25 Foods American Soldiers ACTUALLY Ate During WW1

My great-grandfather kept a small tin box under his bed. Inside were things from the war, a medal, a photograph, and a can opener. I asked him once why he kept a can opener in that box. With the important things, the things that mattered. He looked at me. Didn't say anything for a minute. Then he said, Because that's what kept me alive. See, when you think about World War I, you think about trenches, You don't think about food. But the soldiers did. They thought about it every day. Every single day. Because when you're cold and wet and scared, food isn't just food anymore. It's hope. It's home. It's the thing that reminds you you're still human. Today, we're opening those ration boxes. We're looking at 25 foods that American soldiers actually ate during World War I. Some of them kept them alive. Some of them kept them sane. And all of them tell a story about what it was really like over there. Let's start with the one every soldier knew. One. Canned corned beef. Every American soldier in WWI knew this can. Small. Metal. Heavy in your hand. Canned corned beef. They called it bully beef. Sometimes they just called it the can. You'd pry it open with your can opener. The one you kept on a string around your neck. The one you never lost. Inside was pink meat. Salty. Greasy. Cold. You could eat it straight from the can. Most guys did. Standing in a trench. In the rain. In the dark. It wasn't good. Let's be honest about that. But it was protein. It was calories. And it didn't go bad. You could carry these cans in your pack for weeks. Months even. And when you finally opened one, it was still good. Still safe to eat. That mattered. When everything else was falling apart. When everything else was chaos. You could count on that can. The meat came out in one solid chunk. You'd slice it with your knife. Share it with the guy next to you. And even though it tasted like salt and metal. Even though the grease made your stomach turn. You ate it. Because that can meant you'd make it through another day. Too. Hard bread. Hard tack. Hard bread. Soldiers had a lot of names for it. Most of them weren't nice. It was a thick cracker. Square. Plain. Hard as a rock. You couldn't just bite into it. You'd break your teeth. Guys tried. They learned fast. You had to soak it first. In water. In coffee. In whatever liquid you had. Wait for it to soften. Then you could eat it. It tasted like nothing. Like flour and air. But it lasted forever. Hard tack from the Civil War was still good 50 years later. That's how long this stuff lasted. In the trenches you'd get a few pieces with your rations. You'd stuff them in your pack. And when you were hungry. Really hungry. You'd pull one out. Soak it. Eat it slow. Because hard tack filled you up. Made your stomach feel less empty. Even if it made your jaw sore from chewing. Sometimes you'd find weevils in it. Little bugs that had burrowed inside. Most guys just ate around them. Or ate them too if they were hungry enough. You'd tap the hard tack against your knee. Knock the bugs out if you could. Then soak it and eat it anyway. Because wasting food wasn't an option. 3. Canned Salmon Now this one. This one was different. Canned salmon. Pink. Flaky. Packed in oil. When you got salmon in your rations you felt lucky. You felt like somebody was looking out for you. Because salmon tasted like something. Like real food. Like the kind of thing you'd eat back home. You'd open the can carefully. Try not to spill the oil. That oil was valuable. Some guys would drink it. Straight. For the calories. For the fat. Others would use it to fry their hard tack. Make it crispy. Make it taste better. The salmon itself? You'd eat it cold. With your fingers. Right out of the can. It reminded you of fishing. Of rivers. Of days when the world made sense. And in a trench in France. Covered in mud. That memory was worth everything. You could make salmon last if you wanted to. Eat half. Save the rest for later. Some guys would trade their salmon for extra cigarettes. For chocolate. But most kept it. Because salmon was special. It was the one ration that didn't feel like punishment. That felt like someone back home actually cared what you were eating. Four. Canned sardines. Sardines came in smaller cans. Flat. Easy to fit in your pocket. You'd get a few in your ration pack. Packed tight in oil. Little silver fish all lined up. They were salty. Strong. Not everyone liked them. But if you were hungry enough, you learned to like them. You'd eat them whole. Head and all. There was no picking them apart. No time for that. Just