I stepped into my tent and sat down on my ---- I cut off a piece from
the previous day's bread ration--it had been nibbled by mice overnight
and was soiled and dusty. Other men arrived, one by one. We ate our meal
in silence. It was usually so--either the conversation was violent and
rowdy or nothing was said at all.

We wiped our plates on an old sock or a rag or a piece of newspaper and
packed them into our haversacks together with our mugs and rations for
the day--a chunk of bread and a dirty piece of cheese. I tied up my
boots--the laces were covered with liquid clay--and put on my puttees
which were hard and stiff with caked mud. It was a quarter-past five and
I lay down at full length, glad to have a few minutes to myself. But the
pain in my feet became intolerable--I jumped up and stamped the floor of
the tent, grinding my teeth with mortification.

Several of the men had not come in yet with their breakfasts. We could
tell by the banging of mess-tins, mugs and plates, and by the angry
shouts of "Get a move on," that a long queue was still waiting in front
of the cook-house.

Suddenly the tent-flap bulged inwards and two hands, the one holding a
full mug and the other a plate, forced their way through. They were
followed by a head and shoulders. Thereupon the man tried to step in,
but he tripped over the brailing underneath the flap, and plunged
forward, spilling the greater part of his tea. He uttered a savage,
snarling oath, walked over to his place and sat down, growling and
cursing under his breath.

Another man followed. As he pushed his way through the entrance the
shoulder-strap of his tunic caught one of the hooks on the flap and his