1021 Docks Operating Company R.E.  A.P.O. 5145

Dearest Heart,
This fine Monday afternoon finds me still parked in our sandy caravanserai on a beach on the south of Sicily, and very well and pleasantly occupied administering for the O.C. This is the first chance I’ve had for five days to write, other than the airgraphs which are in short supply. It goes dark on us at nine at night, plonk, like that, and we have no lighting because both Stukas and mosquitoes would be attracted, so busy days make writing impossible. However, having spent yesterday writing a massive narrative report on our show to wind it up, I have given myself the afternoon off, sent the O.C. and Tommy Heaton, our new subaltern – a grand bloke – off to town, given Peter a job with the messing, and here I am, holding the fort.   Peter is preparing for a bathing parade with the men in half an hour. They had a route march this morning, and have cleaned rifles and siestad since.  They deserve these few days rest, fortunately fallen to us between convoys. It gives me a chance to clean up the organisation generally, too. I’ve all the nice jobs, camp commandant, Adjutant, Q etc. All very matey, O.C. and I in the tarpaulin house.

And you? No news yet from anyone, the lost legion. But we shall hear.  Letters aren’t going out even only airmail, by which means I shall send this. So it has to be fairly short and light. I have postcards for you, but can’t send them. No enclosures allowed.

Today we hear that Mussolini has resigned, and a good thing too. Its not confirmed but our don R saw the mayor of our little town, four miles away, reading a proclamation which he affirms was of Musso’s resignation. Hope we can get him and deal with him as he deserves. Twenty years of artificial pompous and very evil advertisement.    Its all a facade, here one sees how shallow a facade Fascism is. The Sicilians hate him. There are great gateways here and there, splendid design, wrought iron gates, splendid and Imperial, – and nothing behind them. Barrat the Batman in chief has two medals he got for two cigarettes from a local. They are beautiful, high relief, and modern in the best way, heavy copper alloy. The peasant got them by being a soldier and here is the rub, they are for the Tripoli campaign and for the Yugo-Slavian campaign! Splendid medals so cheaply won.    Its all cheap and nasty. And how quickly a show of genuine force, backed by real opinion and real organisation has shaken his newspaper throne. The twirp. Now the Germans!

Yesterday was like old times. There was I at the typewriter, with notes and reports around me, a typist sergeant at another typewriter, typing from dictation while I typed out the fair copy, beautifully laid out and sectionalised. Peter took your place, encouraged with lemon water and vino, and read it through, corrected silly spelling, and ruled margins. All day we slogged till dark and this morning delivered it all to the Colonel, tied with green tape. A jolly show.

                        The natives here and scraggy, lean and hungry and plead for biscuits; we have to drive them off, but they get plenty. Donkeys are thin, goats thin, and everyone is thin. The children are the universal type, though thin. Very gay and cheerful though and impressed by British equipment and largeness. On the roads, dusty narrow rutted tracks in this part, better up towards the line where they are wider, but full of guns and transport going up and down. On the roads you meet the inevitable equipage, a donkey, thin and delicate of feet, a two wheel cart with painted sides, flowers and heads, the ice cream cart style, and two people, man and woman, several children and underneath the dog, trotting along and panting but in their doggy way, happy. Jeeps, trucks, guns, ambulances, and tanks wind out past the equipage with road courtesy. I am sure Germans would sweep the little outfits away, but we just overtake them with a curse, at which they solemnly salute.   Mon dieu, how they salute!

Peter and I sleep side by side, on our camp beds, me on Christophers camp bed. Reveille is at half five and I get up just before and roust around the camp. I’ve got rather terrible-minded, this climate has done me good, I’m at peak efficiency while others wilt.  I’m a hot weather person, must be.

Dickie anne must have done something about it all by now, I do hope all went well. These cables I send are ready made, we have twelve phrases to pick from and can have three for half a crown, so I can’t be very vocative. The first was a free eight and six one, not free, free choice of words. None of those available now. Sundry people off the ship who were likely to be home soon have to telephone you. One, the second officer, is sending you your Mornings at Seven and the book I liked on the voyage.

