22nd.  Oct.  1942
Gallowhill Camp

My Dearest one,
This ought to be brief, because I’ve been yarning with the Old Man – Major Grainger, R.E. – since nine o’clock when we had ham and eggs – the profits of Harry Reed’s   sin – and its eleven twenty and I’ve a bath to have. Grainger is very nice and we are quite   obviously “en accord”, inasmuch  as we were both pleased when Harry went off womanising  and Mac drinking in his room at  half past nine and left us in the mess, drinking Guinness and talking of this and that, shop and non shop, but the non shop shoppy. He’s well mannered, has taste, is the best kind of British officer, keen, idealist, a poet though he’d hate to know I said so, and efficient.

So here I am. We spent the day on the Dutch scoot, working Union, Purchase,  and Harry and I spent an hour having tea with the skipper of the Torch the lighthouse supply ship. He’s been at sea fifty one years and is retiring to one of the Hebridean islands any year now, a real seaman of the grandest sort, courteous, and has a cabin like a miniature of the Victory’s, its right aft, triangular with a great wall settle right round the stern, swinging  lamps and all gleaming mahogany and shining brass.

Then pay parade, then Guard mounting and a very grand one – I got them to have rehearsals every afternoon for the Guard to make it really slick and now it goes like  a house on fire, the whole ceremony perfect, dignified and impressive I’ve just turned the  Guard out. A nice procedure in the moonlight. I walk down the path and the sentry leaps out and shouts “Halt, who goes there”. Reassuringly I say “Orderly Officer making his Rounds”. “Advance Orderly Officer and be recognised” says the Sentry, and I do and he does.     Then he comes from the On Guard to the order, observing the pauses, slopes arms, salutes, and I salute. Then he shouts out very loud “Guard Stand To”. I say, “Turn out the Guard”. He shouts “GUARD TURN OUT”. From the ‘Guard room comes a clatter and a scurrying,   and in a matter of two minutes out doubles the Guard commander and his three men, buckling  on their harness. I inspect them, say “Dismiss them to the Guard room, Guard Commander” and he does, they salute, I salute and that’s that. Then I go inside, inspect their supper, check the ammunition, ask for reports, sign the Guard Report sheet, inspect their bedding, and bid them good night.

Here is your thirty bob, I wish it were ninety, bless you.

A good letter from Douglas Cleverdon with the final script of The Policeman, which was broadcast yesterday. He has lots of ideas about the series and has set me going,   this week-end I’ll devote a day to writing two more of them and you can get the news dope whenever you like. If its not too much of a pest.

If I should move nearer to you, say to Lancashire, very soon, can you possibly get a week off, or two weeks to stay near by. This is not flippant. These days, things are liable to happen quickly, fairly quickly that is, and I should hate to be whisked away for a year or so without seeing you, and you must agree that embarkation leave is silly – better to be disappointed than torpedoed! Don’t please take this as a way of breaking the news, its just a very good Reason for seeing you as much as possible if the Ministry of Labour won’t jug you for it. I think Embarkation Leave is a thing of the sentimental past, we’re out, to win, this war and we must be realists. Selfishly I regret it but sanity makes me confess that its better not.      You’ve got a hell of a lot of need for Guts my dear, because its easy for me, to be lucky enough to be in the fight the fight which will be parallel with Trafalgar and Blenheim, Gallipoli and Waterloo. But its rotten for you. Yours is the courage, mine the easier happier way. But this is previous. However, think on these things. I’m so proud of you, and proud of your race and the conditions of living, built so carefully through five hundred years, of sincere endeavour which make you and your self possible.

But this is solemn. No need to be solemn. The washing bag shall pass to and fro, and carefully I’ll stitch the corners down.

Peter telephoned this evening, bless the boy. He’s 1oving his C.O. course (Not Conscientious Objectors course.)

Having made forty eight men have a bath today I must have one myself.     Bless you, dearest of all. I am dumb, you know, when, my feelings flow upwards as they do now, and no words could convey them to you. But by the magic of our love words are not needed.

Bless you, and two letters came, dear letters, Mondays and Tuesdays. I too read the scene from Romeo, and I too was moved more than I can admit.

My love, my love,
Ever your