to shave every day; or you may need to shave as often as twice a day;
or, again, you may be one of those lucky and youthful souls who really
don't need to shave oftener than once a week. But, as the order makes
the every-other-day shave obligatory, you, no matter what classification
you may fall under, decide to compromise on the every-other-day shave.
In that way, and in that way only, can discipline be maintained and a
pleasing variety of growths up and down the comp'ny front be secured.
The order being such as it is, you dispense with washing your face every
day. You wash your face on your non-shaving day, and on your shaving day
you let the shave take the place of the wash. To be sure, if you are a
generous latherer you have to wash your face all over, including the
remote portions behind the ears, after you get through shaving; but,
being anxious to save time and economize water--thus living up to
another order--you never count that in as a real wash. When writing
home, you say simply that you wash and shave on alternate days.
A Use for Helmets.
To begin the shaving process, you secure a basin full or a tin helmet
full of water--such water as the countryside affords. Usually it is
dirty; sometimes in the regions bordering on what has been in German
hands since 1914, it minutely resembles the drink that Gunga Dhin
brought to his suffering Tommy friend. You remember:
"It was crawly and it stunk."
At that, you can't blame it for being crawly and stinking if it had been
anywhere near the Boche.
If you are in billets or barracks, and there is a stove therein both
handy and going, and if all the epicures and snappy dressers in the
squad are not trying to toast their bread or thaw out their shoes or dry
their socks on top of it at the same time, you may be allowed to heat
your shaving water--if it can be called water--on said stove. If you are
allowed to--which again is doubtful--you are generally saddled with the
job of being squad stove-stoker for the rest of the day. This is a
confining occupation, and hard on the eyes.
If, however, you are in neither billets nor barracks, but in the open
somewhere or if there is no fire in the stove, or, if somebody else has
got first licks at it, and you don't fit with the cook of the mess
sergeant so as to be able to borrow a cup of hot water out of the coffee
tank--why, there is nothing left to do but shave in cold water. This is
hard on the face, the temper and the commandment against cussing. Also,
if you neglected to import your shaving soap from the States and had to
buy it over here, it may mean that you are out of luck on lather.
Anyway, after quite a while of fussing around, you get started. You
smear your face with something approaching lather if you've got hot
water, with a sticky, milky substance that resembles, more than anything
else, a coating of lumpy office paste. This done, and rubbed in a bit
around the corners, you begin to hoe.
Indoor vs. Outdoor Shaving.
In billet shaving, somebody is always trying to climb into the bunk
above over your slightly bent back while you shave--for it is impossible
to get your little trench mirror directly in front of your face while
you are in an upright position. In outdoor shaving--usually performed in
the middle of a village square, near the town fountain--one is
invariably bumped from behind by one of the lowing kine or frolicsome
colts peculiar to the region; to say nothing of a stray auto truck or
ambulance which may have broken loose from its moorings. These gentle
digs, of course, produce far less gentle digs in one's countenance. In
this way, America's soldiers, long before they reach the front, are
inured to the sight of blood.
After you have scraped off a sufficient amount of beard to show a
sufficient amount of skin to convince the Top, when he eyes you over,
that you have actually shaved, you shake the lather off your razor and
brush, dab what is left of the original water over the torn parts of
your face, seize the opportunity, while you have the mirror before you,
of combing your hair with your fingernails, and button your shirt
collar. The performance concluded, you are good for forty-eight hours
more, having a perfect _alibi_ if anyone comments on your facial growth.
You are not, however, in any condition to attend a revival meeting or to
bless the power-that-be who condemned you to having to shave in France.
----
CRUSADERS.
----
Richard Coeur de Lion was a soldier and a king;
He carried lots of hefty tools with which his foes to bing;
He cased himself in armor tough--neck, shoulder, waist, and knee:
But Richard, old Coeur de Lion, didn't have a thing on me.
For while old Coeur de Lion may have worn an iron casque,
He never had to tote around an English gas-proof mask;
He never galled himself with packs that weigh about a ton,
Nor--lucky Richard--did he have to clean a beastly gun.
'Tis true he wore a helmet to protect himself from boulders,
But then, he had good rest for it upon his spacious shoulders;
While my tin hat is balanced on the peak of my bare dome,
And after marching with it--gee! I wish that I were home!
His feet were cased in metal shoes, in length about a yard,
Which, since they were so big, I bet did not go on as hard
As Uncle Sam'yal's dancing pumps that freeze so stiff at night
That donning them at reveille is sure an awful fright.
