Every day provided a fresh experiment. A rumour would fly round the camp that there was a new sort of tinned paste to be had, “I saw a fellow coming out with a biggish-looking tin,” some one would say. “I don’t know what was in it. But it was too big for boot polish.”
There would follow a general rush, and a queue thirty deep would prolong itself outside the door. The mixture would turn out to be a green paste purported to be made from snails and liver. For a day or two the unfortunates who had bought it spread it over their bread, and tried to make themselves believe they liked it. The only purpose it really served was to make the bread look thicker than it was.
Then another tin would appear; there would be another rumour, another rush to the door, another disillusionment. There was a crab paste, a vegetable paste, a nondescript brown paste; all in turn went their way, and yielded to the soft intrigue of Dried Veg.
Dried Veg presented itself very innocuously in a paper bag covered with directions in German. It looked dry and unappetising. None of us knew how it should be treated,
but the consensus of opinion decided that half an hour’s boiling was all that was needed; and so adhering to the popular idea, we emptied the packet into a saucepan full of water, boiled it for half an hour, and ate it. It was really not so bad.
Within half an hour, however, we knew that something was wrong. All of us began to move uncomfortably. Pain spread itself across our stomachs: and then too late appeared one who could translate the instructions on the wrapper. The contents should have been left to stand in water for at least twenty-four hours, by which time it would have absorbed all the moisture demanded by its composition. We had given it only half an hour’s boiling. It took its revenge by swelling silently within us.
It was a terrible night.