July 7. 1945

Dear Mother:

I forget when I last wrote—time seems to stand still lately—or at least drag heavily. We are still waiting in a transit camp for a ship. All the N.C.O.’s have gone but so far there has been no accommodation for us due chiefly to civilians from South Africa, those people who left England in its dark days. It annoys us more than somewhat! On one boat there was lots of room as we were quite willing to sleep in one of those large rooms fitted with about sixty beds in 3 tiers but the O.C. of the ship thought (can you believe it) that some of us would have been in West Africa too long top conduct ourselves in proper decorum in the company of the numerous single women returning to England. We have since found out that the boat was so empty NCOs were in cabins. Some of the boys are getting away in a small transport ship, selection for this being on length of service here. Others are slipping away via B.O.A.C. or transport command. Choice here seems to be based more on time away from home so I would have a fair priority but not wanting to get separated from my trunk I am in two minds.

The rains are really upon us now, sometimes continuing all day and is most depressing as there is nothing for us to do but watch it. I have been playing a lot of chess lately but have got tired of it and turned my attention to bridge. I play with three other Canadians, sometimes putting in as much as seven hours a day.

We saw a good football game played in a very slippery field between RAF and Army. Most of our best players have left so it was particularly surprising to see a goal scored by us in the first thirty seconds without the opponents so much as touching to ball. Final score was two all.

One day I saw a game between two all black teams. It was a really good game to watch for they are exceptionally fast and exceedingly tricky. Also although most played in bare feet they could kick harder than the average player on our station teams.

This station has the best food I have met anywhere. The C.O. who is also the P.M.C. is a gourmand (and looks it too). Supper is always a four course meal and sometimes five. Six if you count cheese and coffee. What I hate here is the harsh discipline of the natives, much the hardest on the coast he proudly proclaims. Some of the boys have had hardly any pay for months and for the slightest offence are put on fatigues, working all day at the double so far as possible, driven by a black who never stops yelling at them for more than a minute at a time all day it seems. It gets on our nerves as they are often working close to our billets. I am sure it is not the way to handle them anyway.

We caught and kept for two days a chameleon about nine inches long. A fearsome looking beast but quite harmless and I took a picture of him on someones arm.

Long ago when I thought I was flying home I wired base P.O. to hold my mail. Result is all I get is the odd letter from England. Last from you was #23.

With love from Tony

[Note: Transcription provided by collection donor.]