C/O DPR Unit
[31 Jul 1943]
You’re an awful nice kid to write me long letters. I likes ‘em fine and appreciate in a big way your doing so well what with the quiet life you seem to be living. Keep it up honey – it’s a great help to hear about the poor old civilians back home. It’s great for the morale of our intrepid war correspondent. That’s the kind of battling (with bores & loud speakers) which really shakes the soul. To see you standing up to it gives me fresh heart and a sterner eye. I think you are a darling. Looks as though this short separation helps somehow. Makes us think more about each other & how to be nicer in both large and tiny ways. Wish you were here for me to give a big hug & kiss. (platonic like?)
The mosquito craft are zooming about in token formations, manoeuvring into position. I’ve already received a few direct hits but retaliating have got 4 destroyed, 6 probable, and 32 near misses. There is no thought of my evacuating – I shall carry on in glory, in honor, and in love. It must in all fairness be reported that had the enemy be backed by squadrons of sand flies retreat would have been both rapid and inevitable. I have never seen a sandfly. They must have some sort of radio direction finding equipment especially tuned to my wave length. They never miss. The inverted craters scaring my beyootiful body bear ample witness to the efficiency of their aiming. I am not in the hunt.
A constant drone of war reminiscences slithers round the corner of the mess but, thank God, no tap-tapping blasts the sub-tropic heaviness of the night. In fact it appears highly probable that there will be no rude & hearty interruptions to my pleasant solitude. It’s a hell of a problem to be alone in any sort of comfort. And I could do with a spot of nice cold weather – Cripes – think of all that snow going to waste!
2 more of the enemy crashed screaming to their doom. 6 more near misses. Am becoming quite an ace – what?
Have just applied methylated spirits to my sand fly bites.
Have also practically recovered from the correspondents’ occupational disease – motor car arse and/or crumpled coccyx.
George Finey wrote me too, the old villain, a very nice note telling me not to bust the poor old boiler. Tomorrow I’ll settle down to a field day of letter writing. Whilst you are shivering (and maybe drinking sherry) or even eating, ½ an hour’s mean time before me, I’ll be lolling near naked in the sunshine sopping up all sorts of light rays and vitamins. Occasionally I shall put pen to paper.
Have been to a lousy picture tonight. One could hope to escape the uncivilizing influence of Wallace Beery at this local show – but no.
Shall put up one more ack-ack barrage before I turn in.
Anopheles, where art thou?
Time Sunday morning
Scene In the backyard young old Wep is discovered lounging in lounge – He is bare to the waist & under bright sunshine is simmering nicely giving forth sweet fleshy odors more fragrant than myrrh and sandalwood. Centre background is wire meshed kitchen. In right back is seen dimly as through a black blanc-mange a man and a bike. This man is a solid straight forward type not the sort who would make lewd use of a bike. In the foreground a grease trap & a pool covered with sludgy fat. 2 Dogs, Mim and D’ouevre sniff at pool and posteriors. As the curtain rises wep is again discovered writing to his beloved wife – anon and anon he brushes fat green ants off his bronzed gladiatorial form. A young lad, a press correspondents’ driver, enters scratching his poll.
WEP: Have a good day yesterday?
DRIVER: Upta f—ing putty! The f—ing f—ers f—– round all f—ing day & f—-ing night. And wadda the f—ing f—ers f—ing well get. F— all!
(Driver exits back centre, scratching crutch & slavering at cook house).