1021 Docks Operating Coy., R.E. CM.F.

Dearest Heart,  Your birthday letter came today, bless us all, a fine letter with arresting and wondrous sentiments about this time last year and touching observations on our son himself and the significance of his being.   You had received my double birthday letter which so-kind Postie had kept for you on that day and the petits-fours, which graced, I hope your party table.   You spoke of your school friend who threw the Not The Mrs. S.D. line at you. That must be shattering and dumbifying, its never happened to me. And never will, but do they all think me old and somewhat sere.    I’m not sere, oh no, see me in the morning doubling across our stubble field to where the officers lavatories are demurely built in camouflage netting behind blackberry bushes, ripe with dubious fruit. I run for esprit du coeur, by the way.   I am bronzed and chested and lithe and not fat. I’ve some new pictures taken with Jimmy, snaps which I’ll send. Shorts and a silly grin. But I do love you. Bless your birthday. Honor’s staying is always a good thing but tended at times to curb your night writing because of her conversational assets in bed. But you have done me proud in letters and the prouder the better.

There are funny things going on here.  Sgt. Dutch, who is a last war man with fifteen children and a charming disposition, and our Stock Orderly Sergeant, has awaken a violent passion in the sentimental heart of Claudette, the Sgts. Mess Goose.   Whenever Dutch speaks the goose not runs, but hedge hops, wings out, neck forward to him and jumps into his arms.    She eats biscuits from his mouth and wakens him with love cries at dawn, which is reveille anyhow, and is stupid with him.  He’s so embarrassed, he likes her but this flaming passion is very trying. And we, the officers have a four by four foot scrim-net poultry run with a chicken house made of two ammunition boxes faced with fly-proof wire net, and a mess tin sunk and a box of grain and one white hen and one small white hen which I believe to be a cockerel. Neither of them lay eggs but they walk about and look so droll, Allan is Officer i/c hens and I his catering advisor. Its very odd. The remarks of the sappers are odder.  Oh dear, us.

I am so glad you approved my choice between Pope and Michelangelo. As you say, there have been many Popes, in St. Peters is what Peter called a Nominal Roll by Trades, – Pope.    It begins with St. Peter and works steadily on through strange Renaissance folk to this one. Also Cardinals. Odd somehow. Perhaps not.

Your birthday visit to the theatre pleases me a great deal, its a fine idea.  And I’d like to go with you. Bless us I would. All goes well here I am battling with Bertha’s play and have got the characters and the scene and the situation but have yet to work out what happens and why. I work in the evenings where I am now writing, In the Pratesi farmhouse, where I can have light and a table, and my Miria, who has picked this day Rosemario for me anew, is about the place, and Enso studies English and my Italian improves by being unslelf- consciously with them. We are all friendly and they are so wholeheartedly kind and friendly to me, the camp lies beyond the window so I can watch over it. Why me, I don’t know but they have the Great Alne habit of coming to me with things. Funny lot, but I like them.    Letter from Brash and in it news of his book readings word of the Blunden Cricket Country I am after. I keep on seeing reviews of it, and Peter has ordered it anche.  Too I mean.

Fancy Eric being in India, he’ll love it, its a grand life when you aren’t too much in love with your wife and promotion in the Indian racket is swift and he’ll broaden and burgeon and is safe from his wife who did rather Atkinsonate him. But Nonie has nothing to rule now, she may be done good too. Most people I know or knew who were safe at home have had months of horrible manoeuvres and exercises and are in Norway now, we are the lucky ones, sunny and quiet and gentle. And the King has been to see us, speaking collectively.   He gave the VC to a bloke I met and knew in Rome, a chap in the Hampshires.     a modest and timid man, shy and retiring.

Bertha’s play promises to be fun when the twist in the middle develops.  She is talking of her No. 2 company after the war touring England to set a standard for the new ones and even a 3 company going to the States where she has found another girl who runs them. A go-ahead girl, our little Bertha, so Scottish.

So English, you. I LOVED Richards family tree. Bless us all. Candy couldn’t do better. And talking of Candy how is the one and only Laudable Puss?  Is he handsomely leading his own debonair and questionable life?   With his gallant and distinguished surgical paw? And surely those girls don’t still lay eggs. What are you doing, pensioning them off into Jim’s orchard.   How are the babies?

And yes, would I not give much to see this son of ours, who smiles at you inscrutably and is faerie indeed.  Dear, how much I’d like him to know and touch me, and to watch him, awake and sleeping, I’m all for nudism, practise it myself daily in the sea and on the hot rocks of our cove. Swimming naked in deep clear water, with the stones visible thirty foot below under a hot sun is delicious, you would love it.

All my love, everyone

David. XXXXXXXXX