That the British “Tommy” is as ready with his tongue as with his gun was aptly shown the other day when a number of wounded soldiers were being admitted to a hospital.
One of the patients was being carried to a ward named L, but at the door the stretcher bearers were met by the Sister in charge, who said, “I’m sorry, but L’s full.”
“All right,” cheerily replied the irrepressible “Tommy,” “we’ll just go to ’eaven.”
Jem—“Why don’t you shoulder a gun?”
Ben—“Ah ain’t got nothin’ against nobody in dis here world, and if I have I forgive ’em!”
Jem—“But your country is at war and you’ve got to carry a gun.”
Ben—“Man, the only time Ah carry a gun is when I’m after one lone man and not after an army!”
Jem—“But why don’t you fight for your country?”
Ben—“Ah live in the city!”
Aunt Nancy was visiting an army camp and as she approached some rookies were sitting on their heels and then rising to a standing position in perfect unison.
“What are the boys doing now?” she asked.
“Why, those are the setting-up exercises,” explained an obliging sergeant.
“Humph,” remarked auntie. “Looks to me more like settin’ down exercises.”
There is a man in Bozeman, Mont., who will probably go through life bewailing the injustice of the draft board that certified him for service, despite the fact that he presented a letter written by his wife to prove that he had a dependent family. Here is the letter:
“Dear United States Army: My husband ast me to write a reckomend that he supports his famly. He can not read so dont tell him. Jus take him.He ain’t no good to me. He aint done nothing but play a fiddle and drink lemmen essense since I married him, eight years ago, and I got to feed seven kids of his. Maybe you can get him to carry a gun. He’s good on squirrels and eatin’. Take him and welcum. I need the grub and his bed for the kids. Don’t tell him this but take him.”
“Now, Lieutenant Tompkins,” said the general, “you have the battalion in quarter column, facing south—how would you get it into line, in the quickest possible way, facing northeast?”
“Well, sir,” said the lieutenant, after a moment’s fruitless consideration, “do you know, that’s what I’ve often wondered.”
(As delivered in Chicago.)
I just asked a policeman the quickest way to the hospital. He told me to go down to Jefferson street and yell hurrah for the czar. John D. Rockefeller wants to go to the front, but I don’t think he’ll do much for the country. When the officer says advance he’ll raise the price of gasoline.
You know all that peace talk is over. The peace party crawled into a hole and pulled the hole in after them—they’re afraid of the draft.
Some men are born soldiers, others develop into fighters after they marry. I’ve been in four battles.
The very first night I was married my wife broke this news to me. “You know, dear, I can’t dress myself,” so I got her a French maid; and, “I can’t drive my own car,” so I got her a chauffeur. Then she said: “You know I walk in my sleep,” so I had to get her a night watchman.
Uncle Sam is preparing all right in a hundred different ways we know nothing about. A man who comes up to you on the street may be an officer. If you get a drink in Kansas City, well, that’s secret service.
It certainly was pretty windy around the Masonic temple today. You know two girls were passing; one had red, white and blue stockings on and the other green; they were going in the opposite direction. I didn’t know which to look at, but decided to see America first.
Sousa and I got together a couple of seasons ago. His band was going to play my songs. I met him the other day just as I was going into a saloon. He said: “Nat, my band of 300 men will accompany you.” I said: “That’s all right with me, Phil, but do you think there’ll be room?”
Captain Jones was a very round-shouldered and eccentric officer.
On a particularly dark night in Egypt, while practicing his company in outpost duty, he approached one of the sentries who failed to halt him.
In a great rage the officer demanded of the now trembling sentry the reason why he had omitted to challenge him.
“If you please, sir,” stuttered the confused soldier, “I thought you was a camel.”
Two privates met the other morning near the canteen, which, from the fact that a monkey was kept on the counter, was popularly known as the “Monkey House.”
“Halloa, Jack,” said the first. “You look a bit off this morning.”
“Yes, Bill,” replied Jack. “I haven’t the price of a wet.”
“Neither have I,” replied Bill; “but I think I know how to get a couple of pints. Come into the Monkey House.”
They entered the canteen and Bill called for two pints. While the barman’s back was turned Bill hit the monkey a clout on the head, which caused the animal to scream out.
“What was that for?” asked the barman, wrathfully.
“Not the first time he has done that,” shouted Bill, angrily.
“Done what?” asked the barman.
“Why, picked up my shilling and swallowed it,” replied Bill.
“Well,” said the indignant barman, “why didn’t you tell me before you hit the monkey? There’s your two pints and your sevenpence change. And don’t you interfere with my monkey again.”
The scene was a cinema palace, as they call ’em in England, where the Somme battle-pictures were being flickered.
As the Warwickshires were seen going over the top to the attack, an excited Birmingham man exclaimed, triumphantly: “What about your Highland regiments now?”
