SCOTLAND. . . . Monday May 25th. 1942.

My Dearest,
Tell you about myself. Oh, well. Very alert, getting supple and springy, lithe and brown. I feel that my skin is stretched tightly over my cheek bones, and I believe I am getting bronzed. I go to bed with relief and anticipation and sleep steadily and purposefully until six and after a brief weak period of two minutes I am under a shower and wide awake.    The life here is strenuous indeed, both mentally and physically, and they make great demands on our determination. They say one weakens, and gets depressed in the second month, but I have not suffered that yet. This evening for example, we had a gruelling time at P.T. It was at a quarter to five, after a hard day. Bayonet fighting before breakfast, a lot of running about that, Field-works lectures till break, with a new dour tall large-eared middle aged regular Sapper who had helped build the Burma Road, more of him, Capt. Gordon, anon. Then after break digging until dinner, the technique of digging with pick and shovel. Then lectures until P.T. For P.T. we wore Denims and boots and ran at a round pace for four miles, and my reactions were first pleasure, then an ache in the front of the calves, then a shortness of breath, then a stifling feeling in the lungs. But one lopes on, cheerfully, grinning breathlessly and making not very good jokes from time to time. Some people fall out, but most of us would rather die. Then when we were really tired we came to a gigantic Bing*, the biggest ever, in three tiers. And up that we went. Up the first slippery steep slope it was hard, up the next I wanted to give in and lie down and just be left alone, but one pulled oneself up and scrambled on, and then came the third tier, with the wind strong and one’s limbs refusing to function. But crawling was weak, so we ran – stumbled rather – on and reached the top, half of us. There we lay and gasped and choked and coughed and gasped whilst the blood beat in our heads and our muscles, ached with a definite sharpness. Then we had to get up and slither   and scramble and run down the other side. The result of our training is not that we can do   these things, but that after we had been two minutes at the bottom we were in breath again and ready to run on, which we did. We ran sharply home for two-miles and a half and then sprinted for half a mile to the gates. There we formed up and marched properly into the grounds and on to the square in step, arms swinging, heads up and rigid. Then we dismissed and had showers and then tea. Then Piquet parade – I’m on duty this evening, – and now this,   my first – and last – relaxation today.

So that’s how I am. Its silly to discuss one’s feelings in such detail, except that   to you it is not silly. I love it all, and pride myself not on being physically fit, I’m not a man of good physique, but on two other things, my own determination to carry on when I feel done in, quite remarkably done in, by the way, – and on the organisation which makes us do these things and knows that we will.

Tomorrow is a sticky day. We are out all the morning doing map enlarge- ments, with drawing boards and things, which is nice, and then at two o’clock we start a Task, digging weapon silts. These are the answer to the dive bomber. They are four feet six deep with a well six feet six, two feet wide and the task is a four hour one for two men. But that is for two highly trained men, and even then it is impossible. So we get into pairs, and start digging at two and have to finish our slits before we stop. Often it takes until ten, because it has to be done properly, exact measurements, all the spoil carried away and hidden, and the slopes, revetments, re-sodding of the berm and so on precisely as in the Book. So at least, we have six hours continuous digging with steel helmets on and respirators at the alert and worn from time to time, and with land mines exploding within twenty feet at unspecified intervals, just the calculated distance to be safe but to shower us with earth and muck and perhaps to undo some of our work. To get us used to explosions and not to mind bangs. Its an interesting test of guts. So tomorrow you may have no letter, or only a short one.

So that is something about me. I’m well and happy, often a poor specimen as I lope along aching and throbbing but I never let myself appear as one. And perhaps I’ll make the grade.

Its a great privilege to have the chance of a commission in the British Army and I revel in the ardours of such a test. Besides, think of squad 75 who went to the Far East, what is a bit of breathlessness and aching limbs, followed by fine tea, hot showers and you not too far away.

Write down this phone number, and ring me on Sunday at seven sharp, I’ll answer. . . HAMILTON 1027. Its a priority line, and secret and military only, but I’ll be on duty at the phone so I’ll get your call.  Got It, Good?

Darling voice of yours, and the camp bed, and you alone on it. Are you less tired, do ease up on everything not connected, with the real work at the farm, and do all you can there, knuckle in as much as you can and get indispensible. Its such fine work. Now I must re-write the Shakespeare thing a little for Enid, she likes it but they’ve got suggestions. The BBC always do, and they’re quite right. So I’ll do that. Bertha is my agent for the play in the book for amateur productions, a good agent to have. I had a lovely day there yesterday, went to Cadzow Castle, in Hamilton High Park, with a special permit, a vast ancient place,   all ruins, over a 300 foot gorge. Tree tops in four layers sharply below us to the stream.  Oak,   ash, birch, plane, and several we didn’t know. It was a terrific sensation. And all about are   the very hoary gnarled rather bad tempered 1000 year old oaks of the Caledonian Forest,   famous throughout Scotland. And the white cattle. It was a bluebell day too and I did want you to be there. Back at the house we had supper and you talked to me and I strolled in the garden and talked to their man Hector and his David and Ian and Malcolm, aged 12, 10 and 8,   and then I looked for and found the enclosed four leafed clover for you, with me best love.

And now, farewell, Piquet Supper has come, Peter says, so I’ll away and eat it and back and do Enid’s story.

Bless you all, and Honor and much love to you. Pardon the talk about me in the first part of the letter. I didn’t ought. But I do want to be with you about the place.

I MUST STOP, this is such fun, writing to you.

Oh, a scots expression, Hector was asked about ploughing up a stretch of lawn and he looked at it and said, “Aye, Miss, I’ll soon blacken its face for you”.

Bless you for the thread I had none.
Ever and ever. . . . .
* bing [bɪŋ] n Dialect a heap or pile, esp of spoil from a mine [from Old Norse bingr heap]