To Sohail Kwatra

Dear Father.

Father. It has been to long. I thought it best to write. To tell you I was healthy. (The weather is good here. Not as cold as you said France would be, the summer would be nice but for the mud, and the stink. One can live though. And we are cycled out regularly. I haven't killed a German yet, and there bullets haven't touched me.) You know it's all lies Pa. Every word the truth, but all lies. I don't think I can tell you the truth.

I'm trying again Pa. I should start by apologising. I was wrong. ( The Adelaide business was good, how is that coming along?) No I'll stick to it. I was wrong, I should have stayed put. But its all in the past now. I'm here in the mud and flies. They'll censor the name of the place, but I need to tell you. I'm not fighting the Germans. I am sorry. For everything.

Take care Pa. You know I love you. They know where to send my earnings.

Forgive me. Pray for me.
Phillip.

Note: The bracketed sections are neatly crossed out, it's obviously not the censors stamp.

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