The Lost Art Of Letter Writing

Lynne Wallis longs for the days when we communicated with our loved ones by putting pen to paper

- Lynne Wallis

EVER SINCE CHILDHOOD I'D LONGED to meet my uncle Jack, although it was an impossible dream. His kindness, good humour and upstanding character were legendary in our family. Jack Hollis, my mum’s only brother, was killed aged 24 serving in the Navy aboard the HMS Egret. His ship went down under enemy action in August 1943 during The Battle of the Atlantic. My mother, Madge, and her own mother, Ada, were devastated. The telegram arrived from the Royal Navy that September, and the loss was almost too much to bear. It followed the suicide of Ada’s husband William who took his life early in 1940—he'd been an ambulance driver in the Battle of the Somme and was damaged irreparably by the horrors he saw. He was unable to face another war.

I have felt the loss of the wonderful uncle I never knew all my life. Until now all I had were photographs. I knew Jack was handsome, that he was a top boy at his school and very good at drawing. But only now do I have a deeper insight into his psyche. My mother died in March and I'm getting to know more about who he was through the scores of letters he wrote home in 1943. It sends a shiver down my spine to think of Jack in his cabin on the Egret writing home 75 years ago. He used a good fountain pen, usually opening letters to his sister "My darling precious Sug." Jack was a huge James Cagney fan and often used words and phrases from American films. He even wore his hair like Cagney, and by all accounts he did a mean Bronx accent.