As luck would have it, there was a short, bandy-legged Scot in a kilt within hearing.
He flared up and replied: “What about oor Hielant regiments? Why, they are keepin’ back the Germans while your men are gettin’ their photographs took.”
Australian Soldier (to American)—“You Yanks think you’ve done a lot, but you forget we Australians have been at the game for four years.”
“Well, what have you done, anyway?”
“Done? We’ve been at Gallipoli, Mesopotamia, the plains of Bethlehem, and——”
“The plains of Bethlehem?”
“Yes; I slept a week there myself.”
“Well, I guess that was a busy week for the shepherds watching their flocks!”
“I know you have pet names for the big guns, but what do you call the shells?”
“Depends, ’ow close you are to where they burst, mum!”
She had intently watched the soldier for some time. Then she ventured: “The chin strap, I suppose, is to keep your hat on, my man?”
“No,” replied Yank, “it’s to rest the jaw after answering questions.”
A wire from Secretary of War Baker: “Discuss no war news in front of horses. They carry tails.”
Cable from King George to the President: “Send me over 5,000 sewing machines, we want to hem the Germans on the border.”
From King George: “Must have $5,000,000; if it can’t be had any other way get it from the waiters at the Waldorf.”
Stone wires: “If war breaks out I’ll stand behind the army.”
Cable from Russian general: “Over a million pairs of pajamas at once; Russian army ready to retire.”
Wire from Empress of Germany to Queen Mary (sent collect): “Am sitting on my veranda crocheting; would like to have you join me—Nit.”
From the Czar of Russia: “It’s pretty tough to be seated on the throne one minute and thrown on your seat the next.”
“Remember, my son,” said his mother as she bade him good-by, “when you get to camp try to be punctual in the mornings, so as not to keep breakfast waiting.”
“Where are you going?” asked one rookie of another.
“Going to the blacksmith shop to get my tin hat reblocked.”
The following story which is going the rounds of the Continental papers, including even those of Austria, must make the Germans gnash their teeth.
A German and a Dane met recently in Schiller’s house in Weimar. As they stood gazing reverently on the scene the German, swelling with pride, remarked to his fellow-visitor:
“So this is where our national poet, Schiller, lived.”
“Pardon me,” said the other; “not national, but international.”
“How so?” asked the German, with surprise.
“Why, consider his works,” the Dane replied. “He wrote, ‘Mary Stuart’ for the English, ‘The Maid of Orleans’ for the French, ‘Egmont’ for the Dutch, ‘William Tell’ for the Swiss—”
“And what did he write for the Germans, pray?” broke in the other. Pat came the Dane’s answer:
“For the Germans he wrote, ‘The Robbers.’”
Tommy (to the “charger” he has borrowed during a week-end leave after it has been down three times in ten minutes)—Wot! On yer knees agen? Go on—get on with it—“Bless Pa and Ma an’ make me a good ’orse. Amen.”
The “Swanky” One—“I’m smoking a terrible lot of cigars lately.”
The Other (with conviction)—“You’re right, if that’s one of them!”
How to pronounce some of the names of the towns which the Americans get into puzzles the boys, so they have their own pronunciation. Thus, when they captured Seringes, it became Syringe, and Fismes becameFiz. When Fismettes was taken, the battalion commander went back to report, made several assaults upon its pronunciation and finally said:
“Well, I can’t tell you what town it is, but I’ve taken the damned place, anyhow.”
Tommy (to Jock, on leave)—“What about the lingo? Suppose you want to say ‘egg’ over there, what do you say?”
Jock—“Ye juist say ‘Oof.’”
Tommy—“But suppose you want two?”
Jock—“Ye say, ‘Twa oofs,’ and the silly auld fule wife gies ye three, and ye juist gie her back one. Man, it’s an awfu’ easy language.”
Captain John Stevenson met a recent arrival from the “auld countree” and speedily got into a chat with him over conditions there. The new arrival told feelingly of the terrible toll of war on the fair land of Scotia, the sad tales of young men killed and maimed, the sufferings of the families left behind. His was a right sad tale in every way.
“Wy, man, we’re jist plum distrackit wi’ it,” he concluded.
“And I suppose the war has caused the price of provisions to go up in Scotland as well as everywhere else?” commented Captain Stevenson with sympathy.
“Aye, man, ye’re richt,” agreed the visitor. “Proveesions have gone up saxpence the bottle.”
The conditions in the trenches were dreary in the extreme after the drenching and long-continued rainfall, but the irrepressible spirits of the “Pals” were not yet entirely quenched when the order came to leave the trenches.
“Hurry up out of this, my gallant soldiers,” was the cheery call of the sergeant to his waist-deep and rain-sodden men.
“Soldiers!” came the derisive answer from one of them. “I’m not a soldier; I’m a blooming bulrush!”
