“Comin’, Cooler Sawgint!”

Then another voice raised in pained expostulation—­

“’Ere, look at ‘im—­a hackin’ up the bacon.  Who d’ju think’s comin’ after you?”

“Go and see why there ain’t no rum, Watkins!”

“There ain’t ’arf enough sugar for all them!”

“’And over my firewood, will ye, or I’ll ...!”

And so on, and so forth.  It was the tune to which they finally awoke every morning.

When it was impossible to maintain the pretence of being asleep any longer, they would get up and shake themselves.  They had passed the stage of wanting to take clothes off.  Their uprising in the morning was as easy and simple as a dog’s.  Then, aided, perhaps, by one of their servants, they would set about getting their breakfast ready in the front room.  The Subaltern discovered what a tremendous amount of trouble is entailed in the preparation of even the simplest meals.  Tables to be moved, kettles to be filled, bread cut, jam and bully beef tins opened!  But each would have his own particular job, and they would soon be seated round the dirty table, drinking their tea out of cups, or their own mugs, and munching biscuits or bread.

Now that they were getting their rations each night with the regularity of clockwork, they were beginning to appreciate properly the excellence of their fare.  “Seeing,” as the Senior Subaltern would say, “that we are on Active Service, I think the rations is an extraordinarily well managed show.”

The quality was good, and there was plenty of it.  Personally, the Subaltern never succeeded in getting on very good terms with the “bully beef.”  He decided that it was “a bit too strong” for him; but the others devoured large quantities, and seemed all the better for it.

The jam, at that time, and in that particular sector of the line, was good and, moreover, varied.  The Subaltern does not ever remember suffering from the now notorious “plum and apple.”  There was even marmalade.

He openly delighted in the biscuits, and would go about his work all day munching them.  The bacon, too, as some one said, was “better than what we have in the Mess, sometimes.”  None of them posed as connoisseurs of rum, but a Sergeant, who looked as if he knew what he was talking about, praised it heartily; and, taken in hot tea, it banished all sorts of cares....

Tea (without rum) and bacon, to be followed by ration bread and marmalade (if possible) was the staple fare at breakfast.  They would sit around the fire and smoke—­there was a tobacco allowance included in the rations.  The Subaltern, however, had lost his pipe, and attempts at cigarette rolling were not particularly successful.

Every other day there used to be a mail, and with it, generally, papers from home.  This was the first definite news they had had from “home” since leaving in mid-August.  There was an enthralling interest in seeing how the people at home “were taking things.”