In April 1915 my battalion was on the way up to take over a line of
"grouse-butts"--there were no continuous trenches--in front of a
pleasure resort by the name of Festubert.
Arrived at Gore, a couple of miles or so from the line, we ran into
some transport that had got thoroughly tied up, and had a wait of about
half-an-hour while the joy-riders sorted themselves out. It was pitch
dark and raining hard, and the occasional spot of confetti that came
over added very little to the general enjoyment.
As I moved up and down my platoon, the usual profane but humorous
grousing was in full spate. At that time the ration arrangements were
not so well organised as they afterwards became, and for some weeks the
bulk of our banquets had consisted of bully and remarkably hard and
unpalatable biscuits. The latter were a particularly sore point with
the troops.
As I listened, one rifleman held forth on the subject. "No blinkin'
bread for five blinkin' weeks," he wound up--"nothin' but blinkin'
biscuits that taste like sawdust an' break every tooth in yer perishin'
'ed. 'Ow the 'ell do they expect yer to fight on stuff like that?"
"Whatcher grousin' about?" drawled another weary voice. "Dawgs _lives_
on biscuits, and they can fight like 'ell!"--_S. B. Skevington (late
Major, 1st London Irish Rifles), 10 Berkeley Street, W.1._