He never had to pull a Ford from out of muddy ruts--
Although his breastplate warded spears from off his royal guts,
His Nibs was never forced to face the fire of "forty-twos"
And tear gas would have given him an awful case of blues.
He always rode a charger, while I travel on shanks' mare;
He messed on wine and venison; I eat far humbler fare.
I'll grant he was some fencer with his doughty snickersnee,
But Richard Coeur de Lion didn't have a thing on me!
----
YES, THEY'RE A FEW.
----
Green Sentry: "Turn out the guard--Officer of the Day!"
(Officer of the Day promptly salutes, indicating, "As you were!")
Green Sentry: "Never mind the Officer of the Day!"
----
FASHION HINTS
FOR DOUGHBOYS
----
By BRAN MASH.
----
Overcoats are being worn much shorter this season, by request.
[Illustration]
The campaign hat, while still _de rigueur_ for the less formal functions
of army society, such as reveille and mess, is rapidly going out of
date. It is said on excellent authority that it will soon be supplanted
by a _chapeau_ closely resembling the cocked hat worn by certain goodly
gentlemen of Boston and vicinity during skirmish drill at Lexington and
Concord, Mass. The portrait shown herewith depicts one of the makeshifts
now much in vogue.
Rubber boots are much the rage at this season of the year. While not
exactly suited to town wear, and while the more conservative dressers
still refuse to be seen in them at afternoon-tea, they are speedily
adjusted and thus enjoy great popularity among those who are in the
habit of "just making" reveille.
Slickers are, at present writing, in great demand among the members of
the younger army set. Those who were farsighted enough to procure the
heavy black variety when it was issued last fall are counting themselves
more fortunate than their friends who chose the lighter, but colder,
blue or drab garment.
The tin brown derby is, after all, the most serviceable headgear for
all-around wear in the war zone. It should be worn on all formal
occasions, particularly when nearing the Boches' reception line. When in
doubt as to the propriety of wearing it, it is always well to remember
that it is better to err on the side of safety.
[Illustration: I SEE IT]
The face muffler--either English or French design--is another _sine qua
non_ for all formal occasions, particularly at _soirees_ and _dansants_
near the first line. In fact, some of the more careless dressers who
have neglected to provide themselves with it have suffered severely, and
been roundly snubbed. While it is at best an ugly piece of facegear and
extremely difficult for the uninitiated to adjust correctly, its
intricacies should be mastered at the earliest opportunity by those
having business "up front."
The knit sock, home made preferred, is indispensable for wear inside the
regulation field shoe during all formal and informal promenades. It is a
sign of _gaucherie_, however, to allow the top of either sock to
protrude above the puttee or legging. Care should be taken that the
socks fit the feet as snugly as possible, else ugly bunches will form at
the heels and toes, thus robbing the gentle art of walking of all the
pleasure which Henry Ford put into it.
The web belt, worn on most formal occasions, should always be well
filled when the wearer contemplates a business trip. Cautious dressers
do well to adjust the belt so that the pistol holster hangs within easy
reach of the right hand.
Spiral puttees have advanced so far in popular favour that they are now
being issued for general wear by such a conservative (but ever reliable)
gent's furnishing house as the U.S.Q.M.C.D. They are considered warmer
than the old-style canvas leggings, although, as they take longer to put
on, they are rather frowned upon by the more hasty dressers. They should
be tightly wrapped if the wearer possesses a shapely lower limb; but
tight wrapping is apt to result in tired feet at the end of a promenade
of any duration.
[Illustration: THE INFANTRY
THE INFANTRY WITH
THE DIRT BEHIND
THEIR EARS]
The regulation field shoe has been designated the correct footwear for
business and informal occasions. Care should be taken to secure sizes
which will admit of the entrance of the wearer's feet (one in each shoe)
when encased in at least two pairs of socks. Although numerous
complaints have been lodged against the hobnails which infest the soles
of these shoes, it may be said in extenuation that they are
indispensable for marching along slippery roads, and also extremely
useful when the wearer is engaged in kicking Germans in the face.
The Sam Browne belt is worn exclusively by officers serving with the
American Expeditionary Forces--that is, in the American Army. It is a
natty leather ornament, and much sought after. It is, in fact, the last
word--_dernier cri_--in gentlemanly attire.
