No Goose To Cook
©Dudley C. Pye AM JP
[cont.]
Once inside the kitchen the giant blowtorch that was the heat source was coaxed into life and water was placed on to heat. It was then time to make a final round of the position to insure all was well. All was well. Who ever thought that a snow covered landscape could be so dark? Those were his thoughts as he slipped on the ammo box stairway leading to the kitchen. His sentry duties over, his cooking duties began.
It was warmer in the canvas cavern called the kitchen and as he dropped some tea leaves into the Dixie of boiling water the first of the Diggers arrived in his early morning brew foray. How come they are not here in the summer? Time then to call Fred on his Heath Robinson intercom system. He liked an early brew. A few minutes later Fred arrived with two bottles in a sandbag. Any clinking muffled by the straw sleeves common at that time.
"What's in the bag, Fred?" one digger asked.
"Your Christmas dinner, son!" said Fred, blowing the steam from his brew.
"Jesus! You can bullshit you silly old bugger."
Fred gave the Digger a look of resignation and felt no need to reply. Turning to the cook, Fred leant close to his ear and whispered: "I'm off to the Septics now and I'll be back in time for lunch, hopefully with a surprise."
"Fanks, mate!"
The cook then turned to the slurping group and asked them to bugger off so he could get their breakfast ready and was asked: "What garbage are we getting today, same as always?"
"Yep! Tinned snags, tinned bacon, tinned tomatoes and scrambled powdered egg. Don't you blokes be late because I have to try and get your Christmas dinner sorted out! Bye the way, you had better file past the stove for breakfast or your tucker will be frozen before you sit down."
There were murmurings of thanks as they headed to their hootchies to fill in time until breakfast. Thank Christ they've gone thought the cook as he lined up the tins needed for the next two meals. For breakfast he would need to wear gloves to handle the tins or they would stick to his hands. They were woollen gloves and he had a box of twelve pairs issued only the day before.
There were sixty two Diggers to feed and brekky would require ten tins of bacon, ten tins of sausages, ten tins of tomatoes plus Carnation for the burgoo and brews. Lunch would require ten tins of spuds the same of carrots and six tins of peas. Thirty one chickens needed to be roasted and something needed to be done with the frozen celery. Dessert would be tinned fruit pudding [Pusan Pudd] served with powdered milk chunky custard flavoured with a dash of issue rum.
There being no normal can opener the cook used whatever means available. For the large tins the heel of the 12inch cook's knife did the trick. For the smaller ones he used the 2inch "combat" can opener issued with ration packs. He had plenty of time so he dawdled at his tasks until the Diggers came gnawing at the tent ropes. He took a quick drag on a cigarette then opened the flaps and took up his position on an ammo box by the stove.
Few comments during breakfast except for the odd Merry Christmas Cookie and comments like: "Make sure the beer's cold mate!"
"I've got it stored in the kitchen to keep it from getting frozen, you bloody dill!"
"That's bloody good, we've only got one bottle so you keep your eye on it, eh!" Those parting words between mouthfuls of the usual.
The cook now sat down for his own meal that consisted of two cigarettes and a mug of strong coffee from the Dixie permanently on the stove. The tent was bare of Christmas decorations save for the odd bit of tinsel sent by loving relatives to the Diggers. The cook's background did not lend itself to such frivolity and he saw little need for the fuss.
"Ok lad! Get off your arse and get the chooks in the oven," he mumbled to himself.
Once the chooks were on the go, the vegetables in trays and the pudding prepared it was time to sit down and wait for the final processes to take shape. He took his ammo box outside, found a spot of pristine snow cover, lit a smoke and hoped to hell that Christmas dinner would be a happy time for the Diggers and that his features would remain their normal shape. In these circumstances you can neither run nor hide.
His concentration was broken by the sound of Fred's jeep pulling up below the kitchen. Fred got out and looked at the cook, winked and beckoned him to come. Down the ammo box stairs sped the cook knowing by Fred's smiling face that good tidings awaited.
"Have a little lookie my little cookie!" said Fred as he uncovered his loaded jeep. In three boxes was a vision that brought tears to the eyes of the cook. Two hams and a bloody huge cooked turkey.
"Fred, you old bastard! How did you manage this?"
"Them bloody Yanks will give you anything for good Aussie rum, not only did I liberate these three morsels I managed to obtain about five pounds of boiled lollies. So, let's get this stuff into the kitchen and I'll give you a hand to set up the dinner."
The turkey was still warm so onto the stovetop it went then off with the skin of the hams. The cook smeared the hams with ready mixed mustard and decorated them with strips of tinned carrot saying Merry Xmas. Between the cook and old Fred everything was ready on time and the cook now believed his goose would no longer be cooked.
Twelve o'clock arrived, the beer was on the tables, piles of boiled lollies sat like piled jewels and decorated hams, turkey and roast chickens were laid out ready to be attacked.
"Well done, Chef! Where did this bloody lot come from? You bloody beauty!" This from the cynical Signalman.
The cook turned to Fred to allocate the kudos but Fred shook his head vigourously and gestured for silence. Servers were called and there was no shortage. The meal was served in record time and the cook took his bottle of beer and his blue enamel mug and joined the Diggers. He was about to remove the cap when his arm was held back by one of the diggers.
"Cookie, you have put in a lot of effort today and we are not about to ask how it occurred. So, you will not open your bottle until ours have been drained."
With that the digger poured some of his beer into the cook's mug and he was followed by others. During the meal the cook's mug was never empty.
As is always the case all good things must come to an end. The evening meal must be put together so the cook made his exit, mindful of the accolades being bestowed. He thought he was being given far more credit than he deserved.
"Fred, come into the kitchen, mate!" Fred followed and the cook, now tired and emotional, pleaded with Fred to accept some of the credit.
"Pig's arse I will! You would have done it if you had the stuff. All I did was give you a hand. Now, I'll give you a hand with tonight's tucker. I don't think you will get many after the lunch they scoffed."
He was right. Only a few turned up for bits and pieces and a tot of rum from under the cook's bed.
Both the cook and Fred slept the sleep of the contented until it was time for the cook to start again. Fred waved a sleepy farewell and nestled back into his sleeping bag only to be startled by a shouting cook.
"Fred! Come to the kitchen quick."
On the side of the kitchen was a sign saying WELL DONE.
All Fred could say was, "Christ, it's bloody cold!"