in to confess that the organisation of
our commissariat is wonderful. Of course the quality of the _menu_
varies, according to the immunity of the communication-trenches from
shell fire, or the benevolence of the Quartermaster and the mysterious
powers behind him, or the facilities for cooking offered by the time
and place in which we find ourselves. No large fires are permitted:
the smoke would give too good a ranging-mark to Minnie and her
relatives. Still, it is surprising how quickly you can boil a
canteen over a few chips. There is also, for those who can afford
half-a-crown, that invaluable contrivance, "Tommy's Cooker"; and
occasionally we get a ration of coke. When times are bad, we live on
bully, biscuit, cheese, and water, strongly impregnated with chloride
of lime. The water is conveyed to us in petrol-tins--the old familiar
friends, Shell and Pratt--hundreds of them. Motorists at home must be
feeling the shortage. In normal times we can reckon on plenty of hot,
strong tea; possibly some bread; probably an allowance of bacon and
jam. And sometimes, when the ration parties arrive, mud-stained and
weary, in the dead of night, and throw down their bursting sacks, our
eyes feast upon such revelations as tinned butter, condensed milk,
raisins, and a consignment of that great chieftain of the ration race,
The Maconochie of Maconochie. On these occasions Private Mucklewame
collects his share, retires to his kennel, and has a gala-day.

Thirdly, the blessings of literature. Our letters arrive at night,
with the rations. The mail of our battalion alone amounts to eight or
ten mail-bags a day; from which you may gather some faint idea of the
labours of our Field Post Offices. There are letters, and parcels, and
newspapers. Letters we may pass over. They are featureless things,
except to their recipient. Parcels have more individuality. Ours are
of all shapes and sizes, and most of them are astonishingly badly
tied. It is quite heartrending to behold a kilted exile endeavouring
to gather up a heterogeneous mess of socks, cigarettes, chocolate,
soap, shortbread, and Edinburgh rock, from the ruins of what was once
a flabby and unstable parcel, but is now a few skimpy rags of brown
paper, which have long escaped the control of a most inadequate piece
of string--a monument of maternal lavishness and feminine economy.

Then there are the newspapers. We read them right through, beginning
at the advertisements and not skippin