While Art was gone, I strolled down the ravine a little way to where
some of the Royal Engineers were quartered. The Royal Engineers are the
men who are looked on in training as a non-combatant force, with safe
jobs. In war-time they do no fighting, but their safe jobs consist of
such harmless work as fixing up barbed wire in front of the parapet and
setting mines under the enemy's trenches. For a rest they are allowed
to conduct parties to listening posts and to give the lines for advance
saps. Sometimes they make loopholes in the parapet, or bolster up some
redoubt that is being shelled to pieces.
The Turks were sending over their compliments just as I came abreast
of the Engineers' lines. One of the engineers was sifting some gravel
when the first shell landed. He dropped the sieve, and turned a back
somersault into some gorse-bushes just behind him. The sieve rolled
down, swayed from side to side, and settled close to my head, in the
depression where I was conscientiously emulating an ostrich. I gathered
it to my bosom tenderly and began crawling away. From behind a boulder
I heard the engineer bemoaning to an officer the loss of his sieve, and
he described in detail how a huge shell had blown it out of his hands.
Joyfully I returned to Art with my prize.
"What's that for?" said Art.
"Turn it upside down," I said, "and it's a steak broiler."
"Where did you get it?" said Art.
I told him, and related how the engineer had explained it to his
officer.
Up at the field kitchen a group was standing around.
"What's the excitement?" I asked Art.
"Those fellows are a crowd of thieves," answered Art, virtuously.
"They're looking about to see what they can steal. I was up there a few
minutes ago and saw a can of condensed milk lying on the shaft of the
field kitchen. They were watching me too closely to give me a chance,
but you might be able to get away with it."
The two of us strolled up slowly to where Hebe Wheeler, the creative
artist who did our cooking, was holding forth to a critical audience.
"It's all very well to talk about giving you things to eat, but I
can't cook pancakes without baking powder. You can't get blood out of
a turnip. I'd give you the stuff if I got it to cook, but I don't get
it, do I, Corporal?" said Hebe, appealing to me.
I moved over and stood with my back to the shaft on which rested the
tin of condensed milk.
"No, Hebe," I said, "you don't get the things; and when you do get
them, this crowd steals them on you."
"By God," said Hebe, "that's got to be put a stop to. I'll report the
next man I find stealing anything from the cookhouse."
I put my hand cautiously behind my back, until I felt my fingers close
on the tin of milk. "You let me know, Hebe," I said, as I slipped the
tin into the roomy pocket of my riding breeches, "and I'll make out
a crime sheet against the first man whose name you give." I stayed
about ten minutes longer talking to Hebe, and then returned to my
dugout. Art had finished broiling the piece of steak, and we began our
supper. I put my hand in my breeches' pocket to get the milk. Instead
of grasping the tin, my fingers closed on a sticky, gluey mass. The tin
had been opened when I took it and I had it in my pocket upside down.
About half of it had oozed over my pocket. Art was just pouring the
remainder on some bread when some one lifted the rubber sheet and stuck
his head into our dugout. It was the enraged Hebe Wheeler. As soon as
he had missed his precious milk he had made a thorough investigation of
all the dugouts. He looked at Art accusingly.
"Come in, Hebe," I said pleasantly. "We don't see you very often."
Hebe paid no attention to my invitation, but glared at Art.
"I've caught you with the goods on," he said. "Give me back that milk,
or I'll report you to the platoon officer."
"You can report me to Lord Kitchener if you like," said Art, calmly, as
he drained the can; "but this milk stays right here."
Hebe disappeared, breathing vengeance.