pop open the can. Tilt your head back. Let them slide into your mouth. Some guys would share them. Pass the can around. Each man taking one or two. It was a way of saying, we're in this together. The oil at the bottom? You'd tip the can up. Drink it down. Nothing went to waste. Not in the trenches. Not when you didn't know when your next meal would come. The smell would linger on your fingers for hours. That fish oil smell. You couldn't wash it off. There was no soap. No clean water for washing. But nobody cared. Because sardines meant protein. Meant energy. And the smell was just proof you'd eaten something real. Five. Roasted and ground coffee packets. Coffee. Hot. Black. Strong. This was the thing soldiers wanted most. Each ration pack came with a small packet of ground coffee. Roasted. Ready to brew. You'd boil water in your tin cup. Pour the coffee in. Let it steep. Stir it with whatever you had. No cream. No sugar. Unless you saved some from another ration. Just black coffee. Bitter. Hot enough to burn your tongue. And it was perfect. Because coffee woke you up. Made you alert. Ready. And in the trenches, you needed to be alert. You needed to be ready. But more than that, coffee was a ritual. A moment. You'd sit with the other guys. Hold that hot cup in your cold hands. And for five minutes, you'd almost feel normal. Almost feel like you were back home. At the kitchen table. Safe. Some guys would brew their coffee twice. Use the same grounds for a second cup. It would be weaker. Barely brown. But it was still hot. Still something to hold. Coffee was the thing that got you through the night watches. Through the cold. Through the waiting. Without it, men would fall asleep on duty. With it, they'd stay sharp. Stay alive. But here's where it gets interesting. Six. Granulated sugar packets. Sugar came in small paper packets. White. Grainy. Precious. You were supposed to use it in your coffee. Make it less bitter. But most guys didn't. They saved it. Tucked it away in their pack. For emergencies. Because sugar was energy. Quick energy. The kind that could keep you going when you had nothing left. Before a battle, guys would tear open a sugar packet. Pour it straight into their mouth. Swallow it dry. Feel that rush. That burst of strength. It wasn't much. Just a few seconds of clarity. Of power. But sometimes, that's all you needed. Sometimes those few seconds made the difference between making it through and not making it through. Officers knew about this. They'd look the other way when soldiers hoarded sugar. Because they understood. Sugar wasn't just sweetness. It was survival. And a soldier with a sugar packet in his pocket felt a little less afraid. A little more ready for whatever came next. Seven. Salt packets. Salt. Simple. Essential. Every ration pack had a tiny packet of salt. Just enough to season a meal or two. In the trenches, you sweated. You lost salt. Your body needed it back. But more than that, salt made everything taste better. That canned corned beef? Salty enough already. But that hardtack? That bland, tasteless cracker? A little salt helped. Made it bearable. Soldiers would carefully open their salt packet. Sprinkle just a bit. Save the rest. Because you never knew how long you'd be out there. How long until the next ration delivery? Salt was small. It was simple. But it mattered. Some guys would put salt on their tongue. Just a pinch. Let it dissolve. It would make them thirsty. But it also kept them from cramping. Kept their muscles working. Medics would tell soldiers to take their salt. Especially in summer. Especially during long marches. Because a man without salt was a man who'd collapse. Eight. Evaporated milk. Thick. Sweet. Canned. This was the luxury item. The thing that made you feel rich. You'd use it in your coffee. Just a splash. Turn that bitter black liquid into something almost creamy. Or you'd eat it straight. Open the can. Take a sip. Let that sweetness coat your mouth. It tasted like home. Like breakfast with your mother. Like milk from the icebox on a summer morning. Some guys would save their evaporated milk. Ration it out. One sip a day. Make it last as long as possible. Because once it was gone, it was gone. And you'd go back to black coffee. To plain water. To nothing sweet at all. The can had two small holes punched in the top. You'd tip it carefully. Control the pour. A few guys would trade anything for extra evaporated milk. Their cigarettes. Their chocolate. Even their jam. Because evaporated milk was comfort. It was kindness in a can. And in the trenches, comfort was harder to find than food. Nine