o the dead straight,
white-washed line that ultimately became the order of things!

The bathing machines had their uses, one near the cook-house acting as
our larder, another as a store for spare parts, while several others
were adopted by F.A.N.Y.s as their permanent abodes. One bore the
inscription, "The Savoy--Every Modern Inconvenience!"

Some R.E.'s came to look at the big cook-house stove and decided it must
be put on a raised asphalt sort of platform. Of course this took some
time, and we had to do all the cooking on the Primus. The field kitchen
(when it went) was only good for hot water. We were relieved to see tins
of bully beef and large hunks of cheese arriving in one of the cars the
first day we drew rations, "Thank heaven that at least required no
cooking." It was our first taste of British bully, and we thought it
"really quite decent," and so it was, but familiarity breeds contempt,
and finally loathing. It was the monotony that did it. You would weary
of the tenderest chicken if you had it every other day for months. As
luck would have it, Bridget was again out shopping when, the day
following, a huge round of raw beef arrived. How to cope, that was the
question? (The verb "to cope" was very much in use at that period.)
Obviously it would not fit into the frying pan. But something had to be
done, and done soon, as it was getting late. "They must just have
chops," I said aloud, in desperation, and bravely seizing that round of
beef I cut seventeen squares out of it (slices would have taken too
long; besides, our knife wasn't sharp enough).

They fried beautifully, and no one in the Mess was heard to murmur. When
you've been out driving from 7.30 a.m. hunger covers a multitude of
sins, and Bridget agreed I'd saved the situation.

The beef when I'd finished with it looked exactly as if it had been in a
worry. No _wonder_ cooks never eat what they've cooked, I thought.

To our great disappointment an order came up to the Convoy that all
cameras were to be sent back to England, and everyone rushed round
frantically finishing off their rolls of films. Lowson appeared and took
one of the cook-house "staff" armed with kettles and more or less
covered with smuts. It was rightly entitled, "The abomination of
desolation"--when it came to be gummed into my War Album!

Quin was a great nut with our tent ropes at night, and though she had
not been in camp before the war, assured me she knew all about them.
Need