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[Page 16]
been looking for dugouts in the afternoon: so we went without them. Up to the dump at "Anzac House" st. Field dressing station. This place was half way between West Hoek ridge & Pashendale about half a mile each way.
So on and up, threading our way in single file along the duck board track, along which the whizzy-bangs whistled. Sometimes when they got close we got the "wind-up" & left the boards, taking to "the prone" in the mud. Sometimes a man slipped into a shell hole & got bogged with his load. Then we would stop, drop the rations & pull him out. "Sen Ferre en" [?] as the french used to say "C'est la Guerre" ('tis the war)
Catch as Catch can or Any Port in a Storm.
When we had delivered our bags of rations & rum jars and urns of tea and stew in the line and scuttled back at the "tuite" to Anzac [indecipherable] ration dump, somehow or other no bag of rations for the party was obtainable from the tipsy N.C.O. at the camp. To make matters worse, [Indecipherable] started his "evening hate". One man grabbed the first bag he could get half of; another smothered a jar of rum into a spare water-proof sheet.
When we arrived at our dugouts it was disvovered that the neglected fatigue party had scored a "win". The bag contained tea, sugar, bacon, pickles, bread, jam,