canned baked beans. Baked beans. In a can. Cold. Thick. You could eat them cold. Most guys did. No way to heat them up in the trenches. Just open the can. Use your spoon. Eat them straight. They were filling. Heavy in your stomach. They made you feel full even when you weren't. The beans were soft. Almost mushy. Swimming in brown sauce. Not delicious. Not by a long shot. But they were familiar. American. The kind of thing your mother made for Sunday supper. And in France. In the mud. In the cold. That familiarity meant something. It meant you were still you. Still the boy who grew up eating beans on Sunday. Still the same person. Even though everything else had changed. The sauce would stick to your spoon. Thick and sweet. Some guys would soak their hardtack in it. Let the cracker absorb that molasses flavor. It made both things better. Made the whole meal feel almost intentional. Almost like cooking. Ten. Canned tomatoes. Red. Acidic. Packed in juice. These were cooking tomatoes. You weren't supposed to eat them straight. But sometimes you did anyway. Because they were wet. They had flavor. And when you'd been eating hardtack and canned meat for days, anything with taste was a gift. You'd drink the juice first. Let it run down your throat. Sour and sweet at the same time. Then you'd eat the tomatoes. Soft. Slippery. Almost falling apart. Some guys would mix them with their beans. Make a kind of stew. Others would heat them up if they could. Make a sauce. Pour it over their hardtack. Anything to make the food feel less like survival. More like a meal. The acid would wake up your mouth. Cut through all that grease and salt from the canned meat. It made you feel cleaner somehow. Less weighed down. Guys would fight over the tomato cans. Not violently. But they'd bargain. Trade. Because tomatoes meant flavor. Meant your next meal wouldn't be completely bland. Eleven. Canned peas and vegetables. Canned peas. Sometimes mixed with carrots. Sometimes alone. Green. Soft. Swimming in water. You'd drain the water if you could. Nobody wanted to drink that. Then you'd eat the peas. Cold. Bland. Slightly metallic from the can. They weren't good. But they were vegetables. And your body needed vegetables. Needed something besides meat and bread. The army knew that. They tried to get vegetables to the soldiers. Even if those vegetables came in a can. Some guys would trade their vegetables. Swap them for extra meat. Extra coffee. But the smart ones kept them. Ate them. Knew they needed them. Because in the trenches, you saw what happened to guys who didn't eat right. They got weak. Got sick. Didn't make it. The peas would roll around in your tin. You'd chase them with your spoon. It was almost funny. Almost normal. Like eating dinner at home. Medics would check on guys. Ask if they were eating their vegetables. Because scurvy was real. Malnutrition was real. And a can of peas could be the difference between staying strong and falling apart. But this next one? This one was special. Twelve. Canned corn. Yellow. Sweet. Packed tight in the can. This was one of the better canned vegetables. It actually had flavor. You could eat it cold. It was almost good that way. Sweet. Crunchy. Reminded you of summer. Of corn on the cob at the county fair. Of home. Some guys would save their corn. Eat it on bad days. Days when they needed something to look forward to. Others would mix it with their beans. With their tomatoes. Make a kind of succotash. Turn their rations into something that almost felt like cooking. The corn kernels would pop between your teeth. Release that sweetness. And for a second. Just a second. You'd forget where you were. You'd remember what food used to taste like. Before the war. The liquid in the can was sweet too. Some guys would drink it. Save it for their coffee. Use it instead of sugar. Corn was the vegetable nobody complained about. The one everyone actually wanted. Because it tasted like something good. Something pure. Thirteen. Canned sweet potatoes. Soft. Orange. Swimming in syrup. These were rare. You didn't get them often. But when you did. It was a good day. Sweet potatoes tasted like Thanksgiving. Like family dinners. Like your grandmother's kitchen. You'd eat them slowly. Savor every bite. They were sweet. Almost like dessert. The syrup would coat your mouth. Make everything taste better for a few minutes. Some guys would save their sweet potato can. Open it on Christmas. Or on their birthday. Make it special. Make it mean something. Because in the trenches. You needed things to mean something. You needed small celebrations. Small moments of joy. Otherwise