shirts in the village oven.

We had been given a cook of our own. He was a youth of dreamy habits and
acquisitive tastes, but sometimes made a good stew. Each one of us
thought he himself was talented beyond the ordinary, so the cook never
wanted assistance--except perhaps in the preparing of breakfast. Food
was good and plentiful, while the monotony of army rations was broken by
supplies from home and from Béthune. George, thank heaven, was still
with us.

Across the bridge was a shop where you could buy anything from a pair of
boots to a kilo of vermicelli. Those of us who were not on duty would
wander in about eleven in the morning, drink multitudinous bowls of
coffee at two sous the bowl, and pass the time of day with some of the
cyclists who were billeted in the big brewery. Just down the road was a
tavern where infernal cognac could be got and occasionally good red
wine.

Even when there was little to do, the station was not dull. French
hussars, dainty men with thin and graceful horses, rode over the bridge
and along the canal every morning. Cuirassiers would clatter and swagger
by--and guns, both French and English. Behind the station much
ammunition was stored, a source of keen pleasure if ever the Germans had
attempted to shell the station. It was well within range. During the
last week His Majesty's armoured train, "Jellicoe," painted in wondrous
colours, would rumble in and on towards La Bassée. The crew were full of
Antwerp tales and late newspapers. The first time the train went into
action it demolished a German battery, but afterwards it had little
luck.