anxiously asked the lad.
“No, I can’t, I’m sorry to say,” replied the officer.
As the lad turned sorrowfully away he said:
“Well, don’t blame me if th’ bloomin’ Germans lick o’ t’ lot on yo’;
that’s all!”
SHEEP AND GOATS
Life in the new Army teaches a man to look after himself. This is
especially true of the larger camps, and the rule appears to be that
“they shall take who have the power and they shall keep who can.”
A story illustrative of this is told of one of the Yorkshire regiments
now in training. The cold weather had led some of the men to forage
for extra blankets one night, and when next morning they were warned
that the colonel was coming round for kit inspection they were too busy
cleaning and preparing to put matters right again. The result was that
when the men paraded some of them had three or four blankets while
others had no blanket at all.
The colonel noticed this in his inspection, but said no word until he
had been wholly round. Then, drawing himself up in front of the men, he
thundered:—
“Ahem, major, one-half the regiment are simple fools, and the other
half are bloomin’ thieves.”
JOGGING HIS MEMORY
Readers of the War news who have some difficulty in remembering where
the Falkland Islands are may be helped by the recollection of one of
Ian Maclaren’s stories. After a disaster to an emigrant ship many years
ago, some of the survivors reached those islands. When the news came
home the minister of a Scottish church to which some of the emigrants
had belonged prayed thus:—
“Oh, Lord, we pray Thee to be with our brethren, stranded in the
Falkland Islands, which, as Thou knowest, are situated in the South
Atlantic Ocean.”
WILLING TO COMPROMISE
“Well, Tom, what d’ye think o’ this prohibition business?”
“We ought to do like France and Russia.”
“You’re givin’ it all up, then?”
“No; France is givin’ up absent and Russia’s givin’ up vodka. So I’m
not goin’ to touch absent or vodka till peace comes. Give me beer.”
BRINGING IN THE NEW YEAR
Seaforth Highlanders’ Quaint Ceremony
The Seaforth Highlanders, now at the front, have one of the most
peculiar New Year’s Eve customs of the whole British Army. The ceremony
is picturesque and imposing.
On the night of Hogmanay, at about half-past ten, the regiment
assembles in the barrack square. A few minutes later the oldest soldier
in the battalion, dressed up as a druid, makes his appearance, to the
accompaniment of a flourish of trumpets, and ascending the improvised
throne, he calls on the ancient veterans to show their uniforms and
achievements of bygone times. To the music of the pipes and brass band,
veteran after veteran, arrayed in the uniforms worn by the regiment at
different periods, marches past, and salutes the druid. The druid then
toasts “The Seaforth Highlanders.”
After a display of Highland dancing, the alarm is sounded, and the
second oldest soldier, arrayed as Father Time, approaches. The veterans
now retreat, leaving their honors to be guarded by their successors,
and Father Time expels the druid.
At the last stroke of midnight a loud knock is heard at the gate, and
out rings the sentry’s challenge, “Halt! Who goes there?”
“The New Year!” comes back the answer.
“Advance, New Year, and give the countersign!” is the next command.
“Cabar feidth gu brath!” (the clan cry of the Mackenzies, i. e., the
Seaforths).
“Pass, New Year; all’s well!”
The gate is then opened, and the youngest boy of the battalion enters,
dressed as the high chief of ancient Ross, to represent the New Year.
The colonel shakes hands with the boy, while the band strikes up “A
Guid New Year to Ane and A’.”
After the colonel’s greeting to the battalion the National Anthem is
played, and the men fall out.
A WOMAN’S WORRY
Mrs. Barron was paying a visit to Mrs. Atkins, whose husband was away
fighting at the front. The visitor found the soldier’s wife in a
paroxysm of grief.
“Whatever is the matter?” exclaimed Mrs. Barron.
“Aint yer heard?” was the sobbing reply. “Bill’s in ’orspital with both
’is arms off.”
Mrs. Barron was obviously shocked. With a view to easing the grief,
however, she said:
“But the Government will be sure to provide for you.”
“That ain’t it,” was the tearful response. “Who’s a-goin’ to turn the
mangle for me on washin’ days now, I’d like ter know?”
NOT SUPPLIES ENOUGH FOR TWO
When a talk about the German invasion of England was going on, an
Irish militiaman, stationed in Carrickfergus, was heard to remark that
immediately the enemy landed in England he would certainly bolt, taking
a good stock of provisions, and hide in a convenient cave he knew of.
