Characters: Nick, unnamed medic, unnamed colonel
Summary: Nick misses home cooked food.
Notes: Canon. This or something similar may appear in a future chapter, so can be considered a spoiler.
Word Count: 285
“I swear, when I get home, I’m never want to eat something out of a can again,” Nick moaned, scraping the last of the pork and beans from his C ration from the offending container.
“At least they sent us something other than that horrible hash concoction,” one of the other medics at the aid station commented.
“Amen to that,” Nick agreed. “So far, everything’s been somewhat palatable.”
His comrade scoffed. “I’d give a week’s pay for a slice of fresh baked bread to sop this slop up with.”
Nick’s mouth began to water as he remembered the aroma that came from the farmhouse kitchen on baking day. “I can’t remember the last time I had something fresh like that.”
“Me either. So, Bradford, what would you give a week’s pay to taste?”
Nick thought for a moment. “My mom’s meatloaf, with a helping of mashed potatoes and gravy.”
The other medic groaned in approval of Nick’s choice.
“What are you boys talking about?” their colonel asked.
“Food back home, sir,” Nick replied.
“Can I give you boys some advice? Thinking about what you’re missing doesn’t make what we have go down any easier. Be thankful we’ve been getting our rations on a timely basis; there were plenty of times in the Great War when I wasn’t so lucky.”
“I know it’s not great, but it’s food.”
Nick nodded. “Though I can’t help but think, sir, that the best way to win the war as fast as possible would be to dump a load of C rations on the Simmans instead of bombs.”
The colonel let out a booming laugh. “That might not be such a bad idea, son. I’ll pass it along.”