One of the subalterns with a meek air accepted
the responsibility. We went out, smiling but
more convinced than before of the dynamic democracy of this struggle, for there was nothing
of the palace about that dug-out. It was not, as
we define such things, even comfortable. It was,
we found, almost next door to a kitchen. I ventured in there, on my hands and knees, because of
the meagre opening. A soldier, bent double as I
was, in the shallow, smothering chamber, grinned
a welcome. He brushed the perspiration from
his face and lifted the covers from three camp
kettles beneath which coals glowed. Bully beef
steamed appetizingly. Low shelves were filled
with such bread and jams and tins as I had seen
at the convalescent camp. The cook waited,
quite apparently for some congratulatory comment.
"This looks pretty good. And it smells good."
The wet, grinning face broadened.
"I hear mighty little grumbling."
The usual culinary pride in a place like this! If we could have carried it from the firing line that meal wouldn't have offended any of us.
As I backed out I caught the brigade officer's cheery voice.
"Maybe you'd like to see one of the few men