The colonel, hearing of his unpatriotic resolve, called him out next
day on parade, and lectured him severely on his cowardice.
“You’re a disgrace to the regiment and the Service at large,” he cried.
“Fancy you threatening to run away; but I’d be after you in quick time,
my man, never fear.”
“Sure, an’ you’d be welcome, your honor; but, bring yer own praties an’
things, won’t yer, colonel?”
LOVE-LETTER TO A RED CROSS NURSE
Somewhere in Europe,
Some Day in December, 1915.
My Dearest Nursie: I suppose I am the same chap who got drilled through
the wing rib by a German bullet about a century since? That I haven’t
been in heaven, and, not being up to sample, have been shunted to
hades? Don’t mistake me, nursie. I’m jolly glad to have another go at
the dog that bit me. But last time I left for the front I took my heart
with me, and this time I have left it behind in old England.
I owe the Germans a grudge, but I owe them a vote of thanks, too. They
introduced us, nursie. I didn’t know what living meant until I was
wounded and met you. Wounded! Why, my dearest nursie, the wound you
dressed so tenderly was a mere flea-bite to the one the first sight of
you, a Red Cross angel, hovering about my bed, made bang through my
heart.
As you know, heart wounds are generally fatal—kill a chap as dead as
pork; but, as I have already said, I have found it just the other way
about. My heart wound has given me new life, new hope, new courage, a
new and better manhood.
I have always foolishly regarded women as the weaker sex, but great
Kitchener! the Man Killers the Germans can produce and use are nothing
to yours, either in range, number, or effectiveness. You take a man
prisoner with one glance of your eyes, you put him hopelessly out of
action with a quiver of your lip, you leave him dead to everything in
earth or sky but your own sweet self with one touch of your dear hand,
and you make him your eternal vassal and slave with the flicker of a
smile.
Melinite is a fool to the galvanic thrill the mere sound of your
fairy footstep approaching my bed or my chair used to give me every
morning. The German “Black Marias” are mere popguns to the batteries
of your sweet eyes, masked at times by their fringed lashes. The
German bayonets even at their best cannot begin to compete with the
wounds your gentle tongue can inflict by a sharp rebuke, and a charge
of Uhlans is nothing to the overwhelming charge of love which sweeps
through the ranks of my heart when I think of you.
But though I laid siege to your heart, and brought up all the guns and
reinforcements I could muster, and although I pride myself on having,
by your own confession, captured a few of the outer ring of forts, such
as Friendship, Regard, Good Wishes, and Interest, yet I’m horridly
afraid that your heart’s real affections are still unconquered.
Oh, nursie, I cannot believe that your heart is solid concrete. There’s
surely a soft core if I could only get at it. But you can’t prevent
me writing. It’s raining in torrents, but rain cannot damp my ardor.
The enemy is firing all his big guns at once, but they cannot drive
your image from the deep trenches of my soul. There is an aeroplane
overhead, but the chap in it does not feel half so uplifted as I do
when I think of our last handshake—shall it be a kiss when We meet?—and
he would not feel half so cast down, even if he were crashing to earth
with a broken wing, as I shall if you do not reply soon.
Nursie, say “Yes” for Christmas, there’s a love!
With my life’s devotion,
Your late patient and grateful convalescent,
THOMAS ATKINS.
P. S.—I think you are sufficiently interested in my welfare to be glad
to hear that I received my commission yesterday, and that our colonel
put me to shame before all the chaps by saying all sorts of bosh about
a little job I did last week.
P. P. S.—Nursie, a little word of three letters—three, mind—by
return will make me prouder and happier than if I had been made a
field-marshal.
HOW HEROES ARE MADE
The Germans came down in force upon a patrol of Lancers, who were
obliged to retire. One man, however, fell wounded in the thigh, and
would have been captured had not a comrade turned back and brought him
in under a heavy fire.
“Well done, Mac,” said his captain at the close of the fray; “that was
a plucky action of yours in bringing Private Johnson in under fire.”
“Weel, sir,” replied Mac, “ye see, he’s the only box o’ matches in the
whole bloomin’ troop, an’ what’d we do without oor wee bit smoke?”
ANNOUNCED HIS ARRIVAL
The proud father had come up from the country to see his sailor son on
board his ship. He had never seen a battleship before, and accordingly
marvelled thereat.
