I poured from the earthen mug a little of the hot diluted condensed milk over the steaming porridge, and the soldier told me to take all the sugar I wanted as there was plenty. He stood beside me for a while waiting to see if I would make any comment on the porridge. I had never been in the habit of eating any cereal at breakfast, but this morning I was very cold and also very hungry. I tasted the porridge; it was hot, piping hot. It tasted slightly of smoke, but that didn’t matter. “It’s fine,” I said.
“Not smoky?” he asked.
I assured him that if it was a little bit smoky it made no difference. He went out again; but I had not quite finished the porridge before I heard another fumbling at the latch, and in a moment he appeared again with another granite iron plate on which were two rashers of bacon and a large slice of toast; in the other hand was a large mug of hot tea.
“Is this dinner?” I asked.
The lad smilingly told me to eat all I could, that when a man loses sleep the best way to make up for it is by a good meal. He picked up the empty porridge plate and the empty mug, leaving the sugar-bowl, and went out again; but in about three minutes he was back with a jar of compound jam, strawberry and gooseberry.
“Has the cook stopped swearing yet?” I asked.
“Yes,” replied the lad, “I told him you said the porridge was good. He knew it wasn’t, and when he saw your empty plate he smiled. He’ll be all right now for awhile.”
“What is the name of this place?” I asked.
“Carency,” he replied, “in the Souchez Valley. Just across the road, on the other side of the valley, is where the sixty thousand French soldiers and civilians were gassed. Their own turpinide gas that they had sent over against the Germans came back on them. The wind had changed. There are some of the victims in the wood that have never been buried. The valley is called Valley of the Dead.”
He went on to tell me of the great battles that had already been fought in the area where we now were. I learned that we were almost at the base of Vimy Ridge.