Post by kessel on Mar 15, 2009 8:33:25 GMT
So, a new place, again. Why was he never allowed to stay where he wanted? Every time he was forced into moving through painful means, which he did not enjoy. But he was probably the best the British Army had, and so it was obvious he would be in high demand. It didn’t make Kessel feel any better though; it was his life they were ripping apart at the seams.
He tucked into his rasher of greasy bacon, a weekend treat when he needed to keep himself fit. He didn’t want to develop the pot belly which most officers now had, that would make him weaker and provide the enemy with a self inflicted advantage. Only idiots would allow such a thing to happen. But looking around the mess hall, he wondered just how many he was sitting close to. It made him feel sick, as if watching pigs at the tough stuffing their faces with all manner of crap.
Kessel finished his bacon none the less. In war time you could not afford to waste good food. So what about this stuff? He should really stop caring. Ten years ago a meal like this would have been a banquet, and now he was moaning because it was a little too greasy. It was food, it filled a hole and kept you going. It may do damage to you, but a quick run around the track would burn it off later today. Then at least it gave him some incentive to it.
Kessel picked up his grease slathered plate and cutlery off the wooden table and made his way towards the washing cart. He dumped his plates in the filthy water and received a nasty look from an overweight cook standing by it, as if Kessel was imposing some great burden upon him. He supposed it was that attitude which made him a cook and not a soldier fight for Queen and Country.
The Captain moved outside the cook house, replacing his crimson headwear. It was early morning now, and the sun was slowly beginning to rise. He stood on the balcony outside the door, admiring the pink tint in the clouds, and the dark blue sky behind them. This was the nicest part of the day for sure. He just wished his stomach felt better than it did. Should he skip lunch? Maybe, it felt as if a rock had been surgically implanted into him. Maybe fry-ups were passed him a bit.
He tucked into his rasher of greasy bacon, a weekend treat when he needed to keep himself fit. He didn’t want to develop the pot belly which most officers now had, that would make him weaker and provide the enemy with a self inflicted advantage. Only idiots would allow such a thing to happen. But looking around the mess hall, he wondered just how many he was sitting close to. It made him feel sick, as if watching pigs at the tough stuffing their faces with all manner of crap.
Kessel finished his bacon none the less. In war time you could not afford to waste good food. So what about this stuff? He should really stop caring. Ten years ago a meal like this would have been a banquet, and now he was moaning because it was a little too greasy. It was food, it filled a hole and kept you going. It may do damage to you, but a quick run around the track would burn it off later today. Then at least it gave him some incentive to it.
Kessel picked up his grease slathered plate and cutlery off the wooden table and made his way towards the washing cart. He dumped his plates in the filthy water and received a nasty look from an overweight cook standing by it, as if Kessel was imposing some great burden upon him. He supposed it was that attitude which made him a cook and not a soldier fight for Queen and Country.
The Captain moved outside the cook house, replacing his crimson headwear. It was early morning now, and the sun was slowly beginning to rise. He stood on the balcony outside the door, admiring the pink tint in the clouds, and the dark blue sky behind them. This was the nicest part of the day for sure. He just wished his stomach felt better than it did. Should he skip lunch? Maybe, it felt as if a rock had been surgically implanted into him. Maybe fry-ups were passed him a bit.
