No. 7925934. Sgt. Greenwood, R.T.
9th Battn. R.T.R.
B.L.A.
25.4.45
Wednesday evening.
Jessie Mine: There were two letters for me today:- yours of the 20th and one from Stan Smith. He says he intends to pay you a visit at Whitsuntide if convenient to you. If he does, perhaps you will be able to give him a little news about myself: I have no inclination for writing long newsy letters these days. I will acknowledge his letter of course… and pass it on to you afterwards. He speaks about music, and his garden, and birds… and a little about politics. Such letters distress rather than please me, Jess. They only help to emphasize the difference between the life of a soldier and a civilian: he and I are living in different worlds… and in my world there is no culture and little decency. I feel so out of touch with things, especially when he speaks of his new records, and discusses the various pros and cons of composers. I do not know how to answer him.
Your letter tells me that you are well again, and that your physical troubles have disappeared. Jess! Are you sure? Do you really think you are alright? I get so bothered when I think that there may be something wrong: a possible legacy of your pregnancy. I would like you to see Shanahan, dear. I cannot feel really reassured until you do. (…)
I still have no real news for you, dear… This peaceful existence leaves me with little to talk about. I have spent some time today writing suitable captions for the ‘horror’ pictures we intend to display in the town… and now one of my colleagues is typing the translated versions… using a ‘borrowed’ German typewriter!
Today – 25th – is the opening day for the San Francisco conference:- it may become an important date in history… especially if it brings news of the linking up of the U.S. and Russian armies. I have a feeling that this spectacular news has purposely been held up to provide a juicy tit-bit for the S.F. conference…
Am going to leave you now, darling…
I have one or two little jobs to do before bedtime.
Au revoir, my love
Always
Your Trevy.