ARMY FOOD

Auckland Star, Volume LXXIII, Issue 106, 7 May 1942, Page 6

ARMY FOOD

"DONT BEND ME!"

A TASTY TALE OF WOE

(By THE CHIEF REPORTER.)

(No. V.)

I had morning tea with Hill Billies —strapping fellows of the Independent Mounted Rifles.

I had lunch with a company of Maori Home Guard mobilised for work.

I had dinner with a Field Ambu lance.

Tea with Guards Vital Points— cheerful old Diggers of 1914-15. And I dined at Brigade headquarters.

Now, I know my manners. It is gross bad form to write or talk about a mess in which, as a civilian, one has been an honoured guest, sitting on the mess president's right hand. But, for purposes of this series of articles, describing my big Govern-ment-sanctioned tour of the Northern Military District, I must crave a dispensation, ask pardon for mentioning things which, ordinarily, would be "off the record."

Good And Wholesome First, for the edification of distressed and doubtful mothers and wives, worrying about the welfare of little Willie or the ever-affectionate husband, who has disappeared "into the buhai" on army service, it must be restated here that army fare is good, wholesome and plentiful. There is more than enough food. The men can't get through the full and generous issue. Under-drawing of rations is a marked feature of every A.S.C. return. . . But more anon.

Second, the officers live on the same food as the men—and are proud of it. Even at brigade headquarters they boasted that the kitchen of brigade house was supplied only with army issue food.

The only places on the tour where I heard people asking for more butter was in the hotels, where the butter was put out in precious small pats. Of course, a refill was always forthcoming in the hotels . . . but, in the army messes, there wasn't even the need to ask.

Honey. . . my suburban grocer told me that the army had it all—or nearly all. I can well believe it. In the army messes they pushed honey in my direction every time I sat down to a meal or a snack. The best of New Zealand honey.

Four "Veges."

A great pile of crisply-roasted pork . . . four vegetables. After a day chasing up and down hillsides I couldn't polish it off when it was set before me in a battalion officer's mess. Fifteen minutes earlier I had seen the men being issued with exactly similar food.

Then an orderly brought me a plate of stewed apricots and rice pudding. Ten minutes before I had seen the privates receiving their generous helpings of this tasty aftercourse, plus prunes. Fat, healthy-looking

prunes. The pruney smell of those ladlings from the cook house windows, as the men filed past, had made my mouth water.

In the officers' mess I was pressed to take more liberal helpings of rich, fresh cream, when I had too much already. "Ah, yes," you are saying, "that's in the officers' mess. We are not impressed."

But, hold hard. Ten minutes or so before I had seen the prunes and apricots of the privates disappear under such a cascade of cream (bought from canteen profits) as I would blush to pour over my civilian sweets in well-behaved company.

Here, Taste This!

Now, taking a frightened peek into my notebooks, compiled in the course of the district tour, I realise to my horror that I have yards yet to write about army food if I am going to do justice to the job. The army saw to that. They had to persuade me, badger me, almost force me into cookhouses after the second day on the road. "I don't want to see any more kitchens!" I would scream. "Please, please—spare me!"

But the "Q"-major—supply, to you —was remorseless. The Army Service Corps major was adamant. Into the cookhouse. Poke abcut. Taste this. Sniff that. Open the hotboxes. Admire the veges. Examine the cookers. Chat with the cooks. Inspect the hot water.

Cookhouses tidy, swept, garnished. Between meals. Chief cook doing mysterious things with meat and veges.

Cookhouses in orderly disorder, hot-boxes empty, pots almost ditto. Hot-boxes being scrubbed. Just after meals.

Don't tell me that I know nothing of army food!

"Here! Eat this meat pie. Cook has just made it!"

"What do you think of this jam sandwich—nice cake, eh?"

"Have a slice of pork!" "Take a spoonful of porridge!"

"Come and see our butcher's shop!"

"Have another bit of cheese with your bread and butter! Army cheese is the best in New Zealand!"

"Do taste this stew!"

Ugh! Please, Major Coutts—please. Major Swan! Have a heart! Not too cruel a revenge for those letters about army food! The editor, I'm sure, won't publish any more! If he does, bring him round and do this to him! Fill him up on army food! Lock him in a cookhouse! Truss him in your beloved fly-proof butcher's shops! Hang him in 'the meat safes!

"No, sir, I definitely cannot eat that pie—don't bend me!"