Saturday
Devonport
My darling,
Things are much better today. I took a couple of aspirins last night and, apart from an abortive siren in the middle of the night, had a long sleep which did me the world of good. This morning I took one look at sick bay and gave it up in despair. I was late getting there and the place was absolutely jammed with fellows. I would have been there all morning. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll make another effort and try to get there early. Anyway, we’ll see. My teeth have not yet arrived and I have to go again on Monday morning at 9.30 so that I can see the Commander. Apparently they cannot write a letter asking Aberdeen to forward my plates without the Commander saying so. As the said gent is away for the weekend, I have to wait until he comes back. Isn’t that bright?
Excuse this crumpled sheet but I had written the first side and put it inside the pad in my respirator and somehow it came out and got all messed up. To hell with poverty, I’ll start another sheet.
I have done a few things today which needed doing. I began by helping scrub out the mess and that finished my “work” for the day so I did some washing before dinner. Then I got a letter off to Dot and an airgraph to Jane. Have you written her lately, by the way? When you do, will you send her a snap? That is, of course, if you write airmail and not airgraph. I’m trying to catch up with some arrears of correspondence and yesterday got a letter away to Percy. The lads will be away from there in about a fortnight so if I’m to write Ralph and Frank I’ll have to be quick. That’s another thing about Cabbala, I should get a bit more time for writing. I love getting letters but can’t hope to receive them if I don’t send them and, apart from Hughie Ross, I’ve no really regular correspondents. I’m not including, of course, a certain young woman who occasionally drops me a line! Bless her. What I’d do without those letters, I don’t know.
I’m still worried about leave being such a flop for you, darling. Although I know it’s silly, I feel I’m responsible. First of all it was my Mother who started the leave off on such a bright note. Friday night was very pleasant and I’m only sorry now we didn’t go out on Thursday night, nice as it was to have a quiet night in the house. When we do get a weekend we will make the most of it and nobody can expect to see very much of us. To me it was a treat to be home. You’ve no idea what a feeling it is to get home, put on those old flannels and gardening shoes and toddle off into the garden. I’m sorry I didn’t get all the potatoes hoed up, which is a perfect disgrace considering I was home for a week. There always seem to be so many things left undone. It’s exactly the same after holidays in peacetime. I find it hard to realise that this is my first summer away from home. The ‘D.P.’ office seems so far behind me now. As I have said before, I often wonder just what I will do when this blinking war is over. I know what the sensible thing to do would be, but I don’t know what mood I will be in at the end of the war and, what’s more, there’s no point in speculating about it just now.
This afternoon I went down to the cricket field for an hour to watch a game between our lads and the Marines. It was too chilly to be comfortable, but while I was there I met a very quiet fellow who was at Skegness with us. He came up to Aberdeen able to do about 18 words a minute and only disclosed this at the last minute because he shied at the idea of a monotonous course. The result was that he was sent to an advanced school at Petersfield near Plymouth and is now here waiting draft. He was amazed when I told him of the Aberdeen stunt. One peculiar thing is that from Petersfield they pass out at the end of the course as full tels and there’s a difference in their pay of about 2/- a day.
We are duty watch today and so cannot go ashore, but I don’t think I’ll bother going out tomorrow unless the weather improves. It’s been really cold today and apart from the pictures there isn’t a great deal to do in Plymouth in rotten weather. If it’s still cold I think I’ll go to the pictures in barracks at a cost of 3d! Quite a good programme, too, lasting nearly three hours.
I wonder if it is the same in all the services? This mess is one everlasting question, “has anyone got so and so?” Since I began writing this letter different people have been for the loan of a knife, brush and comb, pencil and a flint for a lighter. It’s like Gilcomston all over again. The worst feature of this place is that people seldom seem to be in residence for more than a week. On our last night here before leave there were 55 fellows in the mess. When we got back there was a completely new crowd in with the exception of two fellows who work in the divisional office and who seem to have found a nice easy number for themselves. It’s funny the way some fellows seem to drift into quiet little backwaters which have no real connection with their original rating. One of the fellows in the office, for instance, failed a mechanics course, and the other was a tel. Goodness knows how long they will be able to last out here, but at the moment it seems the Chief will hang on to them as long as he can if only because they are so useful to him. If he lets them go he will have to start training someone all over again. One great trouble about this place is that you never really get to know people. They’re here today and gone tomorrow. On the other hand, one is continually on the alert for people one might know, such as the fellow I met today. Did I tell you, by the way, that I saw in the baggage store here, when we were getting our own hammocks out, the gear of three fellows from Aberdeen who must have come down while we were on leave? They have probably gone on leave too.
There’s a middle-aged bloke in the mess just now who comes from Liverpool and was in the naval bomb disposal squad there for a long time. In the December blitz his wife and six-months-old baby were killed. He’s always glad of a chance to talk about Liverpool, but his sense of geography so far as our end of the place is concerned is rather wobbly and he is continually confusing Orrell and Ford with Seaforth and Waterloo.
Well, angel girl, that brings me to an end of gossip and there’s very little of real interest to tell you about this place. It’s dead from the word go and I’m already fed up with doing nothing. Thank goodness we are only here for a week. Actually, only four days after the weekend for we will be away bright and early on Friday morning. Another train journey! Still, it will bring me nearer to you. Even if we don’t go to Warrington, and in view of past experiences I’m certainly not banking on it, I’ll be about five or six hours nearer to you at Gloucester. And six hours means a lot, doesn’t it? A quarter of a day and, who knows? In that quarter of an hour I might even sit down on the settee! I suspect you of making that change-over with malice aforethought. What a thought! Well, precious, I’m leaving you now. Hope you are feeling better now. All my love, angel, for I do love you. Look after yourself.
Ever your own,
Arthur X
Jul 181942