From the supporting trenches another communicating line led to the reserve trenches. These trenches were the last word in cunning, comfort, and luxury. They were literally dug-outs or caves, where officers and men improvised everything, from biscuit tins to toilet paper, in the making of underground homes to while away the weary days. Bridge and nap was played—not for money, but full tins of jam, which a beneficent commissariat showers upon all British soldiers to keep off scurvy and other Whitechapel diseases. Nights were made merry by liberal issues of rum, and hope was inspired by the regular arrival of love epistles through the F.P.O. Replies to these communications had to be vague and somewhat guarded, for the colonel censored all officers’ letters, while the officers acted similarly with the correspondence of the rank and file. Parcels of tucker cheered the somewhat plain fare, and bundles of New Testaments from anxious maiden ladies taught many that their former deeds would eventually make them stokers down under. When things became too monotonous, the German artillery plunked a few Jack Johnsons over. This employed all hands on burial services and writing letters of sympathy to the widows and orphans. The most wonderful person in this system was the transport officer, Lieutenant Grain. He had an army of enlisted ostlers, carters, and jockeys to bring up the rations from the rear. This had to be done over quagmires and along serpent-like roads which were packed with Hammersmith omnibuses, field guns, motor-cars, and hare-brained motor cyclists. Worse, his job had to be done at night. It was enough to try the will and nerves of Hannibal. But Grain did it every time. It was his boast that the regiment had fresh bread, fresh meat, cigarettes and tobacco every night—a great accomplishment. Fancy delivering cans of hot tea and dixeys of good stew to the front trenches at midnight! This had never been done in any previous campaign. No wonder some men wrote home saying that they were "still well, but overfed."