Just one letter home, to his mother, today, which was Saturday, although ‘days are only names here, and all goes on just the same on Sunday as any other day.’

It was fine and sunny, and so quiet that it was difficult to believe there was a war on. He was reasonably content, time was passing quickly, and he was engaging himself with reading and writing. He also enjoyed the company in the Mess, ‘although I am never a good hand at talking until I know my companions well.’

He tried to reassure her that she had no need to worry about him – he was being careful – but, if anything should happen, they were both well prepared: her to receive the bad news, and him to receive ‘anything that may happen to me.’ But they should not dwell on such things, and focus instead on how lovely peace would be when it came. Even going to the office would be enjoyment for him [which was really saying something, since he had not enjoyed the 15 months that he had spent working for Sun Insurance], although his aim was to save up enough money to buy a poultry farm, and maybe keep a few pigs as well (‘as they pay so’).

He had not yet received any letters from home, but hoped he might do so in the next day or two. He was worried that he had written so many letters home that his mother might begin to weary of reading them, but he cautioned that ‘soon I may not get the opportunity of writing every day.’ They had already been in Reserve for five days: he knew that they were unlikely to be there for very much longer.

[Next letter: 9 October]