SHIRTS KHAKI COLLARS
6, Rue Castiglione,
(Opp. Hotel Continental) A. SULKA & Co. 34 W. 34 Street,
PARIS. Mail orders executed. NEW YORK
SOCIETE ANONYME
DES
FILATURES, CORDERIES & TISSAGES D'ANGER
BESSONNEAU Administrateur.
BESSONNEAU
is the creator of
Aeroplane Sheds Ambulance Tents
Hospital Sheds Sanitary Huts
The BESSONNEAU constructions
have stood their tests for many years
in several campaigns on all fronts and
in all climates.
The BESSONNEAU constructions
are now being imitated, but only
BESSONNEAU makes his canvas
properly waterproof and does the
whole of his constructing himself:
Tents, sheds and huts.
To have every real GUARANTEE one
must have the trade-mark:
BESSONNEAU
----
MY FIRST NIGHT
IN THE ARMY.
----
I'm there with two thin blankets,
As thin as a slice of ham,
A German spy was likely the guy
Who made them for Uncle Sam.
How did I sleep? Don't kid me--
My bed-tick's filled with straw,
And lumps and humps and big fat bumps
That pinched till I was raw.
Me and my two thin blankets
As thin as my last thin dime,
As thin, I guess, as a chorus girl's dress,
Well, I had a dandy time.
I'd pull 'em up from the bottom,
Whenever I started to sneeze,
A couple of yanks to cover my shanks,
And then how my "dogs" did freeze.
You could use 'em for porous plasters,
Or maybe to strain the soup,--
My pillows my shoes when I tried to snooze--
And I've chilblains, a cough and croup.
Me and my two thin blankets,
Bundled up under my chin;
Yes, a German spy was likely the guy,
And--MY--but they were thin.
AMERICAN EYE CLASSES
ED. B. Meyrowitz
OPTICIAN
LONDON PARIS
1A, Old Bond St. 3, Rue Scribe.
----
HEARD IN THE CAFE.
----
"So you were down at El Paso the same time we were? Bum town, wasn't
it?"
"Let's see,--I knew a lad out in Kansas City and his name was--"
"No, I haven't been up in Alaska since 1908, but there's a guy in our
comp'ny who--"
"By the way, where did you say you came from in New Hampshire?"
"Sure enough. We hung around there at Tampa until--"
"Yes, I got a paper from my home town in Nevada that said--"
And, in spite of talk like that, there are some people back home that
think their own communities' men are doing all the fighting.
----
CAN YOU BLAME HER?
----
Teacher in French School: "Marie, what is the national anthem of La
Patrie?"
Little Marie: "La Marseillaise."
Teacher: "Good! Now, the national air of England?"
Little Marie: "God Save the King."
Teacher: "Very good, mon enfant! Now, the national air of the United
States?"
Little Marie: "Certainement! It is 'Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here!'"
----
GOOD ENOUGH FOR HIM.
----
"Well, Bill, how are you getting along with your French?"
"Fine! I know the words for wood, straw, beefsteak and suds; what more
do I want to get by with?"
----
SUCH IS FAME!
----
"Jake, who's this Lord Reading that's the new British Ambassador to the
States?"
"Reading? Say, ain't he the guy that run a railroad somewhere in
Pennsylvania?"
English and American
OUTFITTERS
Best choice at moderate prices
THE SPORT
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ALLIES THE FAVORITES IN BETTING ODDS ON BIG WORLD'S SERIES
----
KID JOHNSON LOSES
BELT BY A KNOCKOUT
----
Fighting Fireman from the
Q.M.C. Defeats Champion
in One Round.
----
By BRITT.
----
An extra long khaki-colored canvas belt, regulation, was turned over
this week to Judson C. Pewther, Q.M.C., by Kid Johnson, of the --th
Infantry, following a two minute ceremony which ended in a knockout.
Which is to say, "Charlie, the Fighting Fireman," is being hailed as the
new heavyweight champion of G.H.Q., A.E.F.
Kid Johnson had whipped everyone in sight at G.H.Q., and was being
touted as the champion of Amex forces. He was billed to fight both
Pewther and a French heavyweight aspirant the same evening. He had to
disappoint the Frenchman--_fini, monsieur, FEENISHED_.
Charlie, ostensibly a modest and unassuming fireman in the offices of
the Intelligence Section, General Staff, is now recognized as one of the
best fighting units in the A.E.F. Report has it that he was one of the
best bets on the Border, where he served in the Body Snatchers--with a
long string of ring victories to his credit. He had been out of the
boxing game for nearly three years, having married in the interim, but
no one disputes the fact that he made a great comeback.
