Then the men in the queue took up the argument again.
"Yer too slow—yer could'n catch the measles!"
"You come an' do my job an' see 'ow yer like it!"
"Do your job! No bloody fear, why, 'tain't a man's job at all, it's only old women what goes inter the cook-'ouse."
"Go on, get a move on—don't stand there talkin'!"
Another cook appeared. He dipped his ladle into a receptacle behind the till and emptied into the first man's plate. The next man held out his plate, and then the next. The cumbrous serpent moved forward inch by inch while a counter movement began of men straggling back through the slush, holding up tins or plates of steaming stew.
Two candles were burning inside my tent. The men were sitting on their kits. The noisy manner in which they ate was irritating beyond measure.
After the meal I went over to the tent of a friend. He was sitting by a flickering candle in moody silence. I asked him to come with me to the village. He put on his great-coat and we walked along the duckboards on to the road. It was intensely dark and we were conscious of the silent fall of snow.
"What sort of a day did you have?" I asked.
"Undiluted misery. We marched to the quarry and when we got there we found there was nothing to do, because the train hadn't turned up. So we waited in the wind and snow, just walking up and down, stamping with our feet and trying to get warm. Lieutenant Rowlatt was in charge of us. He wouldn't let us leave the quarry or go into an estaminet. And he only gave us half an hour for dinner. Of course he spent most of the time in an estaminet himself, eating eggs and chips and flirting with the girl ... I couldn't keep warm and there was no shelter anywhere. It was like doing an eight-hour guard."