"Where's the Orderly Cor'pril of No. 5 Platoon?"
"Comin', Cooler Sawgint!"
Then another voice raised in pained expostulation—
"'Ere, look at 'im—a hackin' up the bacon. Who d'ju think's comin' after you?"
"Go and see why there ain't no rum, Watkins!"
"There ain't 'arf enough sugar for all them!"
"'And over my firewood, will ye, or I'll ...!"
And so on, and so forth. It was the tune to which they finally awoke every morning.
When it was impossible to maintain the pretence of being asleep any longer, they would get up and shake themselves. They had passed the stage of wanting to take clothes off. Their uprising in the morning was as easy and simple as a dog's. Then, aided, perhaps, by one of their servants, they would set about getting their breakfast ready in the front room. The Subaltern discovered what a tremendous amount of trouble is entailed in the preparation of even the simplest meals. Tables to be moved, kettles to be filled, bread cut, jam and bully beef tins opened! But each would have his own particular job, and they would soon be seated round the dirty table, drinking their tea out of cups, or their own mugs, and munching biscuits or bread.
Now that they were getting their rations each night with the regularity of clockwork, they were beginning to appreciate properly the excellence of their fare. "Seeing," as the Senior Subaltern would say, "that we are on Active Service, I think the rations is an extraordinarily well managed show."