We are definitely Eighth Army now, which may mean early demobilisation when its over, I hope so! I’ll try. But I’d not be out of this show for anything. The actual invasion was not without its excitement, though quite quiet and orderly. Nice to have been in the first attack into Europe. We have complete air mastery now, and five times a day squadrons, in the plural, of Spitfires, Warhawks and Hurricanes fly over from Malta to the battle, in twelves, compact, low and furious and very very purposeful. Its a grand sight and a grand noise. Lockley has come back from his swim. I’m going this evening after six with the O/C and Peter to gambol. Soon, any day now, we move up country to a Port, where we shall be busy moving into a camp or billets and settling down. My valise has come and I have complete kit, nothing lost which is marvellous considering my things came in four separate sets in four different ships.

Ted Childs has just called, he’s off for a swim now. He’s finished being an A.M.L.O. – army representative on a ship working with docks officer – and is going up to the line tonight to join his unit, infantry. A good fat happy man, droll indeed and damned efficient.  Little David the R.N. boy has returned to Malta with his precious craft.

Cigarettes and chocolate is free and plentiful, and there’s nothing to spend money on except telegrams! Oh yes, in town there’s a little shop where you can buy toys, cissy cheap fountain pens and post cards. I’ve bought you some post cards. I can’t really discuss Dickie Anne, I haven’t met him-her. It must seem odd to you that I don’t know anything about anything so definite as that child, if there is a child. I can’t see how I can be a father, you’re so young anyhow and I’m so far away. But when I get details and a picture I’ll get the hang of it all. The pram is a thing I remember and I can clearly see you pushing it in your tweeds and nice new shoes with Candy bounding busily along, and you talking quite daft to the poor child.

But seriously, these things do go wrong at times and if it does go wrong, please please don’t think I’ll be unhappy. I should be immensely happy with a child, but I don’t know the person, you I do know and you I do love most deeply. So long as you are well and happy and not injured or too unhappy if things have gone wrong, then shall I be content.

A nice disturbance. The camp moves at four a.m. tomorrow, I must organise like hell, and get this off for we are moving into the bush rather and postal facilities may be nil.  So this will have to be nibbled at and finished as I can.

I’ll go and lay on some mass packing!

All in hand, reveille 0230, breakfast 0300, parade 0345, march off 0400.   Whoppee, now I hear the move may be cancelled. Yaripyaroo.

Down for a swim with the O/C.

Typical of him, in a crisis to go swimming. We gave our orders got everyone buzzing, and then went and swam happily. A grand bathe, warm sea, warm evening sun, clear and limpid, and larks galore, leap frog, diving under legs and fun and games. Now the camp is packing, stacks of kit bags, food to take, water and a hundred and one things to see to.

And darkness falls. We have to watch as twilight is very limited.

And does Jim make Cider soon and wear his horrible breeches and singlet?   And the Ellens? My greetings to them, and dear cuddly Marjorie, though no one is so utterly cuddly as you are.  How your child must love being cuddled by you. Heavens, if one had not the supreme privilege of being your husband one would be your child. Or your dog. Anything of yours.

Our journey is a five mile march in full kit, then thirty miles by train, two German, three Italian and one French coach and the rest ammunition wagons (British), on a branch branch line, and then more marching and then lorries we hope. Yahoo. You’d love     this life. Israelites weren’t in it. We are smart too, with clean scrubbed equipment and clean clothes. Eighth Army! Bless us, such poor relations of so rich a family. Candy will be pleased, though.

I’ve got lots of lovely stories about Monty for you later in an ordinary letter when I can write one.

And your mother and the house and my mother? And Uncle Jack and Jack Lawrence? And his summer hat? He’d need it here. And how many chickens have you eaten? And the fruit.  We have a gigantic cantaloupe to eat soon. Mr. Talloch is dealing with it now. The men are filling their water bottles. Lockley is loading my revolver nervously and I watch even more nervously.  And Musso has packed up, heard about us.

Its so dark and I must send you an airgraph. Do write to mother when you hear from me, I can’t write to both of you.  I’ll send her the airgraph.

Peter sends his love and its darker and darker. O.C sends his love and very best wishes. Lockley has come to pack the typewriter. All my fondest love, wife sweetheart and best companion of all.

ever your own…

David. . . XXXX