MARCH 1, 1944
Dear Robert,
A word to the wise: If my brother begins singing on St. Patrick's Day, you've got about an hour before he goes completely off the rails. He seldom sings unless alcohol is involved. Don't be fooled by the fact that he can carry a tune or remember all the words to his favorite ditties, particularly the obscene ones. He is as defective in the common-sense department as he is talented in his capacity for drink. This is a bad combination.
Also, please keep an ear to the ground for any references he may make to "the Ulster Lads." I guarantee that any time he spends in the company of the Northern Irish between now and March 17 is part of some plot he's hatching and will not end well for anyone.
Robert, please don't take this the wrong way, but your continued success in looking after Peter will affect my willingness to fly in an aeroplane with you at some time in the future. As annoying as Peter is, he is still my brother and I am counting on you to get him home to us in one piece, with most of his limited brain cells intact. His letters since Christmas have been, to put it mildly, alarming. He sounds desperately bored and in need of a hobby other than drinking and rabble-rousing. You poor chaps must lead a dreadfully dull life.
I realize having my bother under your command has been and remains a burden, but he assures me you are an extraordinary and principled man of exceptional talent. Not that he has used those words, mind you. It's just that he calls you "the Guv," and in his limited vocabulary, that's the same thing.
On a separate matter, perhaps you could encourage him to attend religious services on Easter. By "encourage," I mean grasp him firmly by the ear and march with determination toward your destination. I'm sure you've got the marching bit down, and if you attend with him and restrain him bodily, I imagine some moral lesson might stand a chance of sinking into that thick skull of his.
Palm Sunday could also work, because shredding the free foliage into little strips will keep his hands busy during an hour when he can't smoke. You'll need to be creative, but based on everything I'm hearing, his soul could use all the help it can get.
Affectionately,
Mavis
HHHHH
MARCH 19, 1944
Dear Mavis,
I'm afraid your letter reached me too late, which is a pity, since you were right about everything.
Newkirk is in the cooler. Singing was involved, but it was a minor factor, all things considered. I'm pretty sure it was the fourth pint of beer and the incident with the hurling stick that did him in. Are you familiar with this sport of hurling? When the equipment arrived from the Irish Red Cross, my first thought was that it must be like field hockey, which is a girls' sport in America. That was before I saw Newkirk charging downfield toward O'Malley with that stick, which looks like a cross between a giant spoon and a shovel.
Further details will follow, but let me just say he's safe and sober. The other good news is he only required six stitches and still has all his teeth, unlike O'Malley, who will have to go through the rest of the war with the smile of a seven year old. That look is not nearly as cute on a burly Irishman with a red beard that no razor can tame. Anyway, your brother's been in there for two nights and has been a model prisoner, since he's in too much pain to move much. I hope the Kommandant will see his way to releasing him tomorrow so I can put him back on KP.
And don't worry. He already stands next to me during roll call for obvious reasons, and he will be seated right next to me at Sunday services from now on, even if I have to tie him down. We have a fine chaplain, and I'll ask him to drop the following verse into his next sermon. Fittingly, it's from 1 Peter 4:3: "For you have spent enough time in the past doing what pagans choose to do—living in debauchery, lust, drunkenness, orgies, carousing and detestable idolatry."
Actually, I'm going to ask him to trim a word or two. We don't want to give Newkirk any ideas. Just know that I'm committed to doing everything to ensure that we will be able to take a pleasant, enjoyable, worry-free flight over the beautiful English countryside when I finally get to meet you.
Fondly,
Robert
PS, did you mistakenly call Peter your "bother" in the last letter, or was that deliberate?