By now, perhaps, I have been able to give an insight into the atmosphere of war, for this bit should certainly help in that respect. Try to imagine existing on biscuits and tinned food, while living in holes in the ground.

Food. Glorious Food.
A better description.

Living on "compo" rations is all very well for a little while, but biscuits, soup, and tinned food, are not much to keep a healthy young man of nineteen going. Many of us were often hungry, so the addition of some fresh horsemeat and spring onions cooked in freshly made Norman farmhouse butter was something that tasted out of this world!

Cooked in a billy-can all mixed up together, it did not look all that appetizing, but to us, it was a feast, washed down with strong army tea all out of the same can. Nectar sheer Nectar, never had anything like it since. Bit of a shame, I lost my knife and fork and the second part of my billy-cans in action, the Germans took a distinct dislike to my eating tools and blew them up, all my meals and drinks came out of one tin and with one spoon.

The redoubtable ‘Spud’ (You may have heard me mention him before) was an artist at finding a nice little pig, he chased them into the most inaccessible place before dispatching it with a 303 rifle bullet. He then brought it back to our harbour area where our cooks hated the sight of him! The very last thing they wanted to do was cook fresh food, all they ever wanted to do was to open tins and dish out biscuits. One short and one tall, they seemed to spend their whole time moaning. Shortly afterwards, we had moved to a new location and ‘Spud’ had given them another pig to butcher and cook.

That night we got back to our harbour area and wearily dug our holes and settled down for some rest. Now all was reasonably quiet, nearby, we heard Germans whispering amongst themselves a short distance away. Too damned tired to do anything about it, we left them alone for the night, (Sort them out in the morning), came morning, they had fled leaving behind a sack full of schnapps.

One brave fellow volunteered to try it, and found it much to his liking. First light we were away, returning that night tired and hungry, we found that the two cooks had been drinking our schnapps all day, passed out, and rolled down a steep slope, about thirty feet down from the cook tent, dead drunk, both of them laying in a stream at the bottom. Out of this world. We got our own food that night. We have heard tales of revenge in the battlefield, I have never seen it, but at times like that. Well, it makes you think!

Before I leave this little episode, let me enlighten you about are rations. First! If you think ours was bad? You should have tried the Germans food, That was bloody awful, especially their tinned herrings, More of that later.

Our food was all tins and biscuits. In the renowned Compo pack was everything to sustain 14 men, for 24 hours, Tins of soup, tins of bacon, bully beef. Never any bread. There was sweets and toilet paper, and cigarettes, Mostly the cooks would get a large pot and fill it with water then chuck the tins in and boil them up. Sometimes they would open the tins of soup and crumble biscuits into the soup and serve that. Fine but after a while we became short of energy.

The sweets we saved, for sometimes we came across French children, and shared the sweets out between them. Then there was the famous cry of “Cigarette for papa” only to find the French kids would sit down and smoke the cigarettes.

Let me describe a typical meal. Biscuits and a piping hot tin of bacon. Firstly, if you held the tin after it was removed from the boiling water you would burn your hands, so you got hold of it with a bit of cloth, then with great care you would pierce the tin to let the steam out, (best with a Commando knife), but! point it away from you, for when it was opened a scalding hot jet of steam, hot water, and scalding fat would fly out, if you caught it, then you would be badly burned. After opening the tin, you would drag out what appeared to be the whole side of a piece of bacon, a slice right down the side. It was wrapped in grease-proof paper and rolled up, One had to unroll the bacon and try not to eat the grease proof paper. That bacon was quite nice, but very dangerous.

There had been a lot of talk about our bread being pinched by the rear echelons, for it never reach us. The first half a pint of beer did not reach those of us at the front, until we were in Holland. Then it was one half a pint of beer, I shall always remember it was “Tennants” a Scots beer and the only drink we ever had. More of that later.

This story is about one third through so far.
Sapper Brian.