Just as he caught hold of the two ropes which hung over the side
to assist sailors to the deck, he was somewhat surprised to hear a
clanging of bells—the eight bells of seamen’s time.
As he stepped on deck he met the officer of the watch. He saluted him
and said, timidly:
“I beg your pardon, sir, I’ve come to see my son Jack, but, ’pon my
word, I didn’t mean to ring so loud.”
STEPPED ON IT
A certain Staffordshire regiment had a very small band; but the
commanding officer’s feet were—well, rather broad. One day the regiment
was to march out on parade, but the music was not forthcoming.
“Where on earth is the band?” queried the adjutant.
For some time there was no reply; but when the question was repeated, a
gruff voice from the rear rank said:
“I believe, sor, the colonel trod on it be accident!”
KING ALBERT’S CHIVALRY
Calls Husband to His Wife from Trenches
A young Parisian lady, newly married to a French artillery officer who
had fought through the battles of the Marne and the Aisne and is now at
the Front in Flanders, determined to see her husband at all costs.
She left Paris for Dunkirk and tried vainly at the French headquarters
to secure a pass. She was, however, not beaten. She travelled in a
peasant’s country cart and with many delays to the Belgian headquarters.
Taking her courage in both hands, she explained her mission, gained
access to the officers of the headquarters staff, and put forward her
request.
The officers received her with great politeness, listened to her story
sympathetically, and told her gently that what she asked was impossible.
Just at that moment a tall young officer who had been intently studying
a map turned to the lady. “Madame,” he said, “you shall see your
husband.” Then he spoke for a few moments through the telephone, and,
turning again to the young wife, said, “If you will wait a little
while, your husband will come to you.”
With tears streaming down her cheeks she seized his hands and thanked
him warmly for his kindness.
Two hours later there was a joyous meeting between the lady and her
husband, who had been bewildered by his sudden recall from the trenches
in the midst of a battle.
His wife explained how it had all come about, and described the officer
through whose kindness the meeting had been made possible.
“That was King Albert,” said her husband.
FULLY QUALIFIED
Quite recently a man appeared at the recruiting offices in Newcastle
and stated to the officer in charge that he wished to enlist into His
Majesty’s Army.
“Well, my man, what regiment do you prefer to join?” asked the officer.
“Well,” replied the recruit, “I should like to join the cavalry.”
“Cavalry,” repeated the head of the recruiting department. “All right,
my man, do you know anything about horses?”
“Do I know anything about horses?” replied the would-be recruit,
seriously. “Why, I backed a winner and two seconds yesterday!”
A FINE SIGHT FOR THE HUNGRY
The men of a certain regiment had made some complaints respecting
the scarcity of food, but the colonel, a strong believer in the
go-away-from-the-table-hungry maxim, saw no grounds for increasing the
supply.
At last, however, the climax came.
The gunnery instructor had one day been explaining to a squad of men
the advantages of different sights, when the colonel appeared on the
scene and began to ask questions on the subject.
“Can any of you men tell me what a fine sight is?”
“Yes, sir,” came the reply from a private.
“Well, what is it?”
The private saluted. “Two dinners, sir, on one plate,” he cried.
SERVIAN WOMEN
There is no country in the world where women occupy a more dignified
or honored position in the home than Servia. The Servian idea is quite
different from that of the Turk, who keeps his women behind shut doors,
or the German, whose ideal woman is a good _hausfrau_. In Servia the
woman is the companion of the man.
A man is responsible for his unmarried sisters, and throughout the
Balkan States it is considered rather a breach of etiquette for him to
marry before his older sister.
No Servian girl would feel she could hold up her head in society unless
she could speak four languages. There is hardly a Servian woman who
cannot play some musical instrument. Embroidery, painting, drawing and
sculpture are all studied.
Servian women are very domesticated, and the highest ladies pay
personal attention to trivial matters of housekeeping.
There are two women doctors practicing in Belgrade, and women teachers
galore. But public opinion on the whole is rather against women
entering the labor market.
SECOND THOUGHT BEST
“Every time I see grandfather’s sword and medals,” said Bill, “I long
to take part in a universal war.” Then, as an afterthought, Bill said,
“But every time I look at grandfather’s wooden leg I long for the
advent of universal peace.”
