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

Hullo, dearest;
Travelling back and forwards I’ve been, with every other night in the new Mess, molto occupato.    But now I’m back to roost the main part of the work done, billets secured, Mess secured and furnished and contacts laid on for when we go up. Your letters have been here, but its not been letter-writing mood for me, too hither and thither.    But Wavell’s book of verse has been a wonderful pleasure.    I’ve had it with me all the while, reading it in lorries driving north and south, at  meals, in bed, first thing in the morning, and it has done something rather wonderful, awaken a new appreciation for poetry, he has a fine mind and there are some fine things in that collection, his own to the Madonna of the Cherries not unworthy of inclusion. I must see that, with you.

There has been a rare shamozzle on at H.Q. over the reshuffling due to Allan’s being posted as Adjutant (Which he hates). But it has worked out, and everyone is sorry for me, and I find I’m being decent about it which is so silly. Because Allan went, a technical captaincy was vacant. So Peter has it, which is fair, for if the admin. vacancy had arisen I’d have had it. Then Jimmy wrote an adverse report on Ulcoq, nominally the admin man though I’ve been doing it as he’s rather stupid.    So they posted Ulcoq elsewhere and sent up an admin. captain in his place, which is logical because a colonel can’t just make subalterns up nilly willy or the army would be all captains.   So I go back to dock work  and every one is sorry and kind and the new man is very charming and genuine and apologetic. He’s an able fellow, three years a captain, and likes music and has wit and manners.    The soldiers, heads of departments who can speak so, are sorry to lose me in Admin, as we all get on well, but really its inevitable, unless my black beard and submarine special job comes along, which is not so nice as this.    Sorry for your sake contra Nonie and co. that I’m not a captain.

Yes, we have an oil lamp in the farm. What little book came and made you weep? I can only think of that N.C.O. thing and there’s nothing weepworthy in that!

I’ve had a hectic time in this new town; its in the desolate after battle stage, lifeless with a few civilians pottering about, a lot of looters, some of whom I rounded up with a revolver and jugged, and much ruins.  In my travels I found a convent, a very old convent, the church blown to fragments, the convent looted- cells opened, the modest chests of drawers emptied, the picture frames left and pictures taken. In the Presbytery I found a casket of wondrous workmanship, broken open and obviously precious stones taken. Inside were the bones of St. Clement. There were relics in glass pendants maybe a thousand years old, old hand made glass.    Then I wandered on and found the library!   A perfectly proportioned room, tall and rectangular, pale blue ceiling, two round tables a few old upright chairs and round the walls maybe five thousand books, untouched, unharmed.    And the books.    A seven volume set of a Bossuet first edition in full calf, great X11th. century books of wonderfully inscribed prayers, illuminated in gold and purple and fine red, with covers of solid leather, half an inch thick, with silver corners and great metal and silver designs on them.    There was a treatise printed in 1460, and manuscripts of the tenth century onwards. All open for any G.I. soldier or civilian to walk in and wreck. I jeeped off to AMGOT and raised hell, and at last got them to see that they did matter, a priceless collection, and they telephoned the Archbishop and he was all worked up, and they are guarding it and moving the books into the mountains, so my trip was not wasted. They say the Archbishop wants me to go to see him, to be thanked, but I’m back here and shan’t get the chance.    Howsoever,  its a satisfying thing to have done.    I’ll visit the place later when we are there.

I met a Charming lady, English, married an Italian, left England in 1909, widow, with a niece of twenty seven or eight or thirty who’s husband was revolvered by Jerry recently in his house in front of her, and a charming little girl of ten.   They speak English, French and Italian all charmingly mixed and we got on famously.    I shall cultivate them, they are top drawer folk, and refreshingly cultured. All sorts of things I’ve found and done, but I can’t take things from people’s homes, even though its been my job to force entry and search them.    Other people’s homes are touching things, when they are deserted and broken.   How dull all this is, not so lively as your parochial things.    I do wish the Jeavons thing would die down, silly folk. I know you hate it.   And that the Baby Show should provide fuel for silly fires. Certainly don’t “Show” him if it causes fuss; Dickie-bird would hate to cause trouble.   Nice of Fitz to want to show him though.

So Gwen is with you, bless her. Bless us all.  I’m fit and well and jaunty and shall do some writing for you.   Someone has seen News of Francesco in the Guardian weekly.   Do they pay twice then? I’ll send some more Guardian Posties for you.

All my love, dearest, bless your letters… David