it all became too much. The sweet potatoes would slide off your spoon. Soft as butter. You'd lick the syrup off the lid. Off your fingers. Nothing went to waste. When word got around that someone had sweet potatoes. Guys would gather. Watch him eat it. Share in that moment. Because seeing someone enjoy something sweet. Reminded everyone that good things still existed. Fourteen. Canned fruit preserves. Jam. In a small can. Strawberry usually. Sometimes raspberry. This was treasure. This was gold. You'd get one can. Maybe two. In a whole month of rations. And you'd guard it. Keep it safe. Hidden in your pack where nobody could steal it. Because jam was sweet. It was pure sugar. Pure energy. You'd spread it on your hardtack. Turn that bland cracker into something almost good. Or you'd eat it straight. Straight from the can. With your finger. Let that sweetness explode in your mouth. It reminded you that good things still existed. That the world wasn't all mud and death. That somewhere there were still strawberries growing. Still people making jam. Still normal life happening. Some guys would write home about the jam. Tell their mothers. Their wives. Like it was the best thing they'd ever tasted. And maybe it was. Because context changes everything. A spoonful of strawberry jam in a trench in France. Tasted better than any dessert you'd ever had back home. Fifteen. Chocolate bars. The chocolate bar. Dark. Bitter. Hard as a rock. This wasn't candy. This wasn't the chocolate you ate as a kid. This was survival food. Emergency food. The last resort. It came in a special tin. Sealed. With instructions on the outside. Only to be eaten in emergency. The chocolate was made to not melt. To last forever. To give you energy when you had nothing else. It tasted terrible. Bitter. Dry. Like eating wax and cocoa powder mixed together. But it had calories. More calories than almost anything else in your pack. You'd break off a piece. Force yourself to chew it. Swallow it down. And you'd feel that energy. Feel your body wake up. This chocolate saved lives. Guys would eat it before a charge. Before a long march. When they needed strength and had nowhere else to get it. Officers would check. Make sure you still had your emergency chocolate. Because if you ate it when you weren't supposed to, you wouldn't have it when you really needed it. And that could mean the difference between making it back and not making it back at all. Sixteen. Canned pork. Sometimes bacon. Sometimes just chunks of salt pork. Fatty. Salty. Packed in grease. This was the other meat. The backup when you didn't have corned beef. You could eat it cold. The fat would be white and hard. You'd have to chew through it. Or you could heat it up. If you had a fire. If you had time. Fry it in its own grease. Make it crispy. Make it smell like breakfast. That smell would carry through the trench. Make every guy nearby stop and look. Make their mouths water. Because the smell of frying bacon? That was home. That was Sunday morning. That was everything they'd left behind. And sometimes the memory was almost as good as the food itself. The grease would solidify at the bottom of the can. White and waxy. Guys would scrape it out. Use it to cook other things. Fry their hardtack in bacon fat. And suddenly that cracker became something worth eating. Seventeen. Tea. Black tea. In small packets. Like the coffee. Not everyone got tea. It depended on supply. On what was available. But when you did get it, you'd brew it strong. Let it steep until it was dark. No milk. Maybe a little sugar if you'd saved some. Tea was different from coffee. It was gentler. Calmer. You'd drink it slow. Let it warm you from the inside. Some guys preferred tea. Said it reminded them of their mothers. Their grandmothers. Of sitting at the kitchen table. Safe. Warm. Others stuck with coffee. Said tea was too weak. Too fancy. But nobody complained when they got it. Nobody turned it down. Because any hot drink was a gift. Any moment of warmth was precious. The British soldiers drank tea all the time. The Americans would trade with them. Cigarettes for tea packets. Coffee for biscuits. And sometimes sharing tea became a way to bridge the gap between allies. To remember you were all on the same side. Eighteen. Crackers. Thicker than saltines. Harder than hardtack. These came in wax paper packs. Sealed. Protected from the mud and rain. You'd open the pack carefully. Try not to tear it. You might need that paper later. The crackers were plain. Dry. They'd suck all the moisture out of your mouth. But they were easier to eat than hardtack. You didn't