Now, to make a good stew is a fine art, for a stew is not merely a
conglomeration of bully and vegetables and water boiled together until
it looks nice. First the potatoes must be cut out to a proper size and
put in; of potatoes there cannot be too many. As for the vegetables, a
superfluity of carrots is a burden, and turnips should be used with a
sparing hand. A full flavour of leek is a great joy. When the vegetables
are nearly boiled, the dixie should be carefully examined by all to see
if it is necessary to add water. If in doubt spare the water, for a rich
thick gravy is much to be desired. Add bully, and get your canteens
ready.

This particular stew made by Orr was epic. At all other good stews it
was recalled and discussed, but never did a stew come up to the stew
that we so scrupulously divided among us on the bright morning of Sept.
12, 1914, at Ferme d'Epitaphe, above Serches.

Later in the day we took over our billet, a large bicycle shed behind
the school in which D.H.Q. were installed. The front of it was open, the
floor was asphalt, the roof dripped, and we shared it with the
Divisional Cyclists. So close were we packed that you could not turn in
your sleep without raising a storm of curses, and if you were called out
of nights you were compelled to walk boldly over prostrate bodies,
trusting to luck that you did not step on the face of a man who woke
suddenly and was bigger than yourself.

On the right of our dwelling was a little shed that was once used as a
guard-room. A man and woman were brought in under suspicion of
espionage. The woman was put in the shed. There she shrieked the night
through, shouted for her husband (he had an ugly-sounding name that we
could not understand), and literally tore her hair. The language of the