We wiped our plates on an old sock or a rag or a piece of newspaper and packed them into our haversacks together with our mugs and rations for the day--a chunk of bread and a dirty piece of cheese. I tied up my boots--the laces were covered with liquid clay--and put on my puttees which were hard and stiff with caked mud. It was a quarter-past five and I lay down at full length, glad to have a few minutes to myself. But the pain in my feet became intolerable--I jumped up and stamped the floor of the tent, grinding my teeth with mortification. Several of the men had not come in yet with their breakfasts. We could tell by the banging of mess-tins, mugs and plates, and by the angry shouts of "Get a move on," that a long queue was still waiting in front of the cook-house. Suddenly the tent-flap bulged inwards and two hands, the one holding a full mug and the other a plate, forced their way through. They were followed by a head and shoulders. Thereupon the man tried to step in, but he tripped over the brailing underneath the flap, and plunged forward, spilling the greater part of his tea. He uttered a savage, snarling oath, walked over to his place and sat down, growling and cursing under his breath. Another man followed. As he pushed his way through the entrance the shoulder-strap of his tunic caught one of the hooks on the flap and his progress was sharply arrested. He held out his mug and plate helplessly, but no one moved to assist him. "Take these bloody things orf me, can't yer!" he shouted with furious resentment. Someone jumped up and took the mug and plate, while the newcomer freed himself from the hook. It was five-and-twenty past five when the last of us came in with his breakfast. But before he could reach his place there was a loud blast of a whistle, and a distant voice shouted, "On Parade!" The irritation that had been accumulating since reveille burst out. "Why can't they let yer finish yer breakfast--'tain't 'alf-past yet, not be a long way!" "They treat yer like pigs!" "We're a bloody lot o' fools ter stand it--that's the worst o' this mob though, yer'll never get 'em ter stick together an' do anythink." "I bet the C.O.'s enjoyin' 'isself...." A stream of filthy language followed--abuse of the Commanding Officer, abuse of the army, abuse of the war, and abuse of the Government. The man could find no other way of expressing himself with adequate force and crudity. At times he became incoherent. He was not grumbling at the little hardships and discomforts of this particular morning. He was grumbling at an entire life of discomfort. He was rebelling against his degrading slavery and enforced misery, and it was the harrowing consciousness of his own impotence that added such bitterness to his anger. Not one of us left the tent. There was a second blast of the whistle, louder and more prolonged than the first, followed by an angrier "On Parade!"