Mademoiselle Newkirk,
It is my sincere pleasure to be writing you. Pierre speaks of you so often that I feel we are already the dearest of friends. Your brother has been skulking about, poking through everything in the barracks to find this letter. But I have hidden it well, under the all of the oats. He hasn't touched them since I applied my remedy to his eye.
This morning is the last chance to send this to England before Christmas slows everything down. The filthy bosche have to ransack the post for what they can pilfer before they can give it to us and the holidays are their busiest time. So I colluded with Olsen and Garlotti - a half-German and an Italian, zut alors - to keep him occupied long enough for me to finish this and get it onto the truck.
I have listened to Kinch's letter, so I can guess what your next letter will be. Since your brother's antics have taken a toll on my paper ration, I will anticipate and reply.
I was a chef at the Chez la Mer in Paris. The dishes I could create in that kitchen! Ah, it makes me weep inside when I am presented with tinned herring and dried eggs. Not to even speak of the horrors Americans call 'Oleo' and 'Spam'. What I could do with a succulent turkey. The garlic and thyme. The wine! A Bordeaux Blanc, I think. Perhaps a Chardonnay.
I could go on, but Andre had just given me the signal that Pierre is onto us. Be well, mademoiselle. Joyeux Noël,
L. LeBeau
P.S. I could, as Pierre fears, romance you, but I hold him and by extension you in too much regard. Despite what he has told you I am a gentleman and honourable soldier of France.
The long awaited LeBeau letter. I hope to have a Mavis reply soon, but my D-Day entry will likely take all of my time until then, so I wouldn't plan on it any time soon. Cheers.