By Paul Baldry

Some called you useless,
Most called you names.
Few could light you first time,
Yet every exercise
Started exactly the same.

The chef would trudge
A hundred feet from camp—
Orders, they said…
In case you decided
To set Britain ablaze.

Rain lashed sideways.
Snow froze fingers.
The wind laughed.
The matches sulked.
The petrol stank.
And somewhere,
A young chef whispered
Every word the Padre
Never preached.

Pump.
Prime.
Pump again.
A splash too much…
A fireball worthy
Of a Royal Artillery salute.

“Stand back!”

Five minutes later—
Nothing.

Another pump.

Another curse.

Then suddenly…

WHOOMPH!

There you were.

Not burning…
Roaring.

Not a stove,
But a hurricane
Trapped inside a steel box.

One Burner?
Loud enough.

Five together?

The RAF wondered
Who’d stolen their runway.

No soldier needed
An alarm clock.

At five each morning,
Across Salisbury Plain,
Germany,
Belize,
Norway,
Or wherever the Army
Had chosen to inconvenience itself…

The No.1 Burner
Declared war
On silence.

By six,
The magic began.

Compo sausages
Sizzled proudly.

Tinned bacon
Pretended
To be real bacon.

Beans bubbled.

Fried bread
Ignored every medical warning
Known to mankind.

Tea brewed so strong
You could stand a spoon in it.

Coffee so black
It could camouflage itself.

And if fortune smiled—

A fried egg.

Fresh?

Well…

Fresh enough
To keep the conversation short.

The smell drifted
Across the harbour area.

Across the training area.

Across the enemy’s position.

If Ivan had caught
That aroma,
He’d have surrendered
For a bacon banjo.

Then came
The daily miracle.

A queue of cold,
Grumpy soldiers
Somehow transformed
Into smiling human beings
The moment breakfast
Hit the mess tin.

And let’s not forget
Those chosen few…

The RSM.

The RQMS.

The odd Rodney
Who somehow acquired
A bucket of hot water
For washing and shaving.

The rest of us?

A damp flannel…
And optimism.

Looking back now,
You were awkward.

Cantankerous.

Dangerous.

Deafening.

You drank petrol
Like it was free.

You frightened recruits,
Singed eyebrows,
And occasionally
Cooked the chef.

Yet every veteran
Knows the truth.

That dreadful roar
Meant another day survived.

Another breakfast shared.

Another brew with mates.

Another memory made.

Funny, isn’t it?

We never loved you
At the time.

But all these years later…

I’d give anything
To hear that old No.1 Burner
Roar into life
Just one more dawn.

The No.1 Burner was never just a piece of Army equipment to me—it was the heartbeat of every field kitchen. I actually loved cooking on the range it heated. Controlling the temperature was a skill in itself; too much heat and breakfast was ruined, too little and hungry soldiers waited. It was noisy, temperamental and often infuriating, yet somehow became one of my favourite memories from life in the Army Catering Corps. This poem is my tribute to that roaring old workhorse.

#ArmyCateringCorps, #No1Burner, #FieldKitchen, #MilitaryCooking, #VeteranLife, #PaulBaldry