raught or something (I didn't know very much
about them then). In the meantime all the cooking was done on a huge
Primus stove and the field kitchen outside. I took a dislike to that
field kitchen the moment I saw it, and I think it was mutual. It never
lost an opportunity of "going out on me" the minute my back was turned.
We were rather at a loss to know how to cope with our army rations at
first. We all worked voluntarily, but the army undertook to feed and
house (or rather tent) us. We could either draw money or rations, and at
first we decided on the former. When, however, we realised the enormous
price of the meat in the French shops we decided to try rations instead,
and this latter plan we found was much the best. Unfortunately, as we
had first drawn allowances it took some days before the change could be
effected, and Bridget and I had the time of our lives trying to make
both ends meet in the meantime. That first day she went out shopping it
was my duty to peel the potatoes and put them on to boil, etc. Before
she left she explained how I was to light the Primus stove. Now, if
you've never lit a Primus before, and in between the time you were told
how to do it you had peeled twenty or thirty potatoes, got two scratch
breakfasts, swept the Mess tent and kept that field kitchen from going
out, it's quite possible your mind would be a little blurred. Mine was.
When the time came, I put the methylated in the little cup at the top,
lit it, and then pumped with a will. The result was a terrific roar and
a sheet of flame reaching almost to the roof! Never having seen one in
action before, I thought it was possible they always behaved like that
at first and that the conflagration would subside in a few moments. I
watched it doubtfully, arms akimbo. Bridget entered just then and,
determined not to appear flustered, in as cool a voice as possible I
said: "Is that all right, old thing?" She put down her parcels and,
without a word, seized the stove by one of its legs and threw it on a
sand heap outside! Of course the field kitchen had gone out--(I can't
think who invented that rotten inadequate grating underneath, anyway),
and I felt I was not the bright jewel I might have been.

Our Mess was a huge Indian tent rather out of repair, and, though it had
a bright yellow lining, dusk always reigned within. The mugs, tin
plates, and the oddest knives and forks constituted the "service." It
was windy and chilly to a degree, and