PUNISHED FOR HIS NAME
It was the drilling of a squad of recruits. The officer was calling the
names, and prompt replies came from Jones and Smith and Robinson.
The next name was Montaig—that was how the officer pronounced it.
There was no reply.
“Montaig,” repeated the officer with emphasis.
“Here, sir,” came the half-hearted reply from the rear rank.
“Why didn’t you answer at once?” said the man in charge.
“My name is Montague,” said the recruit.
“Is it?” replied the officer. “Well, you do seven days’ fatigew.”
THEIR OWN PRIVATE WARFARE
One day recently a colonel in a newly-recruited North-country battalion
had occasion to reprimand severely one of his men. Next day, passing
this same recruit, who was doing sentry duty, the colonel observed he
did not receive the usual salute. After intentionally passing him a
second and third time with the same omission each time on the part of
the sentry, the following conversation took place:—
Colonel—“Do you know who I am?”
Recruit—“Yes.”
Colonel—“Do you not know you ought to salute me, or any other officer
when he passes you?”
Recruit—“Aye; but then thee and me fell out yesterday.”
A BIT OF RUSSIAN WIT
Aide-de-Camp to Grand Duke Nicholas—“We have just captured a motor-car
containing a German of very high rank. We think it is the Kaiser.”
Grand Duke—“For heaven’s sake release him at once. He is our best asset
in the field. He always gives the wrong instructions and interferes at
the wrong moment.”
ARMORED CANADIAN SOLDIERS
Like knights of old, the Canadian troops for the front are equipped
with armor. It is in the form of a spade, to be carried on the back
when not in use, to be used for digging trenches when not wanted for
protective purposes, and to act as a shield and rifle-rest when the
fighting begins.
There is an oval hole in the middle of the blade of the spade. Through
this hole the soldier pokes his rifle, just as the archers in the old
days used narrow niches in the walls of a castle.
Although the spade weighs only four pounds, and can be carried on
marches with ease, it is practically bullet-proof. For hours at
Valcartier Camp Sergeant Hawkins, the King’s prize-winner, potted at
the spades with his rifle, but it was not until he shot at 200 yards
with Mark 7 ammunition that the spades were damaged at all. Then they
were only cracked.
Bullets just shattered against the shields and fell back, shapeless. A
company of the 1st Royal Montreal Regiment fired volleys at the spades,
without piercing them.
TRYING HARD TO GET BY
A recruit, well known for his “strategy” when seeking a holiday, went
to the doctor and asked for a note, as he said he was ill. The doctor
could not find anything wrong with him, but gave him a note, and just
marked a stroke where the nature of complaint should be. He went to the
chief officer with the note and asked for leave. The officer took the
note, looked at it, and then said (for he looked puzzled):
“What is this you are suffering from? I can’t tell.”
Then our friend took the note, looked at it, and confidently replied:
“Can’t you see, sir, that it’s a stroke I’m suffering from?”
ONLY ONE ROCK
At a certain British club the other day the possibility of providing
soldiers with some form of bullet-proof protection was being discussed.
“Those bullet-proof shields are an insult to Tommy’s’ dignity,
gentlemen,” inveighed a retired military man, whose oft-boasted
achievements no living person had ever seen recorded.
“What do they want with such feminine accessories? When I was out in
India my force faced a galling fire for two hours, and there was no
shelter but a little rock for miles; yet though hundreds fell on every
side of me, I came off without a scratch.”
“That’s an argument in favor of shields,” quietly commented a
fellow-clubman. “If there had been more rocks some of the men might
have escaped too.”
SOUNDS LIKE A TOWN
Fogarty (a moderate drinker): “I’ll bet ye th’ Rooshians are beginnin’
t’ feel th’ loss iv vodka.”
Flaherty (warmly): “Don’t ye lose any slape over it. Mar-rk me
wur-ruds, they’ll retake it agin before long!”
THE BISHOP’S PRISONER
The Bishop of London discharges his duties in camp as the chaplain
of the London Rifle Brigade very thoroughly. One morning a number
of men were out scouting, and a recruit, very well up in his drill,
took advantage of passing through a wood to loiter behind and have a
surreptitious “smoke” behind a clump of trees. He was discovered by the
bishop, who, as chaplain, is, of course, an officer of the regiment.
