He: "I thought as much. But that bacon was not bacon at all, and therefore ought not to have been bad. We will find a prompt remedy to this sort of things. Write down what I will dictate to you."
I take a sheet of paper and my fountain pen. It's one I found on the body of a dead Turk, but, my word, he might have bought a decent one before getting shot.
This is what the Sergeant dictates:
"To the Editor of the Evening News,
London, E.C.
"Sir,
"The enemy is in our midst, and our brave army is sold to alien scoundrels. Some Germans have secured Government contracts for bacon. But, of course, the Government, which never knows what to do when the Evening News has not told them beforehand, have omitted the principal thing. Is there a single word in these contracts to specify that bacon must be flesh of swine? What Tommy gets under the designation of bacon I don't know, but the German contractors do.
"I am,
"Sir,
"Yours truly...."
"You sign," he adds.
"Your name?" I ask.