I looked for my canteen. It had fallen off the fire step, and was half
buried in the mud. The man on my left noticed this, and told the
Corporal, dishing out the rations, to put my share in his mess tin.
Then he whispered to me, "Always take care of your mess tin, mate."

I had learned another maxim of the trenches.

That stew tasted fine, I was as hungry as a bear. We had "seconds," or
another helping, because three of the men had gone "West," killed by
the explosion of the German trench mortar, and we ate their share, but
still I was hungry, so I filled in with bully beef and biscuits. Then
I drained my water bottle. Later on I learned another maxim of the
front line,--"Go sparingly with your water." The bully beef made me
thirsty, and by tea time I was dying for a drink, but my pride would
not allow me to ask my mates for water. I was fast learning the ethics
of the trenches.

That night I was put on guard with an older man. We stood on the fire
step with our heads over the top, peering out into No Man's Land. It
was nervous work for me, but the other fellow seemed to take it as
part of the night's routine.

Then something shot past my face. My heart stopped beating, and I
ducked my head below the parapet. A soft chuckle from my mate brought
me to my senses, and I feebly asked, "For God's sake, what was that?"

He answered, "Only a rat taking a promenade along the sandbags." I
felt very sheepish.