Right Hook Turns the Trick.
The scrap took place before a crowded house. The two heavy-weights were
evenly matched in height and weight.
Johnson started like all champions, confidently, and let loose a strip
of rattling lefts. Charlie faced the fusillade and coolly replied with
several vicious upper-cuts reminiscent of Border days. With frequent
jabs he rocked the champion's head, and the crowd roared.
He met Johnson's rushes with a persistent left. The champion was
fighting mad and rushed in for a cleanup. As he did so, he uncovered.
The opening was small but sufficient. Charlie countered with his left,
then sent a swift right hook to the jaw. Johnson wilted. Three
knockdowns followed. Then the champion took the count.
Fighting Charlie was on the job at Headquarters next morning as usual,
showing no marks of the encounter. The petites demoiselles, over whom
Charlie exercises daily authority, were dumbfounded to learn that their
boss was a bruiser. But it is significant that the fires in the
Intelligence Section to-day are burning brighter than ever.
New Champion Is Modest.
Pewther was averse to talking about himself, but he confessed to
twenty-nine years and claimed Portland, Ore., as his home. A
representative of THE STARS AND STRIPES found him the afternoon after
the fight seated on a coal-box reading his favorite dime novel--in which
he finds a laugh in every line--and wearing the same sized hat.
"I wouldn't have broken into the game again," he declared, "but I felt
that I couldn't stand by and hear the Johnson coterie putting over their
sweeping challenges. It was all right to challenge the crowd, but when
all the soldiers of the A. E. F. were included I figured it was up to me
to register a kerplunk for the Q.M. Johnson would have been champion yet
if he hadn't tried to take in so much territory. I'm satisfied to be
champion, and let it go at that. But if there's anyone else who wants
the title he can have it--unless there's something substantial in it."
Which indicates there may be something doing, as report has it that the
doughboys don't intend to let the Q.M. man walk off with the
championship.
----
A PINCH HITTER IN KHAKI.
----
Lank used to be something of a baseball player. In fact he's still on
the rolls of a certain National League club and back in 1914 it was
Lank's mighty swatting that won the world's championship for his team.
Next to General Pershing himself and a few other generals, Lank is about
the most popular soldier in France. When his regiment--once of the
National Guard--comes swinging down the pike the sidelines are jammed
with other soldiers who crane their necks to get a peek at him.
Lank always carries the colors. He's now color-sergeant.
"So that fella's Lank, the great ball player," you can hear one doughboy
say to another. "Well, I'll be doggonned. Looks just like any other
soldier, don't he?"
"What you expect to see?" will ask a soldier who has worshipped Lank's
batting average for lo! these many years. "Didja expect to see a fella
wearin' a baseball uniform and carryin' a bat over his shoulder? Sure,
that's Lank. Hello, Lank, howja like soldiering?"
Lank will look out of the corner of his eye and then, sure that no
officer is looking, reply out of the corner of his mouth:
"We're on to the Kaiser's curves, boys. We'll hit everything those Huns
pitch for home runs. No strike outs in this game!"
Lank is the life of his regiment. In his "stove league" this Winter he
has organized all kinds of baseball leagues and next Spring he's going
to lead a championship team against all soldier comers.
If General Pershing isn't too busy Lank will try and get him to umpire
some afternoon.
----
STRAY SHOTS.
----
So Grover Alexander has been drafted? Some squad is going to have a
nifty hand grenade tosser to its credit, eh, what?
----
Wonder if John L., when he arrived at the pearly gates and St. Peter
asked his name, gave his customary reply of, "Yours truly, John L.
Sullivan?" If he did, we bet he walked right on in while the good saint
was still trying to figure it out.
----
Speaking of the great John L., we suppose that "Handsome Jim" Corbett is
the only old time champion who can at all aspire to Sullivan's place in
public esteem.
----
We seem to know the tune of this anonymous contribution, but we never
have heard these words before:
We're in the trenches now,
The slacker milks the cow,
And the son of a Hun
Must skeedaddle and run,
For we're in the trenches now.
----
FOR A LIVE SPORT PAGE.
