It looks as if I have been talking in a delirium. It is understandable that I thought I was home – God knows I ought to have been. Any bloody way I’m still waiting for a sanguinary plane and none is in sight. Oh Lord, why hast thou forsaken me?
All my little fums are to be so much air and fantasy, my little desires to be monuments of futility, and any welcomes to be jeering nothings.
I’ve given up predicting my arrival – it rests in the lap of the Lodestars.
What’s the point of my writing about nothing but sitting down near the strip waiting for a kite?
I hope I’ll be seeing my family one of these days. Teach little Graham to speak nicely and to think well of his old pa overseas. Be faithful dear, we shall soon start life anew.
Your old old husband, Remember?
That was Bill’s last letter. It is estimated he made it home by Sunday, 4 February 1945
Am languishing for want of transport and you. (and Bub of course!) My! But doesn’t he look well – the cleber lill debil. Doesn’t look as if you have been fattening yourself up for me – anyway you’re still just as nice as you are. How nice will that be today – my little poppet?
This is a stinking hot island situated about 50 miles from the equator & although the breeze flowing in from the sea licks the body with a cool tongue it cannot altogether dispel the sweat. It rolls with steady calculation down the chest. I’ve got any amount of the stuff for the Weekly so I’m very conscious of the time wasted in getting home.
Anyhow now that I’m right here in the house how’s about it and a cuppa tea? Are you pleased to see me home? Lots of love darling give me bub for a while.