C/O P.R. Unit
N. G. Forces
[28 Jan 1944]
We have another lamp – scrounged from the same poor simple soul from whom we borrowed the remains of last night’s signal lamp.
Roy sits opposite writing his new sweetie (brunette & beautiful and with husband in internment camp) and punctuating the oppressing stillness of the night with requests regarding the correctitude of his spelling. The old garrulity with less physical actions. He writes like he talks – it pours out of him, pages flash past on the blink of an eye.
I haven’t had a clean shirt on since I hit Finschafen. The one I wear at present has the odour & appearance of a tarpaulin from one of Gearin O’Riordan’s trucks. The other is still wet from its rinsing in a creek down by the beach. Although I am as pleasant a little nosegay as one would find in many a week. A European Gorgonzola would walk away from me with a peg on its snout.
Now that the lamp is here I find myself regretting not having brought that New Testament with me as with its kindly simplicity I could have killed a few hours before sealing myself up in the meat safe up yonder bank.
You have guessed, I hope my uninspiring letters are due to the overwhelming enervation of the tropics plus the lack of comfort in the tent. I’m sitting on an oil drum with grinds of flesh off my behind, my eyes are full of coral dust – I’m due to start turning yellow from surfeit of Atabrin tablets (to suppress malarial infection) from neglect of taking salt tablets which they say are necessary to counteract the excessive loss of bodily salt in sweat, and God knows what else. The half if me that is alive is tolerably happy.
I don’t know particularly what to draw as under the present conditions camp life is practically synonymous with that in the N.T. Make it all green & the jobs done.
Went about 8 miles down the Road this afternoon – hitch hiked in half a dozen different trucks. May just have well flown as I was in the air at least half the time.
I forgot to give you a rough idea of what I look like in jungle green & American garters. Of course the Japs just flee squealing for the son of Heaven at such an apparition.
In front of me is a picture reconstruction of a beach landing for official War Artist Cpt R C Hodgkinson Military History Section.
The light is going out for want of kerosene. Bugger me – this is the sort of thing that slays one! I can just see you now. Everything is going black – it’s quite black now.
Later – we have managed to get some more kerosene, whacko the diddle-o! I’m not smelling any better – even the skunks are moving out. I don’t’ mind that so much but I seem to be bringing in the flies. Soon I shall thwart them in my little meat safe.
Am putting off going to the blarsted hammock. 12 hours of posing in various uncomfortable postures is much too much of a good thing even for a body like mine – “booful hunk of a man! These are the basic positions.