(Trench Stew)

Usually hunting partridge or grouse is the pleasure only of those who remain at home; but one day, while sitting in a dugout, I enjoyed a wonderful meal.

Our dugout was in a communication trench some five hundred yards from the front line, and probably six hundred from the German. The dugout was one of those steel-roofed affairs, the roof forming a graceful semicircle of one-eighth-inch metal, covered with sand a foot thick, carelessly shoveled on. My orderlies were Corporal Roy, a Canadian boy of twenty; Private Jock whose well-developed sense of dry Scotch humor showed itself by his irritating the men about him by any method of teasing which came easiest, but whose personal good nature and loyal love of doing his duty, be it the most arduous and dangerous, made everyone forgive him any of his annoying tricks; and my batman, Private John, a decent, clean and brave Canadian boy who, by the way, was one of the best men I ever had to look after my comforts, or lessen my discomforts, whichever way you choose to put it.

This fine, cool winter day we had been standing at the door of our dugout peeping over a comparatively safe bit of parapet, watching some of our sixty-pound trench mortars hurtle through the air and burst in the German lines. At last, tiring of the performance, I went inside and sat down to read one of Jeffrey Farnol\'s latest books. A few minutes later Roy came hurrying in, grabbed his rifle, and went racing out again. Wondering what was the cause of this strange behavior, and hearing a shot, I went out.

Turning into the main communication trench, I was just in time to see Corporal Roy climbing b............