Dearest AA, Another batch of letters arrived last evening, your no. 5 of Feb. 5 and June’s socks for which many thanks. Jolly creditable effort, I think. Also 3 from Momma, the latest 17 April, from the new house. Pretty good. I suppose about 1/4 of what you send gets here. You know I can say hardly anything of external happenings here: that must keep till later. Especially in this, which is a “green envelope” letter. There’s so much I want to say to you that’s terribly difficult, and impossible to anyone else. If the trend of this letter isn’t always gay, I know you’re the one person who’s wise enough of understanding not to be depressed. I may be killed, or die in some way, before I see you again. We know that, though we don’t talk about it. We’re rather fond of one another, I believe, and if one of us leaves before the other, whoever is left can’t help feeling the parting. But don’t, DON’T, grieve on my account; tell yourself that every tear you shed is pure selfishness. Because I feel now that I am ready for that if it comes; in the long times we have to ourselves I’ve begun to realize and understand a little. If I come back again, it will be like beginning a new life: there won’t be any feeling of carrying on where I left off. And if my life on earth ends soon I shall at all events be able to think of it as complete; whatever follows must be a new beginning. The experience that my life—inside—has led would have occurred in other circumstances, and I’ve no regrets. We hear a lot about the comradeships that are begun in the Army and so on. It’s true. When you’re in constant contact with people everyday you must react fairly strongly one way or the other. There was one fellow I felt especially drawn to; we got on very well together always, talked of our plans for when we got home, he told me about his wife and the daughter who arrived a few months after we left England. He was always cheerful and optimistic, “had a feeling” that he’d come unharmed out of it all. He was killed a few weeks ago, just before his 25th birthday. God knows it’s a common enough thing; there’s nothing unusual about anything in the story. Anyway, that marks a full stop; whatever follows in my life is going to be a new beginning. Sorry to bother you with this rather pointless recital. The thing is, I’ve grown up now, and perhaps changed. Thank you so much for looking after all my rubbish; hope it isn’t too much in the way. Your letters are infinitely precious, do write when you can, though it’s so seldom you hear from me. Have you been reading lately? I’ve just finished Howard Spring’s “O Absalom,” which was filmed as “My Son, My Son.” Get hold of it if you can; it’s a great book, I think. June will be fifteen when you get this, and a stranger when we meet again. A good thing perhaps—the difference in our ages won’t be so marked, and we can get to know one another anew. What had the girlish boy to say to the boyish girl seven years his junior? My love to all, keep smiling. Ever your affectionate, John No matter what happens, we shall meet again.