58337: The Letter

<p dir="ltr"> With B.E.F. June 10. Dear Wife,<br> (Oh blast this pencil. 'Ere, Bill, lend's a knife.)<br> I'm in the pink at present, dear.<br> I think the war will end this year.<br> We don't see much of them square-'eaded 'Uns.<br> We're out of harm's way, not bad fed.<br> I'm longing for a taste of your old buns.<br> (Say, Jimmie, spare's a bite of bread.)<br> There don't seem much to say just now.<br> (Yer what? Then don't, yer ruddy cow!<br> And give us back me cigarette!)<br> I'll soon be 'ome. You mustn't fret.<br> My feet's improvin', as I told you of.<br> We're out in rest now. Never fear.<br> (VRACH! By crumbs, but that was near.)<br> Mother might spare you half a sov.<br> Kiss Nell and Bert. When me and you ---<br> (Eh? What the 'ell! Stand to? Stand to!<br> Jim, give's a hand with pack on, lad.<br> Guh! Christ! I'm hit. Take 'old. Aye, bad.<br> No, damn your iodine. Jim? 'Ere!<br> Write my old girl, Jim, there's a dear.)</p>