“We played fool,” declared the Crown Prince “I see it now.”
“Huh?”
“We had the whole world to pick a fight with.”
“Well?”
“And look at the crowd we picked out.”
Messages had come to the office of a great illustrated paper that Zeppelins were approaching London.
The editor at once summoned his staff of photographers.
“Now, boys, we’ve got to have a picture of this Zepp. We were badly beaten on the last. The moment it approaches I want every man to rush to the roof with his camera and stay there, whatever happens, until he gets a picture. Let me know directly you get it. You’ll find me under the heap of coal bags in the right-hand corner of the lower cellar!”
First Tommy (as he reads the local paper sent from home)—“O, Bill, what do you think of it? They’re issuing a list in Blighty of the people what are going to do without using any more sugar!”
Second Tommy (eagerly grasping the paper and straining his eyes to find the list of names)—“Where did you see, it Harry?”
First Tommy—“Why, there” (pointing to the death column).
The military maneuvered. All the afternoon the attackers had attacked and the defenders defended, with conspicuous lack of incident or bravery. Operations were beginning to drag horribly when the white flag went up.
The officer in command of the attackers stared in amazement.
“A flag of truce!” he exclaimed. “What do they want?”
The sergeant-major endeavored to cover up a smile.
“They say, sir,” he reported, “that, as it’s tea time, they’d like to exchange a couple o’ privates for a can of condensed milk—if you can afford it.”
An Irish recruit named Dunn was arranging to let his friends know where he was when on active service.
“If I go to France,” he said, “I shall sign my letter F. Dunn; to Egypt, E. Dunn.”
“When the war is over and you come home, what will you sign?”
“We’re Dunn!”
“Well done,” shouted his friends.
Private Doolan was six feet three inches in his socks. Beside him the sergeant on duty was a bantam.
“Head up there, Doolan!” he cried. Doolan raised his head.
“Up higher,” shouted the little sergeant.
“There, that’s better. Don’t let me see you with your head down again.”
“Am I to be always like this?” asked Doolan, staring away above the little man’s head.
“You are.”
“Then I’ll say good-bye to ye, sergeant, for I’ll never see ye again.”
During a camp parade of the buglers recently an Irish corporal was in charge. He was asked by the commanding officer if all the buglers were present: He replied: “No, sorr, wan man absent.”
“Well, then,” said the officer, “go and find him and ask him what he has to say for himself.”
A few minutes later Pat came running back. “Shure, sorr,” he cried, “and weren’t we a pair of duffers not to know it? It wor meself. Bedad, sorr, Oi forgot to call me own name entoirely.”
“You don’t seem to feel so enthusiastic as usual about speech-making.”
“Well,” answered Senator Sorghum, “times have changed and it isn’t so easy for a man in a silk hat and a frock-coat to stand out before a lot of men in khaki uniforms or overalls and assert that he is saving the country all by himself.”
An editor in the Far West dropped into church for the first time in many years. The minister was in the very heart of the sermon. The editor listened for a while, and then rushed to his office.
“What are you fellows doing? How about the news from the seat of war?”
“What news?”
“Why, all this about the Egyptian Army being drowned in the Red Sea. The minister up at the church knows all about it, and you have not a word of it in our latest. Bustle round, you fellows, and get out an extra-special edition.”
One industrious war-gardener is pictured as working busily and reflecting on the virtue of raising his own food-supply.
“If everybody grew his own vegetables and ate less meat,” he soliloquized, “we’d put old Bill on the bum in a hurry. This is tough work, but I’ll stick to it if it kills me. I’m with Hoover on this.”
At this point a fine assortment of earthworms was unearthed. The digger’s reflections immediately shifted to a shady stream and the final scene shows him happily fishing.
“Oh, well,” he reflects to soothe his conscience, “vegetables or fish; it’s all the same to Mr. Hoover.”
“Now,” said the Colonel, looking along the line of recruits, “I want a good smart bugler.”
At that out stepped a dilapidated fellow who had a thick stubble of black beard.
“What!” said the colonel, eying him up and down. “Are you a bugler?”
“Oh, bugler!” said he. “I thought you said burglar.”
“So,” sobbed Ilma Vladoffovitchskioffsky, “Ivan Nine-spotski died in battle. You say he uttered my name as he was dying?”
“Part of it,” replied the returned soldier—“part of it.”
Willie Hohenzollern (after Berlin fell)—“But, mein friendt, I want to write a letter to papa.”
Yankee Guard—“Nothin’ doin’, Heinie. We don’t have asbestos stationery around here.”
Officer—“So you captured a thousand Germans by just calling across No Man’s Land. What did you do—promise them a square deal if they surrendered?”
Yankee Private—“No; I promised them a square meal.”—Life.
The war was over and the new woman was fully developed. Gone were the petticoats and faldelals. Women aimed at being rational in character and dress.
