s anxiously.

Some of the cootie stories have become classical, like this one
which was told from the North Sea to the Swiss border. It might
have happened at that.

A soldier was going over the top when one of his cootie friends bit
him on the calf. The soldier reached down and captured the biter.
Just as he stooped, a shell whizzed over where his head would have
been if he had not gone after the cootie. Holding the captive
between thumb and finger, he said:

"Old feller, I cawn't give yer the Victoria Cross--but I can put
yer back."

And he did.

The worst thing about the cootie is that there is no remedy for
him. The shirt hunt is the only effective way for the soldier to
get rid of his bosom friends. The various dopes and patent
preparations guaranteed as "good for cooties" are just that. They
give 'em an appetite.

CHAPTER V

FEEDING THE TOMMIES

Food is a burning issue in the lives of all of us. It is the main
consideration with the soldier. His life is simplified to two
principal motives, _i.e._, keeping alive himself and killing the
other fellow. The question uppermost in his mind every time and all
of the time, is, "When do we eat?"

In the trenches the backbone of Tommy's diet is bully beef,
"Maconochie's Ration", cheese, bread or biscuit, jam, and tea. He
may get some of this hot or he may eat it from the tin, all
depending upon how badly Fritz is behaving.

In billets the diet is more varied. Here he gets some fresh meat,
lots of bacon, and the bully and the Maconochie's come along in the
form of stew. Also there is fresh bread and some dried fruit and a
certain amount of sweet stuff.

It was this matter of grub that made my life a burden in the
billets at Petite-Saens. I had been rather proud of being lance
corporal. It was, to me, the first step along the road to being
field marshal. I found, however, that a corporal is high enough to
take responsibility and to get bawled out for anything that goes
wrong. He's not high enough to command any consideration from those
higher up, and he is so close to the men that they take out their
grievances on him as a matter of course. He is neither fish, flesh,
nor fowl, and his life is a burden.

I had the job of issuing the rations of our platoon, and it nearly
drove me mad. Every morning I would detail a couple of men from our
platoon to be standing mess orderlies for the day. They would fetch
the char and bacon from the field kitchen in the