I intend to sweat like hell & do well, for the sake of it.  All the squad are keen as mustard & we’re better than 74 squad already.  We decided to adopt the enthusiastic role on the first Sunday night when I made a little speech.  One can slack & just avoid trouble, & be miserable, or sweat & be tired, but happy.  We all keep each other up to the mark now, & we’ve a considerable Pride of Squad.  75 means a lot to us.

                        This morning we had a Barrack Room Inspection, & we worked for it all last night & this morning.  We scrubbed & polished the floor for hours, with a heavy “Bumper”, we cleaned the windows & the lamps & made it all spotless.  Then sergeant showed us how to lay out our kit.
Then the Respirator, out of the case, like a skeleton, with its red tin, & equipment each side.  Then ammunition, all neatly piled, & locker with hold-all open & full, housewife, spare tunic, coat etc.  All was ready & we were complemented by the Major.  He stopped & asked me how I like it & how my feet were.  The only sign of recognition !  But he spoke to no one else.

                      Oh, I’ve been busy sewing, we all have.  We are issued with labels.  We put our name & details on them & sew them on the blankets so that when the they’re folded they come thus:-
I’ll make the beds when I come home !!

                        Four of our 28 have cracked up one fainted at P.T. this morning & is in hospital.  He never was very strong, one has sprained his ankle, one has got serious tummy trouble, & another has mysteriously disappeared to the hospital.  But the rest of us blossom under it all.  P.T. is fiercer now, but I haven’t been beaten yet, & we do it now on the cricket ground, by the sea.  Its terrifically good.  My chest is swelling visibly & I feel an inch taller.  And I eat with a gusto which is noted by all. Ernest & I have a hearty W/B & jam tea at 5, supper at 7, and then we go to the Naafi for a couple of hot meat pies at 8.30.  We don’t drink rounds, some do.

                        He’s very sweet & decent, quiet, handsome, brown & methodical.  He’s rather Yarnold.  He’s a teacher at a grammar school at Kidderminster, married a pretty wife (we have that in common) ,& he’s reliable & keen.

                        Of the others there’s Cohen, a wiry little pale faced R.C.  Who works in Leeds in a munitions factory.  He’s got a cockney type of wit, very droll, & wears big glasses.  He’s quite poor, I think, & supports his mother.  He’s a cheeky kind little chap & we all like him.  Then there’s Appleyard, (Apple blossom), a fat boy from .  Unmarried, very Yorkshire, a shade too much tongue to him & lazy.  But a cheerful appleblossom.

                        Then there’s George Lowe, our right marker.  35, a “manufacturer’s agent” from Shrewsbury.  He is the typical commercial gent of the club armchair type, the more pleasant sort.  He’s fat, & very gay, gets round sergeant, & has plenty of money.  Lives in a flat & plays golf.  A sort of young Pepper.  He was in the H.G. & reckons himself an authority on matters military.  He’s always cheerful & with me rules the roost.  There Howden, a tall thin bloke, 34, with a wife & 3 children, 6(+) 4(+) 3(-) (+ = boy, – = girl) His little boys must look just like him.  He’s got a very good smile & says but little.  He’s very sweet & misses his home.  But he’s gallant in P.T. & works hard.

                        Wilfred (?) Is Yorkshire, too, & has lost 2 fingers of his left hand in a mill, where he always worked.  He’s a “leader” type & calls me Danny a lot.  He’s become a Bridge enthusiast & he works very hard, always does 3 shares of cleaning.  He’s very keen & comes to me for evening classes in rifle drill.  He’s poor, but very gay & will make a good soldier.  Thompson is a sub-postmaster in Castle Bromwich, & has never worked.  He’s married, aged 32 & has a little tobacconist shop-post office.  He is out of condition & talks too much of his own achievements.  He’s a chess fiend, & talked at the beginning of O.C.T.U. of how he always did the chess problem in the Observer.  Then he produced a pocket Chess set. Earnest played him, with suitable coy remarks &  beat him up & again !  So poor little Thompson with his hopes of establishing an intellectual position is foiled.  And its he who fainted at P.T.  so he’s only a little post office man.  He did try hard & apart from his affectation, which will wear off, he’ll be all right.

                        We’ve a little fellow, named Stanley, who is from Leeds, who we have stopped being sorry for, as his too cocksure & calculating.  He’s lazy in parade & he’s nearly a chemist.  You know the type.  A Boots pharmacist.  He’ll be one.

                        We’ve others I’ll tell you about later. [Oh, not, Ernest is a brown egg].

                        The most popular song in the barracks is “Yes My Darling Daughter“.  People hum it all over the place.

