He was a sergeant whose aspect could be very daunting.  I never had to come before him on the subject of a dirty dinner-tin.  But he and I had some small passages concerning “specials” (separate diets ordered for patients requiring delicacies).  Sometimes the necessary forms for the specials had been incorrectly made out by a Sister with no head for army accuracy in minor clerical details.  Thereafter it was my unlucky place to see the sergeant, and put the matter straight with him.  I have survived those encounters.  I have survived them with an enhanced respect for the sergeant and the organisation of his large and by no means simple department.  There were moments, nevertheless, when I approached his presence with a sinking heart.  For if I failed to “get round” him in the matter of coaxing another special for a patient, there was Sister to placate on my return to the ward; and it was quite impossible to persuade Sister that she could have made a mistake with her diet sheets, or, if she had, that it was of any consequence.

The dinner-tin was somewhat larger than the sink in which I was supposed to wash it.  It was also very heavy.  When full of food, and its false bottom charged with hot water, I could only just lift it, and my progress down the ward, carrying it from the trolley in the corridor to the ward-kitchen, was a perilous and perspiring shuffle.  As soon as all the patients had been served I placed any left-over slices of meat in the larder:  these would be eaten at tea.  Then I drained out the hot water from the false bottom.  Then (but only after experience had given me wisdom) I ran hot water from the geyser tap into the now empty meat, vegetable and duff compartments, and gave them a hurried swill:  this to rid them of the pestilent dregs of fatty material which would otherwise have dried and glued themselves to the floor of the tin.  The latter had now to be put on one side, for I must be back in the ward attending to my diners.  Only when they had finished their meal, and their bed-tables had been removed, folded up and placed neatly behind each bed, could I tackle the tin in earnest.

I abhor dabbling in grease; but life is full of abhorrent dilemmas which must be endured; and the interior of that dinner-tin somehow got itself cleaned, every day, in the long run.  During the early part of any given week I was almost happy over the job.  For Monday was “Dry Store” day.  On Monday, and on Monday only—­and you were helpless for the remainder of the week if you forgot the rule—­you could obtain, on presentation of a chit, blacklead for the stoves, metal-polish for the brass, rags for cleaning the floor, floor-polish, one box of matches, bath-brick, soft soap, and—­soda.  It is an extraordinary chemical, soda.  Before I became a ward orderly I had no idea of the remarkable properties of soda.  A handful of soda in boiling water, and behold the grease dissolve meekly from the nastiest dinner-tin!  It was miraculous.