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received letters or parcels from home were in high spirits. Their jocularity infected the whole table, and though he grumbled at them to keep the noise down, everyone knew they were good-natured grumbles and no one took any notice of him.
    He was sipping the last of his coffee when Private Willis wandered over to him and tossed him a small packet. “Letter for you, Sir,” he said, as he wandered off again.
    Sergeant-Major Tofts almost dropped it in his surprise. Who would be writing to him? He looked at the address on the envelope, but it was not one he recognized. Carefully, as though it might blow up in his face if he mishandled it, he opened the envelope. Experience had taught him that good news didn’t generally come in unsolicited messages.
    The paper wasn’t edged with black. That was a relief—it wasn’t a note to inform him that any of his friends or relatives had died. But the handwriting wasn’t familiar and when he scanned the signature, he didn’t recognize that, either. With a growing sense of curiosity, he began to read.
    My dear Sergeant-Major ,
    You are no doubt surprised to receive this letter and little parcel out of the blue, but there is a small group of ladies here in England who would like our boys abroad to know they are not forgotten .
    One of our number knows another in your regiment, who provided us with the names of men in his company so that we might write to them. I chose you to correspond with as we are in similar positions, although I would not presume to consider mine is as fraught as yours .
    My name is Mrs. Bettina, and I am the matron of a boardinghouse near Westminster, London. Like you I consider myself to be responsible for the welfare of my charges, as well as the running of disciplined operations. My poor husband, George, passed away from consumption quite some number of years ago, leaving me to run our boardinghouse alone.
    Although there is no one to share my cold bed at night I am lucky to have my ladies to keep me company, and so I am not lonely. There is always a multitude to do, from keeping the accounts to purchasing food from the markets. From dawn to dusk my life is busy and full, it is only in the quiet of the night that I find myself alone.
    George used to love to wear the warm woolen socks that I became an expert at knitting. I found I have not lost the skill over the years, and so it was my pleasure to once more take up my needles and make for you the enclosed small token of my regard for our men such as yourself who serve Queen and Country across the reaches of the Empire. I do so hope you find them to your size and liking.
    I’m afraid I know little of your conditions there, my imagination is full of exotic birds, large carnivores, and giant spiders. If there is one thing I abhor, it is spiders. I know from books there can be sand as far as the eye can see, and I profess I find that hard to imagine. A sea of sand! What that must be like!
    My dear George used to shoot at ducks and quail with a shotgun and hated getting sand in the moving parts, so I daren’t think what it must be like for you living in a sandy environment and trying to keep your rifle clean.
    I fear I have prattled on far too much. It would be wonderful if you could spare some time and write a few lines in reply.
    Yours ,
Mrs. N. Bettina
     
     
    When he had finished, he folded the letter again and put it in his pocket. So, the women of England thought about the soldiers abroad, did they, and cared for their comfort and wellbeing? It came as a surprise that he cared so much to know.
    He’d like to meet the woman who had written to him so kindly. Her letter had struck a chord in his soul.
    He’d never been much of a man for book learning, but he could read and write tolerably well. Well enough not to disgrace himself anyway.
    He rose from the mess table with barely a grimace of pain at his still-stiff joints. Come this evening he would borrow a pen and paper from one of the officers and write her