In such an after-the-war household Mr. Bigboy was washing out baby’s bottle when his wife came down dressed for going out.
“Are you going out?” whined Mr. Bigboy.
“Yes,” said his wife, patting his cheek. “It’s the big meeting at the lodge.”
“Then—then,” said the man, and his lips trembled, “if you’re not in by 11 o’clock I’ll—I’ll go home to father.”
A story is told of a German spy who was captured within the English lines in France. An English Tommy was detailed by his commander to march the German four miles back of the lines and there shoot him. After marching through mud and water for four miles, all tired out and rain soaked, the pair finally reached the four-mile point. The German was exasperated by this time and blurted: “Vot’s the idea of marching me four miles through mud and rain to be shot?”
“My word,” the English Tommy said. “What are you kicking about? Think of me. I gotta walk back!”
One of the recruiting canvassers in an English provincial town was a well-known magistrate. In most cases he succeeded in obtaining the promises he wished, but at last he knocked at one cottage-door which was opened to him by a sturdy son of the soil.
“My man,” said the magistrate, in his most persuasivetones, “are you willing to fight for your King and country?”
“No, I beant, sir,” was the prompt reply. “An’ I be surprized at you askin’ me for to do it. Two years ago come next month you yourself fined I twenty shillings for fighting wi’ Bill Smith, and you said it wor wicked to fight, an’ I promised you as I wouldn’t repeat the offense, an’ allus kept my word.”
Berlin, April—There is no question that terrible damage was caused in London by the latest Zeppelin raid. The commander of the Zeppelin L-10 has brought back with him to Germany a sketch which he made while he was flying over the British metropolis. It clearly shows the houses of Parliament in flames and Sir Edward Grey running along Piccadilly with his coat-tails afire. The sketch has been warmly commended by art and military critics.
An English girl gave General Pershing quite a jolt while he was in London. She had been placed at his disposal as the driver of his automobile. One day he said to his girl driver:
“Can you please come for me here at the War Office at 6 o’clock?”
“Yes, General,” answered the girl.
At six o’clock, military-like, the General was on the steps awaiting his car.
At three minutes past six it swung to the curb. The General, with his eyes a-twinkle, said to the girl, as he took out his watch: “You are three minutes late.”
“That should hardly count with you, General,” was the instant answer. “You are three years late.”
A Chertsey pig-breeder has been granted total exemption. The pen, it seems, is still mightier than the sword.—Punch.
Mrs. Parker—“Now, young man, why aren’t you at the Front?”
Young Man (milking cow)—“’Cos there ain’t any milk that end, missus!”
Examining Surgeon—“Have you any scars?”
Rookie Marine Applicant—“No, sir; but I have some cigarets in my coat over there.”
“Are they seasoned troops?”
“They ought to be. They were first mustered in by their officers, and then peppered by the enemy.”
“No, my ’usband ain’t killed, Mrs. Marks. No sooner did I put all the kids in mournin’, even to Biby in the pram, when I gets a telegram a sayin’ ’e’s alive and well. Yes, an’ all this expense for nothin’.”
“Wot a crool shame!”
Recruiting Officer—“How about joining the colors? Have you anyone dependent on you?”
Motorist—“Have I? There are two garage owners, six mechanics, four tire dealers, and every gasoline agent within a radius of 125 miles.”
Cockney Tommy (surveying fat German soldier who, being brought in a prisoner, still has his hands up): “Blow me if this ain’t the old blighter who used to play, ‘I fear no foe in shining armor’ dahn ahr street.”
It is, of course, well known that Sir Douglas Haig is a soldier first, last and all the time, regarding all other professions as of quite negligible importance, a trait in his character which lends point to the anecdote.
He was, it appears, inspecting a cavalry troop,and was particularly struck with the neat way in which repairs had been made in some of the saddles.
“Very good work,” he remarked to the troop sergeant-major. “Who did it?”
“Two of my troopers, sir,” was the reply.
“You’re fortunate to have two such expert saddlers in your troop,” said Haig.
“As a matter of fact, sir,” was the reply, “they’re not saddlers, in civil life being lawyers.”
“Well,” ejaculated Sir Douglas, “how men who can do work like that could have wasted their lives over law I can’t imagine!”
A very tall, thin lieutenant reported in Flanders to a Canadian battalion commanded by a bald, elderly colonel. After a few days he approached his commander and asked permission to air a grievance.
“I wish you would use your influence, sir, to restrain my platoon from referring to me as ‘Legs,’” he said.
“Sure, my lad, sure,” replied the Colonel solemnly, “if you’ll use yours to stop my whole battalion calling me ‘Old Baldy.’”
