I was a French soldier in the trenches at World War I. At the first Battle of Ypres, my best friend was blown up by a mortershell and bits of his skin splattered all over my face and my hands and the bombed out landscape around us. I was left shellshocked, but PTSD hadn't been diagnosed at the time. After being discharged from hospital, I was likely to be sent back to the trenches on the front line. This I could not do. So I lied about having been a great chef at a Parisian restaurant and bluffed my way into the Catering Corps. Anyway, as luck would have it the French Chiefs of Staff were making a tour of inspection that very night and my commanding officer told me I would have to prepare them a great feast that evening. So I went to the food supplies. The only fresh produce in stock were string beans. I complained to my commanding officer. He said a great chef such as myself should easily be able to whip something up based on the meager ingredients there. And if I failed at my task, I would be sent back to the front lines where I would surely die. So I put the string beans in a saucepan, covered them with water and put the pot over a Bunsen burner to boil. Unfortunately, the flame was too weak to boil the water, so the string beans were hard and wouldn't cook. Meanwhile I raided the cupboards and found tins of some kind of food mush I thought I might be able to use. I asked the orderly. He said that food was usually given to the scout dogs, who guarded our lines at night against enemy encroachment. Fuck it, I thought. Why not? I poured the mush into the saucepan, added some chopped garlic I found and stirred. Unfortunately, the flame was still just wasn't hot enough and the string beans remained rock hard. The orderly came in and shouted through from the dining area. "The chiefs-of-staff are seated and waiting to be fed," he cried. "Is the food ready?" "It's no good," I replied. "Pet food doesn't melt string beans!"