Dear Mavis,

It's been another fun-filled XXXX here at good old XXXXX. Organized a XXXX tournament with some of my mates; first round was bunkmates competing, then the winners competed until each XXXXXX had a champ, and so forth. Grand prize was a XXXXXX and some XXXXXXX, and second place was a brand new pair of socks—the ones Auntie XXXX sent me, as it happens. Might sound like a bit of a joke, but socks that don't have holes in them are XXXXXXXX around here. I can't possibly be the only one who knows how to darn a sock in the entire XXXXXXXXXX, but you wouldn't know that by looking at our clothesline on laundry day. Lazy XXXXXX, the lot of them.

For obvious reasons, XXXX said that yours truly wasn't allowed to compete. I can't say I was too XXXXXX about that, but in the spirit of turning the other cheek, I offered them Auntie's latest effort, as a prize, just to show there were no hard feelings. And the bloke that won the socks, complete with all the knots and lumps in the knitting that make a chap's feet blister and bleed, was, you guessed it, XXXX, so one might say that I won anyway. He was a fairly good sport about it, but he says that next time I suggest a round of XXXX, he's going to XXXXXXX me in the XXXXXX just to make sure that I can't XXXXXXX again. As if I'd pull the same stunt twice! That's the only part of the whole thing that feels a bit insulting. I'm perfectly capable of coming up with brand new ways to XXXXX if it seems necessary, eh? But then, I suppose if it makes him feel any better, I can put up with it. There's a war on, you know; we all have to XXXXXXX.

Our Red Cross parcels came, last XXXXXX, and not a moment too soon; I was just about out of XXXX, and you know what I can get like when that happens. Last time, my mate XXXXX and I got into a scrap that all but XXXXX the whole XXXXXXX, until XXXXXXX had to come over and XXXXXX. Nobody wanted to see that happen a second time, I'll tell you that. The stovepipe hasn't been the same since.

Everything else is about the same as usual. The food is still XXXXX, and the weather is basically XXXXX, and I miss you, but I'm just fine and you don't have to worry about a thing. Mind you, your last letter gave ME a few things to worry about. I guess with all us dashing XXXXX over here, there isn't too much for you birds to pick from back home, and I can't fault you for wanting to go to the pictures, but going with that chump XXXXXX? He'd better have kept his hands to himself, that's all I can say, and if he didn't, you can just tell him that your big brother is going to XXXXXXXXXXXXX and he can just XXXXXXX, if he ever wants to be able to XXXXX again without a special XXXX. Or else just do like I taught you and use that pointy little knee of yours, whichever you prefer.

Chin up!

Peter

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Mavis smiled, and put the mutilated letter safely away with all the others. There was always a bit of mystery involved with these letters; what had the censors taken offense at this time? Well, the first paragraph was simple enough; probably cards or darts or something. Both featured among his favorite pastimes, and he was far too good at both to be allowed to compete with amateurs.

Auntie Henrietta, who was technically no relation, but who had been a lifelong friend of their mother's and had therefore qualified as an aunt-by-courtesy, and certainly thought of herself as such, probably had been sending him socks. Giving said socks to anyone who had irritated him would, she thought, have spoken to her brother's somewhat acerbic sense of humor, both as a subtle sort of revenge and as a way to avoid having to wear them himself. Her knitting was rather a family joke; both of them had suffered through a long succession of scratchy hats, jumpers with mismatched sleeves, lumpy socks, and itchy mufflers, for which they were expected to thank the old dear with as much enthusiasm as they could believably muster, and which they were obligated to wear whenever she came by for a visit.

And the last paragraph was bog-standard overprotective big brother nonsense. George had been a perfect gentleman. And if he hadn't been, well, Peter had taught her to use her knee when necessary, back when she had still worn her hair in pigtails. It wasn't as though she needed a bodyguard, a chaperone, or a reminder, and she intended to tell him so in her next letter.

As for the parcel, that had to be about cigarettes. Or possibly tea, but cigarettes were more likely. His temper was volatile enough even with nicotine in his system; without it... well! Precisely what had happened to the stovepipe was, she suspected, going to be the subject of a dramatic tall tale when he got back home.

When he got home. Her smile faded. She picked up a handful of letters, flipped through them. All of them sounded so cheerful. So normal, in between the gaping holes left by the censor's knife and the larger holes in the content of the letters. She knew her brother; he could deliver a ten minute diatribe on a burnt piece of toast, and would bite off his own tongue before letting her know if anything was really wrong.

And the fact remained that he was rotting away in some godforsaken prison camp. Completely at the mercy of Nazis, God help him. She knew better than to hope that he was keeping his head down and his mouth shut; he wasn't the sort to suffer in silence, and he definitely wasn't the sort to let people he saw as his responsibility suffer at all. There was no chance in the world that his biggest worries really revolved around impromptu card games and ill-fitting socks. No chance at all. The letters blurred to gibberish as she blinked back tears she had no intention of letting fall.

She caught her breath, and put the letters neatly back into the biscuit tin she used in lieu of a filing cabinet. And told herself that, so long as he was still writing, so long as he was still alive, she was luckier than a great many people on the home front, and in any case, she was doing no one any good by worrying.

If she told herself that often enough, she thought, she might even come to believe it. In the meantime, she made a mental note to go to the shops after work, and see if she couldn't pick up a few skeins of wool. Peter would be needing socks. He'd just given away Aunt Henrietta's, after all; he would probably appreciate a nice, new pair. And it wasn't much, but then, there wasn't much she… or anyone else… could do.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: The censors really did get a bit overzealous, didn't they? That letter must have looked like a copper-plate colander. (And Newkirk has a real gift for writing complete and utter fiction, wouldn't you say?) I'm figuring to post letters both to and from various heroes, as inspiration strikes, and possibly a bit of what was really happening to the writers and the recipients, as well. You know, all the things that, for obvious reasons, they wouldn't commit to paper. The heroes had no choice but to conceal their exploits from their families... and the families would have felt obligated to conceal their fears from the heroes.