(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 back over the parapet with a plump, dead partridge in his hand. only those of you who have been living for some months on army rations can appreciate the glorious anticipations which a fat, plump partridge can conjure up in one's imagination. his rifle was leaning against the parados, and roy explained to us that he had seen two partridges, but had only succeeded in getting one. his impatience getting the better of his judgment, he did not wait till dark to go out and get his prize, but went over the parapet in plain view of german snipers only six hundred yards away, and brought in his bag of game.

the partridge was cleaned by john and jock and with the addition of a little mutton and carrots from last night's rations, i made a stew of it. all agreed—perhaps my boys didn't dare to disagree—that it was delicious.

this is the recipe for rago?t à la mode de guerre: shoot a partridge over the parapet on a bright day; take your life in your hands to go out and get the victim; clean it—but not too clean; mix with it a little mutton and carrots; stew it in a canteen or dixie over a charcoal brazier, with plenty of the penetrating charcoal fumes entering your lungs; and perform all these rites in a dugout with enemy shells popping about in the neighborhood. if you have carefully carried out all these directions, then, being sufficiently hungry, add a goodly portion of that most savory of sauces—appetite—to the dish. i promise you that, though your tastes are blasé to the last degree, you will admit that rago?t à la mode de guerre makes a meal fit for the discriminating palate of a king.