...of a class

Roll-call is over. Having been in bed before 5 a.m., there is no going back till 9. We crowd around the fire. It is my day to do cook's room. There are many fatigues I detest, but cleaning cook's room gets my back up more than anything. Why should I clean it? Why cannot she clean her own as we all do? She has about quarter the work we have. She is a fat, common, lazy, impertinent slut who leaves little dusty rings of hair littered about for us to collect. She fills the chamber to overflowing with dirty slops, bits of torn letters, and any other rubbish she can find. Her room reeks of stale sweat, for she sleeps with the window hermetically sealed. It astounds me why the powers-that-be at the London headquarters stipulate that refined women of decent education are essential for this ambulance work. Why should they want this class to do the work of strong navvies on the cars, in addition to the work of scullery maids under conditions no professional scullery-maid would tolerate for a day? Possibly this because this is the only class that suffers in silence, that scorns to carry tales. We are such cowards. We dare not face being called "cowards" and "slackers," which we certainly shall be if we complain. What did we think we came out to France for?...A holiday? Don't we realise there's a war on?... So we say nothing. Poor fools, we deserve all we get.

[Not So Quiet..., Smith, H. Z.]