I made out

four of the squadron's trucks among a fleet of BV lightweight tracked vehicles - the kind that can go across the ice cap if you need to. The first contained bivvy bags and groundsheets, as listed. I counted the bundles as best I could in the semi-dark. The canvas flap at the back of the second truck was partly unsecured, and I squirmed underneath to take a dekko inside. Jesus, I thought disgustedly as I played the torch around. The neat packs of arctic clothing and spare sleeping bags had been hollowed out in the middle to make a hiding place, and some pisser was kipping down in there. I pulled the canvas back for a better look. Whoever it was had dug out a sleeping bag and there was a torch ready to hand, an army-issue water bottle and the remains of a meal from a ration pack. Fucking crabs, I thought, they get better fed than we do, and still they nick our grub.