Nigel’s letter from Blighty.
To all the chaps in the Mess, greetings.
As you may know, after my last brush with our friends from Jasta 11, I was evacuated to a hospital in Gay Paris. The wound only entailed my sleeping on my front for a few days, but it took a lot longer for my embarrassment to heal, what with nurses wanting to change my dressing every day. How did the drome stand up to the bombing? I expect my kite is a write off, if the shrapnel that got me as I tried to get into the cockpit is anything to go by. Still I have heard in a letter from the Co. that some of you gave a good account of yourselves in the tail chase.
Lofty Duckworth ended up in the next bed to me, and said that he got one before his plane pranged. Poor blighter will never bowl for Surrey again though.
Anyway, to cut to the chase, the Dr. said that what I really needed was a spot of R and R, so as you can see from the p.m. here I am back in dear old Blighty. They have seconded me for a while to a Home Defence Squadron to train recruits on Night Fighters, at a little drome near London called Biggin Hill. Not much to look at. Just a few hangers and a command centre, but it is near enough to the City for a good night out.
I sent a telegram to cousin Nigella (She’s the gal whose name is on the side of my Biff) We met up at Lyons Corner House, and then went on to take in a show in the evening. Saw The Second Mrs Tanqueray at The St James’ theatre. I’d seen it before and thought it a bit long winded but Nigella loved it. Went to the Savoy for a meal after the show, and finally rolled back to the United Services Club after putting Nigella on the train. Absolutely done in, but worth it. Nigella is a real good egg.
Well enough of all that talk. Tomorrow I start knocking the sprogs into shape, so that we can go looking for Gothas over bally old Kent.
Till I get back to the Squadron, toodle- pip chaps.
Nigel.
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