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.

We had no telephone in those days, and orderlies came up from the Casino
hospital and A.D.M.S. with buff slips when ambulances were wanted. At
that time the cars, Argylls, Napiers, Siddeley-Deaseys, and a Crossley,
inscribed "Frank Crossley, the Pet of Poperinghe," were just parked
haphazard in the open square, some with their bonnets one way and some
another--it just depended which of the two drives up to camp had been
chosen. It will make some of the F.A.N.Y.s smile to hear this, when they
think of the neat rows of cars precisely parked up t