have to soak them. You could just bite into them. Crunch through them. Some guys would eat them with their jam. With their canned meat. Make a kind of sandwich. Others would crumble them into their soup. Their stew. Make it thicker. They weren't much. But they were bread. And bread meant civilization. Meant you were still human. Still eating like a human. Not just an animal trying to survive. The wax paper was valuable. You could use it to wrap other things. Keep them dry. Some guys would fold it up. Save it in their pack. Use it to start fires when the wood was wet. Every piece of your ration had a purpose. Nothing was wasted. Nineteen. Dried fruit. Usually prunes. Sometimes raisins. Small. Wrinkled. Sticky. Sweet. These came in small paper bags. Just a handful. Not much. But they were important. Because when you're eating mostly canned meat and crackers, things stop moving. Your body gets backed up. Uncomfortable. The prunes helped. Kept things regular. Guys would eat them slow. One at a time. Make them last. Because they were sweet. Naturally sweet. Not like sugar or jam. The kind of sweetness that felt healthy. That felt good. Raisins were better. Not for your gut. But for your morale. They tasted like cake. Like Christmas cookies. Like something your mother baked. You'd chew them slow. Let that sweetness spread through your mouth. And for a moment, everything was okay. Some guys would save their raisins, drop them in their coffee, let them plump up, then fish them out and eat them warm. It was a small luxury. A tiny moment of creativity in a world where everything was prescribed and rationed. And speaking of moments, this next food changed everything. Twenty. Soup. Hot soup. From the field kitchen. This wasn't from a can. This was real. Fresh. Cooked. When the field kitchen could get close enough to the front lines, they'd make huge pots of stew, meat, vegetables, potatoes, all thrown in together. They'd ladle it into your tin cup. Steaming. Smelling like heaven. You'd cup your hands around it. Feel that heat. That blessed heat. Then you'd drink it. Fast. Before it got cold. Before you had to go back to your position. The soup wasn't fancy. It wasn't gourmet. But it was hot. It was fresh. And someone had cooked it for you. That mattered. That mattered so much. Because hot food from a kitchen meant someone cared. Meant someone was trying to keep you alive. Trying to keep you human. You'd line up for soup. Wait your turn. And that line felt almost normal. Almost like waiting at a restaurant. The cooks would smile. Say something kind. And for a minute you weren't a soldier. You were just a kid getting fed. Twenty-one. Fresh bread. Real bread. Hot from a mobile bakery. When you got fresh bread, it was like Christmas. The army had these mobile bakeries. Ovens on wheels. They'd set up behind the lines. Bake hundreds of loaves a day. And when those loaves made it to the trenches, still warm, still soft, you'd tear into it with your hands. Stuff it in your mouth. It was soft. Fluffy. Nothing like hardtack. Nothing like those hard crackers. It tasted like bread was supposed to taste. Like bread from home. Some guys would eat their whole loaf in five minutes. Couldn't help themselves. Others would save half. Eat it later. Make it last. Because fresh bread was rare. And once it was gone, you were back to hardtack. Back to crackers that broke your teeth. But for that one moment, with fresh bread in your hands, you felt rich. You felt alive. The smell would reach you before the bread did. That yeast smell. That baking smell. And guys would stop what they were doing. Close their eyes. Just breathe it in. Twenty-two. Boiled potatoes. Plain. No butter. No salt sometimes. Just potatoes. Boiled in water. Served hot. These only happened when supply lines were good. When trucks could get through. When the field kitchen had time and space to cook real food. You'd get maybe two potatoes. Small ones. Dropped onto your tin plate. And you'd eat them with your hands. Too hot to touch, but too hungry to wait. They'd burn your fingers. Burn your mouth. But you didn't care. Because potatoes were real food. Filling food. The kind of thing that stuck to your ribs. That made you feel actually full. Not just stopped being hungry for a minute. Full. Some guys would save a potato. Eat it cold later. In the middle of the night when they were on watch. Because even cold a potato was better than hardtack. Better than nothing. The skin would peel off in your hands. Wet and slippery. You'd eat that too. Everything. Because a boiled potato meant someone cared enough to cook it for