Linton's final letter

Linton's last letter home, was nine days before his death. He recounts an amusing memory of life on the farm back home, and heartbreakingly, talks about catching "a small bit of a ship" home.

It's quite easy to see why he was so well loved, and easily made friends anywhere he

went - he was quite the entertainer! Though he had a stutter, he could tell anecdotes till the cows came home, as well as sing, play violin and mandolin harp.

England

Nov 9th, 1942

My Dear Family,

If this letter is somewhat disjointed, and the writing worse than usual, then please overlook it, as I am writing this in the crew room, standing up. This would be a ticklish operation at anytime, but with about forty chaps, pushing you, and constantly talking, it is positively suicidal. We have been particularly busy, these last few days, and I have got somewhat behind with my correspondence.

I received four letters on Saturday, one from you Innes, one from you Mother, one from Kathie, and one from that good girl, Valerie. They were the first I had received for three weeks, and I was more than pleased. Valerie wrote me eight whopping great pages, and told me all the news. I only hope she keeps it up.

I felt really homesick when I read of all the visitors you had had. Somehow things always seemed to go with a swing when Roger was in attendance. It was always an occasion on which I could get a supporter and a willing helper, for all the wild constructive plans that constantly revolve in my head. Perhaps if I had been home this time, we would have made you a washing machine, Mother, or built a new fence around the front garden.

Do you remember the time, Innes, when we all tramped up the sunny side, to get a Totara log? After about two hours walking, we reached the spot, tired and hungry. Dad and Roger chipped the sides and pronounced it "dosey," whereupon you and I whooped in silent glee, as we would have nothing to carry home.

But our triumph was short lived, undeterred and wrestling with No.3 and a zig-zag, Roger pointed far out over the valley, and up the other side, and shading his eyes from the waning sun, he told Dad in glowing terms, of a real "bloody snufter" Totara, that, cut into lengths would bowl right down to the creek. Of course, he knew it wouldn't, but it had the desired effect on Dad, and we wearily shouldered our saws, wedges, maul, and other items of our kit, and trouped off. Roger, as always, beating a path through the fern, with Dad in hot pursuit, and you and I puffing along in the rear.

Of the descent and perilous ascent, I need hardly refresh your memory, but I think I can take space to go over the arrival home. Roger, wooly cap pushed well back, heaving a tremendous log. Dad with all the gear hung around him, saying he was too old for hill climbing. You, with another large log, and the seat out of your pants, and my humble self, with a very small log, and a sense of importance and leadership, par excellence.

But the crowning injustice was yet to come. Mother, smiling as ever, came to the door as we heaved our respective burdens to the ground, and sweetly and quite innocently remarked, "That'll be corker to light my copper with!" Dad's face was a picture, and his expression changed from one of exhaustion, to one of withering scorn, and with a fervent "Jesus woman!" he sank on the washhouse doorstep, while Roger placidly explained how we were going to saw it up into timber for a new fence.

And now, my Mother, my Father, and my Brother, I must bring these reveries to a close.

Look after yourselves, and please keep fit and well.

My love to you all,

Your wayward son and brother,

Linton xxxxx

My regards to all my friends.

One of these days I am going to catch a small bit of a ship and come home.

Until then, be good.

R.L.J.

Above: Linton and Roberta, 1942.

(Photo has been edited by having the background removed, so they stand out more)

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