SAW A COOK!

Auckland Star, Volume LXXIII, Issue 172, 23 July 1942, Page 4

SAW A COOK!

TANKS AND TARGETS

A.S.C. AND TOMMY-GUNS

(By E. K. GREEN)

I saw an army cook at work . . . an enthusiastic cook. There was no fragrance of sizzling pork about him, no steaming array of tempting vegetables . . . just the smell of the open countryside and the sweetness of turned earth. He had turned the earth; and where he had turned it was now a

roaring fire. A scientifically arranged fire, with its flames glowing under huge dixies and its smoke drifting up from the sod chimney—none of it besmirching the sides of the dixies or "tasting" their mysterious contents. It was up with the advanced dressing station of the New Zealand Army Tank Brigade Light Field Ambulance. Up, that is, from where the camp headquarters of the unit nestle. And this cook was proud. I've Heard About Cooks I had heard about army cooks. I had heard about fellows up for their "medical" give an empphatic and contemptuous "Not likely" to the question as to whether they would be prepared to train as cooks. I had heard about cooks who spoiled the undoubtedly good food material with which they were supplied; and I don't doubt that there are cooks like that. There are also awkward squads in the infantry and bad drivers in the mechanised units, and just-so-good gunners. It is more than possible that there are bad cooks.

But this cook was proud and when a man is proud of his job the chances are that he is fairly good at it. You work that out on the A plus B theorem.

Members of the Field Ambulance were busy about us. Motor cyclists and ambulances came and went. Soldiers were erecting tents and levelling the grassed flooring of those tents to make a more comfortable lying place for the "wounded" when they were brought in. But the cook was standing back for the moment looking down on his handiwork.

I was interested and I asked him about it . . . about that keyhole shaped camp fire with its built-up sod chimney at the squared end. He answered me with enthusiasm. He had cut out that army pattern fireplace himself, had built the chimney and the fire that now roared into it, and had had water boiling in 35 minutes from the time of arrival at the site.

I don't know if there is a standard time for such efforts or a record, but I think he had reason to be proud. Meet Those Hot Boxes Beside the open fire he had another one, equipped with a hydraburner, fuelled with oil. He was using that, too, but he explained that it was mainly for training his assistants in its use. Personally he preferred the wood fire. It gave a better cooking heat. And then he introduced me to those "hot boxes" ... a good friend to any cook. He had made the soup that was in one of them at 6 a.m. that day and now it was well past eleven. The soup was still too hot to take incautiously. He explained how they were used. Meat, vegetables, porridge—anything needing cooking—had only to be brought to the boil and then placed in these "hot boxes," which are on the thermos principle. Left there for hours they cooked themselves perfectly. No need now, he could say with gratitude, for the cooks to be up well before daybreak in order to get the breakfast porridge out in time. It was prepared overnight, put into the "hot boxes" and in the morning— hey presto!—there was the porridge. No wonder he was proud of those "hot boxes." He patted them almost affectionately. Amid the Cracking Guns I saw tanks, Bren carriers, trucks and cars moving about the roads and countryside . . . about their lawful occasions. Up in a valley among hills I saw the anti-aircraft practice range . . . a patched model of a plane drawn on wires strung between two hills, while a Bren. fired by a soldier in a slit-trench, spattered bullets about it. No time to take careful aim when a dive-bomber comes whizzing down across the hills at you, I was told. You fire from the nip and hope to crack the pilot or a vital part with a burst fired in a split second of time . . . I saw tanks lumbering forward towards the butts, heard the ciack of their two-pounders and saw with amazement how accurate the shooting was; I saw the Besa machineguns on those tanks firing so fast that the odd tracers among them joined in a seemingly endless flash— 800 a minute, somebody said: and I saw long lines of soldiers, handling Brens for the first time, whip up dust clouds behind the far away hillbacked targets.

And, in thought, I saw behind all these things the lines of supply— food, petrol, ammunition. Without them the most highly mechanised army is powerless. Behind Them All A youthful major and an equally youthful captain, both of whom had seen service in Greece and Crete, told me how those lines of supply work. It is a story of bases, and dumps, and trucks and convoys, a story that is similar in war and peace . . . except that war speeds up the demand, extends the distances of carriage, raises problems of loss that cannot be solved by resources to files . . . and converts a dry as dust subject into high drama. There was a time when the A.S.C. was a subject for ridicule. Join it and you kept more or less out of the firing line. If you want trouble to-day—you join the A.S.C. The cables tell you that story. "Our planes were out all day harassing enemy supply lines . So are the enemy planes. There are ambushes awaiting them too. Against them once the A.S.C. was practically helpless. Now, I was told, "the A.S.C. is equipped with bayonets and Tommy guns.* That tells Its own story. But, in spite of all, the A.S.C. Keeps the cooks cooking, the tanks and trucks running, and the guns firing.