“That ’ere Yank’s an educated toff from ’arvard,” said Tommy Atkins, leaning on his spade. “I’m jolly well weary of ’is learnin’, too, that I am. We’reordered to throw up trenches along the Marne, and as ’e picks up ’is spade, th’ bloomin’ college blighter says, says ’e: ‘Well, Tommy, come on; it looks like we’re infra dig!’ And wot I says is: Blarst a college education, anyhow, eh?”
On a road in Belgium a German officer met a boy leading a jackass, and addressed him in heavy jovial fashion as follows:
“That’s a fine jackass you have, my son. What do you call it?... Albert, I bet!”
“Oh, no, officer,” the boy replied quickly. “I think too highly of my King.”
The German scowled and returned: “I hope you don’t dare to call it William.”
“Oh, no, officer. I think too highly of my jackass.”
Here is a story our wounded boys have brought back from the front about Sir Douglas Haig.
Sir Douglas was in a great hurry to get to a certain place. He found his car, but the chauffeur was missing. So Sir Douglas got in the car and drove off by himself. Then the driver appeared and saw the car disappearing in the distance.
“Great Scot!” cried the driver, “there’s ’Aig a-driving my car!”
“Well, get even with him,” said a Tommy, standing by, “and go and fight one of ’is battles for him.”
I’ve beamed when you hollered, “Oh, Girlie!”I’ve hopped when you bellowed, “Oh, say!”I’ve fallen for “Dearie” and “Missus,”And everything else till today.But there’s one thing that’s got to be different,From now till the Great War is done—Unless you’re prepared for a riot,You’ve got to quit calling me “Hun!”
I’ve beamed when you hollered, “Oh, Girlie!”I’ve hopped when you bellowed, “Oh, say!”I’ve fallen for “Dearie” and “Missus,”And everything else till today.But there’s one thing that’s got to be different,From now till the Great War is done—Unless you’re prepared for a riot,You’ve got to quit calling me “Hun!”
I’ve beamed when you hollered, “Oh, Girlie!”I’ve hopped when you bellowed, “Oh, say!”I’ve fallen for “Dearie” and “Missus,”And everything else till today.But there’s one thing that’s got to be different,From now till the Great War is done—Unless you’re prepared for a riot,You’ve got to quit calling me “Hun!”
I’ve beamed when you hollered, “Oh, Girlie!”
I’ve hopped when you bellowed, “Oh, say!”
I’ve fallen for “Dearie” and “Missus,”
And everything else till today.
But there’s one thing that’s got to be different,
From now till the Great War is done—
Unless you’re prepared for a riot,
You’ve got to quit calling me “Hun!”
Staff Colonel—“Your reports should be written in such manner that even the most ignorant may understand them.”
Sergeant—“Well, sir, what part is it that you don’t understand?”
The latest example of English as she is spoken comes from Egypt, where a native interpreter, who had overstayed his leave, wrote the following letter to his chief:
“My absence is impossible. Someone has removed my wife. My God, I am annoyed.”
Her son had enlisted, and she was a proud old woman as she harangued a knot of friends on the village street. “Jarge always done ’is duty by me,’e did, an’ now ’e’s doin’ ’is duty by King an’ country,” she said. “I feel right down sorry for them Germans, to think of ’im goin’ into battle with ’is rifle in ’is ’and and ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ on ’is lips.”
“Poor Germans, indeed!” exclaimed one of the audience. “Pity’s wasted on ’em! P’r’aps you ’aven’t ’eard of their cruelties?”
“P’r’aps I ’aven’t,” agreed the old lady. “An’ p’raps you ’aven’t ’eard Jarge sing.”
Rural Constable—“Sketching the harbor is forbidden, sir.”
Artist—“Oh, that’s all right. I’m making a study of clouds.”
Rural Constable (impressively)—“Ah, but supposin’ your picture got into the hands of the enemy’s aircraft department, see the use they could make of it!”—Punch.
All this talk of hyphenated citizenship has evidently had its effect upon a San Francisco youngster, American-born, who recently rebelled fiercely when his Italian father whipped him for some misdemeanor.
“But, Tommaso, your father has a right to whip you when you are bad,” someone of the family said.
Tommaso’s eyes flashed. “I am a citizen of the United States,” he declared. “Do you think I am going to let any foreigner lick me?”
“I’m going to decorate you for bravery, Mr. Wadleigh. Put this French war-orphan medal on your coat.”
“But I haven’t performed any deed of heroism.”
“But you will when you give up twenty-five cents.”
“Can you tell me,” said the Court, addressing Enrico Ufuzzi, under examination at Union Hill, N.J., as to his qualifications for citizenship, “the difference between the powers and prerogatives of the King of England and those of the President of the United States?”
“Yezzir,” spoke up Ufuzzi promptly. “King, he got steady job.”
One of the good stories in circulation is told by Joe Tumulty, secretary to the President. He likes his job, but he dislikes one thing about it: that he can’t tell the boys—the friendly reporters—about all they wish to know. He illustrated his inability to give information once by quoting the case of Johnny.
