Sheriff began today’s letter to his mother by thanking her for the parcel of 4 loaves of Veda Bread which he had received:

‘You have discovered a most original thing to send an it is greatly appreciated by everyone – it is a thing which cannot be got out here and is such a welcome change to the usual cakes that the others usually get sent them…’

He told her he had also just received her letter, and he agreed with her proposal that, when he returned home, they would treat one day as his birthday [which was due to fall on 6 June], and go ‘into the heart of Oxshott Woods and have a great little picnic’. Unfortunately, there was still no way of knowing when his leave would come – officers came and went, but there was no guarantee that leave would continue – so he might be home in a week, or a month, or perhaps even six months. But he was cheered by the thought that, having been in France for 8 months, it was highly unlikely he would go another 8 months without something happening – leave, or a wound, perhaps:

‘no other officer I should think has spent 16 months out here without leave – so half my time is bound to have passed – and these 8 months must have been the worst for you, dear, as well – for you must, after a time, become slightly used to the suspense of waiting for news – so be assured, dear, that something decisive must happen in the next 8 months – the war must either end or I must get leave – so you have spent the longest spell of waiting, dear.’

He often felt that, if he got back home safely, then all that he had been through would have been worthwhile, and it would make him appreciate even more ‘the quiet occupations attached to home’, his love for which just seemed to grow greater by the day.

[Next letter: 1 June]