you. Twenty-three. Canned hominy. Cornmeal products. Hominy. Big white kernels. Soft. Swimming in liquid. Not everyone knew what hominy was. Especially guys from up north. But southern boys knew. They grew up on it. You'd open the can. Drain the liquid. Eat the hominy cold. It was bland. Slightly sweet. Filling. Sometimes the field kitchen would fry it. Turn it into grits. Serve it hot. That was better. Much better. With a little salt, grits tasted like home. Like breakfast with your family. Like mornings before the war. Cornmeal products showed up sometimes too. Corn cakes. Corn bread if you were lucky. Made from the same rations. Same cornmeal. But cooked into something that felt special. That felt made with care. The northern boys would look at hominy like it was alien food. Strange white chunks that didn't make sense. But they'd eat it anyway. And after a while, they'd start to like it. Start to understand why the southern boys got quiet when they ate it. Why their eyes would go distant. Because hominy tasted like memory. Like a place and time that felt impossibly far away. Twenty-four. Condiments. Mustard. Pickles. Sometimes vinegar. These weren't official rations. They came from other places. From the Red Cross. From care packages. From French civilians who felt sorry for the American boys. You'd get a jar of pickles to share among ten guys. Each man would get one pickle. Maybe two if you were lucky. You'd eat it slow. Savor that sour crunch. Because pickles tasted like something. They had flavor. Strong flavor. Same with mustard. You'd spread it on your canned meat. On your hardtack. Make that bland food come alive. Make it taste like an actual meal. Condiments were small things. Tiny things. But they made all the difference. Because eating became less about survival. And more about eating. About actually tasting something. About being human. A single jar of mustard could change a week of meals. Transform that same old corned beef into something almost enjoyable. Guys would protect their condiments. Hide them. Because someone would always try to take more than their share. The French would sometimes give soldiers small bottles of vinegar. Hot vinegar with peppers in it. And that fire, that burn on your tongue, reminded you that you could still feel something other than cold and fear. Twenty-five. Cigarettes. A pack in every ration. This wasn't food. Not technically. But to the soldiers, it was just as important. You'd light up after a meal. After a bad day. After a battle. That first drag would calm your nerves. Steady your hands. Make everything feel just a little bit more bearable. Guys would trade cigarettes. Use them like currency. Two cigarettes for your jam. Five cigarettes for your chocolate. They'd share them, too. Pass them around. Light each other's cigarettes. It was a way of saying, We're still here. We're still together. The smoke would rise up from the trenches. Drift into the sky. And for those few minutes, with a cigarette between your fingers, you could almost forget. Almost pretend you were somewhere else. Someone else. Just for a moment. Some guys didn't smoke before the war. But they all smoked by the end. Because cigarettes gave you something to do with your hands. Something to focus on besides the fear. Officers would hand out extra cigarettes before a big push. Before going over the top. And everyone knew what that meant. But they'd take them anyway. Light up. And face whatever was coming with smoke in their lungs and brothers by their side. So there they are. Twenty-five foods that American soldiers ate during World War I. Some of them kept them alive. Some of them kept them sane. All of them tell a story. A story about young men, far from home, trying to survive in the worst conditions imaginable. And the thing is, food was more than just food to them. It was memory. It was hope. It was the thin thread connecting them to the people they used to be. My great-grandfather kept that can opener for the rest of his life. He kept it because it reminded him. Reminded him of the men he served with. The meals they shared. The way food became the center of everything. Not because it tasted good, but because it meant they were still alive. Still fighting. Still surviving. And sometimes, that's all you can ask for. If you want to honor the soldiers who ate these rations, who survived on these cans and crackers and cold coffee, leave a comment. Share a story. Because these meals, they're part of our history. Part of what made those men who they were. And we should never forget that. Thanks for watching, and I'll see you in the next one.