Johnny was crying in the hall as his mother camealong, hatted and coated. She asked what had happened.
“You are going away; and so is papa!” Johnny sobbed.
“Why, child, I shall be away two or three days, but father is not going away!”
“Yes, he is!” cried Johnny. “He’s going to Rome.”
“Rome? What do you mean, dear?” asked the surprised mother.
“He said today to Mr. Brown that he would make Rome howl when you left!”
“Indeed! Well, dear, I sha’n’t leave you now.”
A torpedo with a corkscrew course has been observed. If it misses the port side it turns and strikes the starboard; sometimes on missing there it even turns again, striking the port side. The ship’s officer unaccountably omitted to add that after the explosion the fragments reunite and return to the submarine as a complete missile ready to be fired anew.—New York Sun.
John—“The French have gained four hundred meters from the enemy.”
Auntie—“How splendid! That should help to put a stop to those dreadful gas-attacks!”
First War Correspondent—“Did your dispatch get past the censor?”
Second War Correspondent—“Only the part that wasn’t true.”
“Well, isn’t that all your paper wants?”—Life.
“Footlyte actually seemed pleased at leaving a $300-per-week theatrical engagement to serve as a $30-per-month sergeant in France.”
“Why not? Three dramatic critics are privates in his company.”
“Before I left the United States,” said Col. George Harvey in London, “I agreed with a Columbia professor who said preponderant power in men and money was bound to win the war; but now I have a stronger argument—one which fell from the lips of a recruiting sergeant in the Strand yesterday.
“‘Don’t you want to be on the winning side?’ said the soldier to a group of civilians who he was suggesting should don khaki.
“‘How do you know ours will be the winning side?’ asked a prospective recruit.
“‘Well, my lad,’ said the sergeant, ‘you know the Germans have been trying for more than a year and a half to win and have failed, don’t you?’
“‘Yes,’ replied the questioner.
“‘Well, then, we’ve been trying to lose during the same period and we couldn’t.’”
As the regiment was leaving, and a crowd cheering, a recruit asked: “Who are all those people who are cheering?”
“They,” replied the veteran, “are the people who are not going.”—Life.
Officer (to boy of thirteen who, in his effort to get taken on as a bugler, has given his age as sixteen)—“Do you know where boys go who tell lies?”
Applicant—“To the front, sir.”
Two fair munition workers were discussing their personal affairs.
“Got a chap yet, Liz?” inquired one.
“Yes; and he’s a regular toff. He’s manager at ——.”
“You don’t say so! Why, they tell me he’s real refined.”
“Rather! Why, he took me to a restaurant last week, and when we had coffee he poured it into a saucer to cool it, but he didn’t blow it like common people would—he fanned it with his hat!”
A farmer the other day took a plowshare to the blacksmith’s to be sharpened, and while the blacksmith worked the farmer chuckled and bragged about a sale of hogs he had just made.
“Them hogs was only eight months old,” he said, “and none too fat, nuther; but I seen that the buyer was at his wits’ end, and by skillful jugglin’ I boosted up the price on him just 300 per cent. Yes, by gum, I got three times more for them hogs than I uster get before the war.”
The plowshare being done, the farmer handed the smith 50 cents.
“Hold on,” said the smith; “I charge $1.50 for that job now.”
“You scandalous rascal!” yelled the farmer. “What do you mean by treblin’ your price on me? What have you done it for?”
“I’ve done it,” said the blacksmith, “so’s I’ll be able to eat some of that high-priced pork of yours this winter.”
“Those Germans are certainly efficient,” said father at the breakfast table.
“How so? How?” asked mother.
“Why,” said father, “I see they have put the whole question of the food supply into the hands of the Minister of the Interior.”
When Gen. Leonard Wood was a small boy he was called up in the grammar class.
The teacher said: “Leonard, give me a sentence and we’ll see if we can change it to the imperative mood.”
“The horse draws the cart,” said Leonard.
“Very good. Now change it to an imperative.”
“Get up!” said young Wood.
“Going to France?” asked a traveling man at the station of a negro soldier.
“No, sah! I’se not going to France,” replied the dusky soldier. “I’se goin’ to Berlin, but I may stop in France for a showt time on de way.”
He was a new and not very intelligent soldier, and took Army Regulations very seriously. He was strolling down the Strand smoking a pipe, when he was passed by a Brigadier-General. When he failed to salute, the mighty one pulled him up.
“Why the deuce didn’t you salute me?” he roared.
“Well, sir,” replied the delinquent, secure in the consciousness of an adequate excuse, “my sergeant has always taught me never to salute with a pipe in my mouth!”
A party of wounded marines were being taken to a base-hospital on a much over-crowded motor-truck. The nurse accompanying them became anxious about their wounds.
