When the time came, I put the methylated in the little cup at the top, lit it, and then pumped with a will.  The result was a terrific roar and a sheet of flame reaching almost to the roof!  Never having seen one in action before, I thought it was possible they always behaved like that at first and that the conflagration would subside in a few moments.  I watched it doubtfully, arms akimbo.  Bridget entered just then and, determined not to appear flustered, in as cool a voice as possible I said:  “Is that all right, old thing?” She put down her parcels and, without a word, seized the stove by one of its legs and threw it on a sand heap outside!  Of course the field kitchen had gone out—­(I can’t think who invented that rotten inadequate grating underneath, anyway), and I felt I was not the bright jewel I might have been.

Our Mess was a huge Indian tent rather out of repair, and, though it had a bright yellow lining, dusk always reigned within.  The mugs, tin plates, and the oddest knives and forks constituted the “service.”  It was windy and chilly to a degree, and one of the few advantages of being in the cook-house was that one had meals in comparative warmth.

My real troubles began at night when, armed with a heavy tray, I set off on the perilous journey across the camp to the Mess tent to lay the table.  There were no lights, and it was generally raining.  The chief things to avoid were the tent ropes.  As I left the cook-house I decided exactly in my own mind where the bell-tent ropes extended, ditto those of the store tent and the Mess, but invariably, just as I thought I was clear, something caught my ankle as securely as any snake, and down I crashed on top of the tray, the plates, mugs, and knives scattering all around.  Luckily it was months since the latter had been sharp, or a steel proof overall would have been my only hope.  Distances and the supposititious length of tent ropes are inclined to be deceptive in the dark.  Nothing will make me believe those ropes were inanimate—­they literally lay in wait for me each night!  When any loud crash was heard in camp it was always taken for granted it was “only Pat taking another toss.”

The wind, too, seemed to take a special delight in doing his bit.  Our camp was situated on the top of a small hill quite near the sea, and some of the only trees in the neighbourhood flourished there, protected by a deep thorn hedge.  This, however, ended abruptly where the drive led down to the road.  It was when I got opposite the opening where the wind swept straight up from the sea my real tussle began.  As often as not the tin plates were blown off the tray high into the air!  It was then I realized the value of a chin.  Obviously it was meant to keep the lid on the soup tureen and in this acrobatic attitude, my feet dodging the tent ropes, I arrived breathless and panting at the door of the Mess tent.  The oil lamp swinging on a bit of wire over the table was as welcome a sight as an oasis in the desert.