                        I’ve just written to Bower, in case he can come to Scarborough for the day.

                        The Barrack Square is asphalt, newly done, they’ve just finished off the corners for me.  Very square & posh.

                        Oh, pyjamas.  I was so moved at you sending them that I wore them, but they’ll last two weeks, as they were both trousers.  That’s very convenient, & I’m wearing them, (one pair) with a singlet.  I have wavered again, but do nowt for now.  I’ll know more about it by the time both of these are used up.  I had tried loyally to wear both parts, the upper with my arms through the legs & the cord tied nicely round the neck. It was very comfy, but a trifle Mae West.

                        Sergeant showed me a lovely trick with a spoon, its called “Mae West has a bath”.  One puts one’s fingers the right way & the reflection is most a realistic.  Remind me to show you.

                        We had a Pay Parade yesterday, very impressive & I got ten shillings.  Bless the King.

                        Give all my news to Uncle Jack & say I miss his visits on Sunday mornings.  Go & see him & pass on the tit bits of news.  My love to Doris, too, Eric & Nonie, & Eleanor & Jim, & Mr. & Mrs. Anderton.  I’ll send them a note one day.  I’d rather write to you though.  Greetings to the Jeavons & thank Peter for his letter.  Good old Pete.  And all the gang.  I can’t write to everyone.

                        If Eileen likes Tuck Boxes they’d be welcome. (But not necessary).  Don’t you send one, you’ll have enough to do, & we get splendid food.  But if Eileen would like to put one up, all the better.  Handle the situation.  Cake is welcome, & paste, & anything.  But we get more chocolate than you do, & its so scarce.  Tobacco is always welcome, tell her, Players, or Country Life or any good mixture.  Don’t cadge for me, but if she’d like to do it, a parcel is always fun & civilised extras are relished by people as energetic & hungry as we get.  If you’ve not sent the marmalade, & can really spare it, be careful to pack it carefully.  Some people have their marmalade put into a tin, a golden syrup tin for example.  If you like to make a cake to put in that’d be grand.  And any garden produce for sentimental reasons.

                       We have excellent grub.  Today was a treat.  Steak & Kidney pudding (lots) Potatoes & greens & lots of gravy, & Rice pudding.

                        The there’s a 76 squad now so we feel better.

                       I doubt if I shall do any writing here.  Not for a while, anyhow.  Maybe later, when I join a unit.  But for now I must put all I know into this job.

                        Your new material sounds very exciting.  I’m always thinking of when you come up.  You travelling charmingly in trains & everyone looking at you, & you coming here to see me !  We’ll have evenings from 5.30 to 11, & Saturday afternoon & evening & ditto Sunday. Will Candy come ?  It’d be lovely to see her again, give her a daily walk & plenty of fresh water & keep in with the Aunties, Auntie Mathilde as well.

                        Telephone Leonard for me & give him my news & greetings.  Says the H.G.  just don’t understand soldiering, & that he’ll love it when or if he comes in.  Say I’m very fit & alive & frisky.

                        We sit on a stone verandah over the front, then there’s the beach & then the blue & white sea, settled on a loud muttering note.  To our right is a curve of cliffs, then curvily to our left, S in its bay, with the Harbour on the point.

                        Now I’ll finish off.  I’m very happy & this limited leisure is very grand.  We are going to stay here a bit, stroll off for tea, & then come back & watch the sea.  We may go to the pictures, we may go back.  We shall be back at 10o/c anyhow, and then to bed.  And the sooner you come up, wife, the better.

                        It must be rotten for you, but, my God, aren’t you a plucked ‘en.  Oh, give Mrs. Spencer & John my love, & say I’m so sorry I didn’t get a letter off to John.  I’ll send one per her.  And I’ll write to L/Cpl Quilter.  Pity he’s only a sapper, Gunners are so much better.

                        All my love, & send me all the news of the village & of our little home, & kiss Gwen for me.
How goes the war ? Is Russia OK still. Any more enemies ?

P.S.
I dated this August 1: After much debate we’ve decided it’s August 2.  It’s Saturday anyhow.

Here’s Molly’s letter.  Can you hold out a week or so ?  If so, see if the school are going to offer you a job.  You couldn’t do the two jobs very well: hold your breath if you can & send any bad bills on.  Pay Bunting & the rent & the milk.  I think the B’ham Posts the best, but try the Hansons first, when you have given the school a chance.  But don’t have a factory bloke say you are working for Mr. Morris, & telephone him to wake him (tactfully) up.  Fit up the little room as a studio for now.  This is all unconsidered & first thoughts.  I’ll clarify my thoughts & classify various courses of action in a later letter^.