“I hope I am not hurting any of you,” she said.
“You’re hurting me a lot,” replied one of the soldiers.
“But I am nowhere near you,” exclaimed the nurse indignantly.
“That’s what’s hurting me,” was the calm reply.
An English private had captured a German captain. Tommy marched his prisoner into headquarters with the air of a major-general on parade and stood waiting for his turn to deliver over his captive.
The German captain smirked disdainfully, glanced about the tent, and hissed at Tommy, “You stupid English, you dink dat you vill vin dis var. Vell, I tell you dot you von’t, for ve haf the German Gott on our side.”
“That’s all right, old boy,” replied Tommy promptly, “we’ve got the Yanks on ours.”
Captain: “You say this man called you a hippopotamus four weeks ago. Why report it now?”
Sergeant: “Because I only seen a hipperpotamus for the first time yesterday, sir!”
“This is no time to talk peace,” declared Representative Thomas Heflin, of Alabama. “Rather it is the time to keep on preparing. Germany dragged us into this war against our will, and now that we are in it we have to go through with it. We can win this war in a year beyond doubt, but we have got to keep going. The United States is in pretty good shape now, and there is no reason why we should talk peace.
“There was an old fellow down in north Alabama and out in the mountains; he kept his jug in the hole of a log. He would go down at sundown to take a swig of mountain dew—mountain dew that had never been humiliated by a revenue officer nor insulted by a green stamp. He drank that liquid concoction that came fresh from the heart of the corn, and he glowed. One evening while he was letting the good liquor trickle down his throat he felt something touch his foot. He looked down and saw a big rattlesnake coiled ready to strike.
“The old fellow took another swig of the corn, and in defiance he swept that snake with his eyes.
“‘Strike, dern you, strike; you will never find me better prepared.’
“That’s the way I feel about the present situation.”
“If you refuse to marry me I’ll enlist.”
“What a pity you did not ask me four years ago.”
Waiter—“Yes, sir; omelets has gone up on account of the war.”
Diner—“Great Scott! Are they throwing eggs at each other now?”
German General—“Have our brave troops been informed that we shall be in Paris in four days?”
Subordinate—“Yes, General.”
“They understand that the Great War was forced upon us?”
“Perfectly, General.”
“They have been told that the Americans always kill our machine gunners if they surrender?”
“That is well understood, General.”
“They have been instructed that the few Americans opposed to us are cowardly and inexperienced?”
“Hand-bills announcing that fact are passed around each evening.”
“Then let the offensive begin.”
A German sergeant on the staff of a prison hospital in Germany, where a number of captured English officers were being treated, became quite friendly with the prisoners under his care. One day he told them that he had been ordered to active service on the Somme front. He felt convinced that he wouldbe captured by the English, and asked the English officers if they would not give him some sort of testimonial which he could show if he were taken prisoner, so he would not be ill-treated.
The English officers were much amused at this idea, and concocted a note of introduction, written in English. The German sergeant knew no English and could not understand his testimonial, but he tucked it in his pocket, well satisfied.
In due time he was sent to the Somme front, and was captured by the “women from hell,” as the Germans call the Scotch kilties. He at once presented his note of introduction, and his captors laughed heartily when they read:
“This is L——. He is not a bad sort of chap. Don’t shoot him; torture him slowly to death.”
When certain soldiers from the antipodes were in New York a little while ago, a woman was heard to say to another:
“There goes one of them Australians.”
“How do you know?”
“You can tell by the Kangaroo feathers in his hat.”
“This can’t be hell—there are no Germans here.”
“Yes, it is; but the regular people put up such a kick, we built an annex for them.”—Life.
A private of a well-known regiment, who was always wanting leave on some excuse or other, applied at the orderly room and asked his commanding officer if he might have a few days’ leave, as his wife was ill and had sent him a letter asking him to come at once.
But his commanding officer, getting tired of his always wanting leave, said: “This is strange, Private Cheek, as only this morning I received a letter from your wife, saying she did not want you to see her any more, so hoped I would not grant you leave.”
Private Cheek—“Then I suppose I can’t have leave, sir?”
Commanding Officer—“No, you cannot.”
Private Cheek (turns as he gets to the door)—“Sir, may I compliment you?”
Commanding Officer—“Yes, certainly; on what?”
Private Cheek—“In having two such lovely liars in the regiment, because I’m not married at all.”
Queen Mary sent a beautiful bouquet that had been presented to her to a soldiers’ hospital. To show their appreciation, the inmates commissioned one of their number to stand at the hospital gate the following morning, holding the gift, when the queen passed. He did so—with rather unexpected results. Queen Mary, seated in her car, saw the soldier standingthere, bouquet in hand, and assuming that he wished to present it to her, she reached out and took it. After she had thanked him, her car passed on.
