With a little nudge from two higher powers, only one of whom is a Colonel, Newkirk has reconsidered that contemptible effort to pull the wool over his own mum's eyes and is now baring his soul in most un-British fashion.
April 2, 1944
Dear Mum,
It turns out that Colonel Hogan had a peek at my last letter to you before I posted it. Well, I had already dropped it in the box and sent it off to England when he called me into his office for a chat. Even though that letter's gone, he thought I owed it to you to try again. And I suppose I agreed.
I'm sorry, Mum. Sometimes I'm a proper pillock, trying to put one over on you. Nobody else knows me as well or loves me as much as you do. Not even Mavis, and that is saying quite a bit.
The truth is, I've had a right awful winter. I've been restless and unhappy and I've been fighting and carousing and getting into all sorts of trouble. Nearly four long years as a POW will do that to a chap. I know it's not an excuse, really. I miss all of you terribly, and I miss home. I even miss Da sometimes, if you can believe that. He has never sent me a single letter in my time here, and it makes my heart ache. Still, someday I'd like to talk to him, man to man, about going off to war. If God spares us both, perhaps I'll get the chance someday.
And yes, I did just say God. And no, I'm not trying to trick you again. You know I've had a difficult relationship with that man upstairs. Sometimes I think He's forgotten all about me, and most of the time I know I've been a terrible disappointment to Him, as I have to you. You know all my flaws; no need for me to repeat them here so the censors can find out about them too. Let's just agree that the seven deadly sins are for rank amateurs, and Peter Newkirk is no amateur.
Most of the chaps in our barracks go to religious services every week. Regardless of their background, Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, they all go, sometimes all together, sometimes separately. Our chaplain's not a bad bloke, but I've always preferred to stay behind and let everyone go off and be all holy together. Other than a jolly Christmas sing-song, I could never pull off church attendance with any sincerity, and that's the truth. I know all the parts I'm supposed to say, because my Mummy brought me up right and I've got the scars on my ears to prove it. But the meaning seems to get lost somewhere between my mouth and my heart. And I feel like a right phony saying the words but not truly believing them or living by them.
So like I said, I've preferred to stay behind in the barracks, indulging in the pleasures of solitude. For one hour a week, I get to be alone with my thoughts and do what I want.
Then Colonel Hogan pointed out to me that my thoughts didn't seem to be doing me any favours. That I spent more time cooking up trouble than any man in camp and I might need a different way to quiet my mind than loafing around while everyone was out. I suppose he could be right. He's the Guv, after all, one of the best men I've ever known. So he made me promise to give it a try, going to services with him like you and Mavis want me to do. Something in his look made me think he might just drag me there and sit on me. Maybe I was just thinking about you and your hand clutching my ear, but in any event I decided to go peaceably. I figured if I didn't fight it, maybe I could just close my eyes and look prayerful while actually catching up on my sleep. As you know, I've got experience with doing that.
I don't know what it is with people like you and Mavis and Colonel Hogan, but somehow you seem to know me better than I know myself. Because this morning, on Palm Sunday, I was sitting there under Colonel Hogan's watchful eye, quietly tearing the palms into tiny strips because I was going out of my mind without my smokes.
And then I hear the priest say these words: "Almighty God, you alone can bring into order the unruly wills and affections of sinners."
And I thought, bloody hell. He's talking directly to me, isn't he? I am unruly and willful and bloody sinful and I have a mouth on me, which my mate Kinch keeps threatening to wash out with soap, just like you always did.
Mam, it's a long and rambling way of saying I'm sorry for being what my American friends call "a jerk." Good word, that. In case you're wondering, it means a git or an arse. Oh, here I go again, saying naughty words to me own Mam. I am sorry, again.
I'd like you to know that even though I've been a proper pain all winter to everyone around me, being a military man really has been good for me. Even as a POW, I can take pride in service to my country and try to live an honourable life. I do believe, because you always taught me this, that we are here for a higher purpose, and slowly but surely I am finding mine. While I'm still not sure that sitting in a worship service week after is for me, it didn't hurt and might have helped me think a bit more clearly.
Please forgive me for being such a difficult son. I promise to make you proud and try harder to be good in every part of my life.
And could you do me one little favour, Mam? I've been asking Mavis for months to send me a Brown Betty. How hard can it be to find a proper tea pot and ship it out to her favourite brother who asks so little of her? Could you remind her that a proper cup of tea is a balm for the soul? Since you and she are pretty concerned with my soul these days, it wouldn't hurt to throw in some tea and sugar with the shipment. I'll be able to scrounge up milk.
Your loving son,
Peter
XXX
Written in response to L.E. Wigman's "Mavis' Missives," Chapter 6. Hat tip to Snooky-9093 for pointing out in response to Prolegomenon that "He needs a Brown Betty." I had completely forgotten that there was a name for the classic kitchen teapot. Charming visual of Kinch threatening to wash Newkirk's mouth out with soap borrowed with permission from "Getting to Know You,' Chapter 5, by SoFleek.