Shorty was a Ph.D. in every subject in the curriculum, including
domestic science. In preparing breakfast he gave me a practical
demonstration of the art of conserving a limited resource of fuel,
bringing our two canteens to a boil with a very meager handful of
sticks; and while doing so he delivered an oral thesis on the best
methods of food preparation. For example, there was the item of corned
beef--familiarly called "bully." It was the _pièce de résistance_ at
every meal with the possible exception of breakfast, when there was
usually a strip of bacon. Now, one's appetite for "bully" becomes jaded
in the course of a few weeks or months. To use the German expression
one doesn't eat it _gern_. But it is not a question of liking it. One
must eat it or go hungry. Therefore, said Shorty, save carefully all
of your bacon grease, and instead of eating your "bully" cold out of
the tin, mix it with bread crumbs and grated cheese and fry it in
the grease. He prepared some in this way, and I thought it a most
delectable dish. Another way of stimulating the palate was to boil the
beef in a solution of bacon grease and water, and then, while eating
it, "kid yerself that it's Irish stew." This second method of taking
away the curse did not appeal to me very strongly, and Shorty admitted
that he practiced such self-deception with very indifferent success;
for after all "bully" was "bully" in whatever form you ate it.
In addition to this staple, the daily rations consisted of bacon,
bread, cheese, jam, army biscuits, tea, and sugar. Sometimes they
received a tinned meat and vegetable ration, already cooked, and at
welcome intervals fresh meat and potatoes were substituted for corned
beef. Each man had a very generous allowance of food, a great deal
more, I thought, than he could possibly eat. Shorty explained this by
saying that allowance was made for the amount which would be consumed
by the rats and the blue-bottle flies.
There were, in fact, millions of flies. They settled in great swarms
along the walls of the trenches, which were filled to the brim with
warm light as soon as the sun had climbed a little way up the sky.
Empty tin-lined ammunition boxes were used as cupboards for food. But
of what avail were cupboards to a jam-loving and jam-fed British army
living in open ditches in the summer time? Flytraps made of empty jam
tins were set along the top of the parapet. As soon as one was filled,
another was set in its place. But it was an unequal war against an
expeditionary force of countless numbers.
"They ain't nothin' you can do," said Shorty. "They steal the jam right
off yer bread."
As for the rats, speaking in the light of later experience, I can say
that an army corps of Pied Pipers would not have sufficed to entice
away the hordes of them that infested the trenches, living like house
pets on our rations. They were great lazy animals, almost as large
as cats, and so gorged with food that they could hardly move. They
ran over us in the dugouts at night, and filched cheese and crackers
right through the heavy waterproofed coverings of our haversacks. They
squealed and fought among themselves at all hours. I think it possible
that they were carrion eaters, but never, to my knowledge, did they
attack living men. While they were unpleasant bedfellows, we became so
accustomed to them that we were not greatly concerned about our very
intimate associations.
Our course of instruction at the Parapet-etic School was brought to a
close late in the evening when we shouldered our packs, bade good-bye
to our friends the Gloucesters, and marched back in the moonlight to
our billets. I had gained an entirely new conception of trench life, of
the difficulties involved in trench building, and the immense amount of
material and labor needed for the work.
Americans who are interested in learning of these things at first hand
will do well to make the grand tour of the trenches when the war is
finished. Perhaps the thrifty continentals will seek to commercialize
such advantage as misfortune as brought them, in providing favorable
opportunities. Perhaps the Touring Club of France will lay out a new
route, following the windings of the firing line from the Channel coast
across the level fields of Flanders, over the Vosges Mountains to
the borders of Switzerland. Pedestrians may wish to make the journey
on foot, cooking their supper over Tommy's rusty biscuit-tin stoves,
sleeping at night in the dugouts where he lay shivering with cold
during the winter nights of 1914 and 1915. If there are enthusiasts
who will be satisfied with only the most intimate personal view of the
trenches, if there are those who would try to understand the hardships
and discomforts of trench life by living it during a summer vacation,
I would suggest that they remember Private Shorty Holloway's parting
injunction to me:--
"Now, don't ferget, Jamie!" he said as we shook hands, "always 'ave a
box o' Keatings 'andy, an' 'ang on to yer extra shirt!"
* * * * *
(Private Hall, of Kitchener's Mob, describes the scenes when the army
was being organized for the first British expeditionary force. He
tells about "The Rookies"; "The Mob in Training"; "Ordered Abroad." He
describes their fights; their life under cover; their lodgings, billets
and experiences in the trenches, "sitting tight." It is "men of this
stamp," he says, "who have the fortunes of England in their keeping.
And they are called 'The Boys of the Bulldog Breed.'")