It was cold and miserable but we, somehow, had scored a home near the end of the supply road, only a stone’s throw from enemy trenches. It was an old station house with enough holes from the barrages to qualify for see-through status. But we had found a basement room that was intact and with the greatest surprise of them all: a heavy iron stove.

Fratter had quickly cooked a meal. Corned beef with potatoes, all boiled together with slabs of lard. Wilson had made a dash to Logistics, five miles to the rear, and brought back bread and one case of cheese. I don’t know how, but Ferguson had come up with three bottles of red wine. And we all had the rum we had liberated from the dead Germans in the gun emplacement over the hill.

The stove was getting red hot.. There was plenty of wood from the destruction of war… We all had our blankets and heavy overcoats.. After dinner, we smoked and made our beds. The wine was gone and the rum tasted perfect.

“Three cheers for corned beef,” Jones called…

The good war…