Some men prefer to prepare their own food, but the majority divide
themselves into sections and get one, or sometimes two, of their number
to do all the cooking, washing up, etc. And whatever “cookie” serves
up is always accepted as excellent. And many are the jokes cracked and
tales told round the fire during meal-times. Very often the cooks have
just got a fire going and the pots on when the order comes, “Wind up,”
_i.e._ start engines going, and then there is commotion. Semi-boiling
water has to be thrown away, and half-cooked food put back in the
“grub-box” till the next stop. But we have nothing to grumble at.
There is food--and to spare--for all of us. One thing that is often
wanted by our men is a good glass of English ale. I know a few here
who would gladly give their day’s rations for a “pint.” The “land
of wine and cider” will never be the “land of beer” to the English
Tommy. We have many a sing-song of a night round the camp fires. I have
got a melodeon, which was left on a battlefield by a German soldier,
so that is our band. It is an impressive sight to see about thirty
fellows around a fire singing lustily “A Little Grey Home in the
West,” accompanied by a melodeon, with the roar of cannon occasionally
breaking in: _Driver Drake, of the Supply Column_.