The soldier stood quite dumfounded—then recovering his speech, he said: “Well, she’s pinched ’em.”
War Correspondent in France—“My editor seems very disappointed; what news can I send to cheer him up?”
Soldier—“Write and tell him you’ve been killed in action.”
Ensign Paul Perez, formerly well known to the screen, is back from another trip to Europe with a brand new seasick story. An amateur navigator making his first trip across is the victim and the first day out he was in the throes of the mal-est mal de mer extant when the ship surgeon visited him in his stateroom.
“What’s the matter?” was the latter’s callous query.
“O-o-oh,” was the only response as the young navy man rolled over in agony.
“Come, get up,” derided the surgeon, grinning unfeelingly. “The ship’s been submarined and will sink in ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes?” the sick man protested feebly. “Can’t you make it any sooner?”
A doughboy is an American soldier, and American soldiers, infantrymen, artillerymen, medical department, signal corps sharps, officers and men alike, all are called doughboys. Our cartoonist is one, so is General Pershing.
The term “doughboys” dates back to the Civil War when army wit was aroused by large globular brass buttons on infantry uniforms. Somebody (he must have been a sailor) dubbed the buttons “doughboys” because they reminded him of the boiled dumplings of raised dough served in ships’ messes and known to all sailors as doughboys. Originally it referred only to an enlisted infantryman, but the A. E. F. applies it to all branches and all grades of the service.—The Stars and Stripes.
A strict Baptist mother visited her son in one of the cantonments on a recent Sunday. She was deeply solicitous that her boy should receive proper religious instruction.
“Is there a Baptist preacher in camp?” asked the mother. The son did not know, but he would inquire. Yes, one was to hold a service that afternoon and give an address in a Y. M. C. A. hut. The two went and heard an inspiring address on how Christ is always the comrade of all men who fight for righteousness, even when they are not conscious of his presence.
The mother was delighted and after the service told the preacher how happy she was that her son could hear such good Baptist doctrine.
“But, madam,” said the speaker, “I am not a Baptist; I am an Episcopalian.”
Thus are all denominational lines being battered down in the camps.
“It is remarkable that so many women should be working.”
“Women have always worked,” replied Miss Cayenne. “The principal difference just now is that they are working away from home and getting paid for it.”
Harold, the only son of a wealthy widowed mother, was drafted, and duly arrived at the camp where he was to receive instruction in the manly art of warfare. Imagine his surprise and chagrin when he was detailed to what is known as K. P. duty (“Kitchen police” duty). In this he became quite proficient, however, as one of his letters shows:
“Dear Mother:—I put in this entire Christmas day washing dishes, sweeping floors, making beds and peeling potatoes. When I get home from this camp I’ll make some girl a mighty fine wife!”
One mess in the British front line was the envied of all the neighborhood units because it enjoyed fresh vegetables every day. The cook was often asked about it. “We get them from a garden near by,” he always said. At last the supply ceased. The mess soon asked why. “We’ve had all there were,” said the cook, “except a few that were right on the edge of the Boche trench.” Then it turned out that he had gone out every night into “No Man’s Land” and gathered green vegetables from a garden which ran right down to the German front line.
Sandy and Pat were discussing the war economies of their respective landladies.
“Indade,” said Pat, “the other day Oi saw that wumman O’Grady countin’ the paes to put in the broth.”
“Och,” replied Sandy, “where I am the landlady melts the margarine an’ paints it on yer bread wi’ a brush!”
He was a wounded soldier who was traveling in a train. At a point on the line where it ran parallel with the road he saw a brand-new territorial battalion marching up to the front. He stuck his bandaged head out of the door and yelled, “Are you dahn-hearted?”The Terriers, from the colonel to the smallest drummer, shouted, “No-o-oh!” The wounded man replied: “Well, you d—d soon will be when you get in those trenches.”
Private A—“Some funny things hev happened in this war. I heard of a bloke the other day who lost his right hand and didn’t know it till he tried to take a package of fags out of his pocket!”
Private B—“That’s not so bad; but I heard of a bloke who got his head shot off and didn’t know it till he tried to scratch it!”
Dasher—“I don’t believe the war-films we saw last night were taken at the front.”
Mrs. Dasher—“Of course they were; didn’t you notice the bullet-holes at the end of each reel?”—Puck.
A sergeant and a private were out sniping. The private was troubled with a cold, and was continually sneezing, which rather annoyed and put the sergeant’s shots off their mark.
“Confound you, Coldhead,” yelled the enraged sergeant at last, “you made me miss again.”
“Well, I didn’t do nothing, sergeant,” exclaimed the private, amazed.
“Yes, you did. It was your blinkin’ sneeze.”
“I didn’t sneeze,” again protested the private.
“Of course you didn’t,” roared the sergeant. “It’s the first bloomin’ time you’ve missed, and—I allowed for it, you chump!”