----
THIS IS poor apology for
* * *
A LIVE SPORT page but it
* * *
MAKES A beginning and
* * *
SOMEBODY had to do it
* * *
AND I was the goat but
* * *
WITH YOUR help we'll
* * *
DO BETTER next time if you
* * *
WRITE US some notes from
* * *
YOUR CAMP and send us
* * *
SOME VERSES for
* * *
ONE GUY can't handle this
* * *
ALL himself and
* * *
ANYBODY could do the job
* * *
BETTER than I can you know
* * *
WE WANT to find a
* * *
REAL SPORTING editor somewhere
* * *
AND WISH this job
* * *
OFF ON him and then
* * *
WE'LL buy a cable from
* * *
BACK home and tell him
* * *
TO HOP to it.
C. P. C.
----
INDOOR SPORTS
----
SATURDAY NIGHT.
First you take a basin,
Place it on the stove,
Wait about an hour or so,
Shoo away the drove
Of your jeering billet mates
Betting you won't dare;
Then you spread a slicker
On the floor with care.
Next you doff your O. D.,
And your undershirt.
Wrap a towel 'round your waist,
Wrestle with the dirt;
Do not get the sponge too wet--
Little drops will trickle
Down a soldier's trouser legs--
Golly! How they tickle!
Then you clothe yourself again--
That is, to the belt;
Strip off boots and putts and trou,
Socks--right to the pelt;
Send the gooseflesh quivering
Up and down your limbs--
Gosh! You aren't in quite the mood
For singing gospel hymns.
Then you wash, and wash and wash,
Dry yourself once more,
Put on all your clothes again,
Go to bed and snore,
Wake up at the bugle's call
With a cold, and sore
Truly, baths in France are--well,
What Sherman said of war!
FOOLING THE FLEA.
You'll march in the flea parade and be glad of the chance after you've
lived a week in an old French sheep shed.
"Say, I'll be glad to get back to the mosquitoes," said a young
hand-grenadier from Dallas, Tex., as he dumped his "other clothes" in
the flea-soup cauldron. "These babies chew you to death day and night. A
mosquito's a night-rider only."
The line forms on the right of the cook-shack. The cooks build big fires
out in the open and set out great kettles of water. When the water
begins to boil the parade begins, each man dumping in his flea-infested
clothing--uniform, socks, underwear, wristlets and blankets. The cooks
keep the fires stoked up with wood and the garments boil for a solid
hour.
Then the men form another line and collect their stuff. They wring out
the clothes the best they can and then sit down to "pick 'em off."
"They're fast little devils most usually," said the Dallas man, "but the
sudden shock from warm water to cold air makes them stiff, and you can
catch 'em easy."
The A. E. F.'s living in sheep barns simply can't keep clear of the
things. They're in the rafters, in the hay, and in the planks. Weekly
boiling of clothing only gives a short relief.
Really they aren't fleas at all, but a form of sheep tick. But they
don't distinguish between sheep and American soldiers.
"BUTTON, BUTTON."
The Army gets some of its best ideas about equipment from the soldiers
who have to use it.
Here's an idea, making for efficiency and convenience, which comes from
an Omaha boy in the ranks. He says:
"Why don't they put bachelor buttons on our uniforms and overcoats? I've
got a 'housewife' in my kit, but I'm working from 6.15 in the morning
until 5 o'clock at night, and what little leisure I get I'd like to
spend in the Y.M.C.A. playing the phonograph or shooting pool.
"And anyway, if I've got to do my sewing in the barn I live in, I might
as well not try at all. My fingers are so numb the minute I take off my
mitts that I couldn't thread a needle."
Not only that, said the Omaha soldier, but you usually find you haven't
any thread in your "housewife."
There seems to be something in favor of bachelor buttons, especially
since the people who sew the buttons on new uniforms and coats always do
a poor job.
----
YES, HOW DO THEY?
----
Private Pat: "Mike, what th' hell kind of fish be them ye're eatin'?"
Corporal Mike: "Hush, Pat; don't be disthplayin' yer ignorance--the ould
Frinch la-ady might hear yeze! Thim's sairdeens!"
Pat: "Sairdeens, is ut? They're a small fish, ain't they? An' where,
pray tell, do they grow?"
Mike: "Pat, I'm asthounded at yer ignorance of gogerfy! Thim little fish
grow in the Atla-antic Ocean, the Pacific Ocean, the Injun Ocean, the
Airctic Ocean, an'--oh, in all them oceans. An' the big fish, such as
the whale, the halleybut, the shairk, an' all o' thim, they live off'n
eatin' th' sairdeens!"
Pat: "They do, do they Mike? Thin phwaht I'd like to know is how th'
hell do they iver open the box?"
----
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TO CHILLY AIRMEN
----
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----