And on it goes. This is in response to Chapters 15-17 of Prolegomenon's "To Colonel RE Hogan." Somebody, please start writing for LeBeau, Carter, and Kinch!
DECEMBER 26, 1943
Dear Mavis,
I hope you, Mam and the rest of the family had a very Happy Christmas. I also hope the Llywellyns didn't break too much of the furniture or go anywhere near my magic kit. I'll cripple that little runt Caerwyn if he lays hands on my top hat again.
We did our best to lift the holiday spirits here at Stalag XIII. We decorated the barracks with what we could find, which was a few pine cones, white and yellow paint and bits of green and red paper. We persuaded our barracks guard, Schultz, to find us some holly branches, and he did us one better. He brought us loads of branches to make wreaths, and even gave us some of the gingerbread his wife Gretchen makes for all the Kraut guards every Christmas.
Somehow, LeBeau managed to cook us all a proper, fish-free feast on Christmas Eve, with a bit of goose and ham and potatoes and Brussels sprouts and carrots. He even made a bread pudding, which was remarkably similar to the one Mam makes.
And yes, I took myself along to mass, because I can still feel you and Mam tugging me there by the ear if I don't want to go, which I didn't, but I went anyway. The mass ended with a nice Christmas carol sing-song, which continued all the way back to the barracks.
As it happened, we had a bit of grog tucked away, and decided to celebrate before bedtime, so the carols continued and got more and more interesting. Carter and LeBeau were legless in no time flat, but the rest of us hardy lads were able to hold our drink. Of course, I brought the house down with my special rendition of Good King Wenceslas:
Good King Wenceslas looked out
Of his bedroom window
Silly bugger he fell out
On a red hot cinder
Brightly shone his bum that night
Though the frost was cruel
Till the doctor came in sight
Riding on a mule
Well, that was when the guards arrived and threatened us all with no rations for a week if we didn't shut the bloody hell up. Schultz would have been a lot nicer, but he was home with his wife and kids, so we were stuck with the cranky ones what had to work on Christmas Eve. So we quieted down but we were still in a jolly mood, murmuring and humming and telling jokes.
That is, until Colonel Hogan had the clever idea to ask us all to "reflect on what good things had happened recently." But of course reflecting wasn't enough. He wanted us to speak our gratitude out loud, and he picked on me first, the blighter. Blimey, talk about a killjoy.
Well, of course I had a banner year. I mean, three and a half years here in palatial Stalag XIII, dining on fish stew and stale bread and trying not to throw up. The highlight of 1943 for me was that I didn't die of pneumonia. And apart from that triumph, there was the fact that my favorite sister, who I love so dearly that my heart could burst, is writing letters to everyone but me. How could things possibly get any better?
So when the Colonel asked me to say something good, I did what I do best. I lied through my teeth and said I was ever so happy that he'd struck up a friendly correspondence with my sister, because she really is the loveliest girl in the world and would be a comfort to any friend. I put special emphasis on the words "friendly," "sister," "girl," and "friend." He's nearly 40, in case you were wondering. Well, he's 35 or 36 as far we can tell, but still. Not quite twice your age, but not far off.
Then I decided to say what I really thought, which is that I'm grateful for the Colonel's kindness and leadership and for treating us all like we really count and for having the best mates I've ever had, even if we do live like animals and dine on swill, except for when Louis cooks.
But then I thought, "No, Peter, don't bare your soul. It's not British." So I shut up before I said another word. No point giving them all swelled heads. I still have to live with these blokes.
So we went round and round and finally everyone asked the Colonel to say what he was grateful for. He just smiled the sneaky way he sometimes does, looked around the room but mostly at me and LeBeau and Carter and Kinch. He said he'd never had a better team and he was grateful for us every minute, and that he knew our families loved and missed us, and that all he wanted to do was get us home safe and sound.
That rotter. We all just gulped and tried to look tough, but it wasn't easy. Good thing I still had the remnants of a cold because I could pull me handkerchief out without looking entirely feeble, unlike Carter, who started sniffling like a little girl and of course began babbling, and Kinch, who blew his nose like a trumpet and excused himself to check on the ... well, never mind what he was checking. Then LeBeau started blubbering because he's French and can't control himself, and I had to take him aside to buck him up.
It was all going just grand, and then on Boxing Day more letters arrived. Even better, right? Wrong!
I received another lovely letter from Mam and a nice long one from Auntie Anwen Llywellyn, but none from you, oddly. I did notice your handwriting on two letters addressed to the Colonel, however. I couldn't help but think that one of those must have been meant for me, so I asked the Colonel. He assured me that they were both his.
At lunchtime Colonel Hogan seemed to be sulking a bit, and suddenly he went off on a tirade about the "peculiar" ways words are spelled by "the Brits," by which he clearly means you and me. He is referring, of course, to proper English, the language of Shakespeare, as spoke and wrote by us.
It turns out that they have a severe shortage of the letter "u" over in America, because they leave it out of all manner of words where it is absolutely necessary. "Favour," "colour," "humour." The Colonel said he regards the letter "u" as "frequently Sue-PURR-flu-is," whatever that means. What am I, a bleeding dictionary? I'm not sure why, but he seemed to be aiming his criticism at me.
It's not like me to take anyone's side against you, Ducks, but whatever you said to him, you might need to ease off. You do seem to be rather a ray of sunshine in his life.
Mavis, you might find it hard to believe, but even a letter from a very young girl you hardly know at all from an entirely different land who would never, ever marry you because you're much too old for her and you're her brother's commanding officer to boot can be a treasure to a lonely prisoner of war. I mean, Carter's sister could write me a letter and I'd probably fall madly in love and be ready to move to Frog Junction or wherever he's from. It's just a fact of life as a POW. Not that he appears to have a sister of suitable age, thank the good Lord because I'm definitely not moving there.
I suppose that's a way of saying it's all right if you want to write letters to the rest of them. As long as you don't forget me.
Oh, you might also find it amusing to know that the Colonel absolutely, positively cannot pronounce "Llywellyn." We worked on it for a half hour, but it still comes out as "Lou Ellen." He seems to think if there are two L's in a name, you just emphasize the L sound. Americans.
Your loving brother,
Peter