The bishop gave the rifleman a good wigging as to his dereliction
of duty, and reminded him that he ought really to be the bishop’s
prisoner. The rifleman stood at the salute, and, expressing his
penitence, the offense was overlooked.
The rifleman, who stands well over six feet, in telling the story,
says, “That’s the second time I have been personally addressed by the
bishop. The first time was some ten years ago, when I was top boy in
our parish church choir, and after a service the bishop patted me on
the shoulder and commended me for my solo singing! I little thought
then that the day would come when I should be his Lordship’s prisoner
for my solo _smoking_.”
NECESSARY PRECAUTION
He was a very raw recruit, and was paying his first visit to the riding
school. He was allotted a horse; but it was obvious, from the nervous
way he handled the animal, that he had never been on horseback before.
When the instructor came up the recruit pointed to the girth.
“What’s it got that strap round it for?” he asked.
“Ah!” exclaimed the instructor, with mock admiration, “Fancy you
noticing that. You see, that horse has a terrible keen sense of humor,
an’ he’s subject to sudden bursts of laughter at some of the recruits
he gets; so we puts that band round him to keep him from bursting his
sides.”
STOPPING THE DONKEY
He was instructing some recruits in the mysteries of marching
movements. After explaining and illustrating his remarks several times
he approached one recruit, looked at him silently for a couple of
seconds, then demanded his name.
“Fitzgerald, sorr,” was the answer.
“Did you ever drive a donkey, Fitzgerald?” was his next inquiry.
“Yes, sorr,” was the man’s reply.
“What did you say when you wanted him to stop?”
“Whoa.”
The sergeant turned away and immediately put his squad in motion again.
The men advanced a dozen yards or so, when he rasped out:
“Squad, halt! Whoa, Fitzgerald!”
ONE ON SCOTTY
Some friends were in a restaurant the other day discussing the war,
when a Scotsman at the next table remarked:
“The Alleys are doing verra weel, ar-ren’t they?”
One, thinking to be smart, said:
“The Alleys! Whom do you mean?”
“Why,” said the Scotsman, “the French and the Scotch, of course.”
At this the friends roared with laughter.
“Aye, you can laugh!” said the Scot. “But I saw my mistake as soon as I
spoke. I should have said the Scotch and the French.”
DEFYING THE KAISER
In a fit of impatience because the speed of his yacht was slowed down
on entering a certain harbor, the German Emperor on one occasion tried
to assert his authority, and rang the bell for “Full speed ahead.” To
his great surprise, the pilot, an old Norwegian named Nordhuns, who
knew the dangerous character of the channel, placed himself in the way,
and, leaning over the wheel, called down the tube to the engine-room,
“Half-speed ahead. Never mind the bell!”
“What! You dare to countermand my orders?” cried the Kaiser, again
ringing the bell.
“Disregard the bell,” calmly repeated Nordhuns through the tube.
For a moment the Kaiser glared at the intrepid pilot, and then, drawing
himself up to his full height, said, majestically, “Go below, sir, and
report yourself under arrest.”
“Leave the bridge!” thundered the Norwegian, grimly, as he grasped
the wheel more firmly. “This ship is in my charge, and I’ll have no
interference with my orders from Kaiser or seaman!”
The officers on deck hurried silently aft, wishing luck to the sturdy
old sea-dog, who, knowing that he had the law as well as common sense
on his side, stood at his post unshaken by threats, unheeding commands,
and steered the _Hohenzollern_ safely into port.
The next day the Kaiser came to his senses, and decorated the pilot—the
king at the wheel—with one grade of the Order of the Black Eagle, and
also appointed him his life pilot in Norwegian waters.
TEMPERATURE 120°
Private Tommy Sims had had pneumonia, and had been for some time in
hospital, where they treated him so well that he was much averse to the
prospect of being discharged as “cured.” One day the doctor was taking
his temperature, and while Tommy had the thermometer in his mouth the
doctor moved on, and happened to turn his back. Tommy saw his chance.
He pulled the thermometer out of his mouth and popped it into a cup of
hot tea, replacing it at the first sign of the medico’s turning. When
that worthy examined the thermometer he looked first at Tommy and then
back at the thermometer and gasped:
“Well, my man, you’re not dead, but you ought to be!”
BUT PERHAPS HE CAN DIG TRENCHES
The subaltern was being put through an examination in geography,
wherein he proved himself astonishingly ignorant. At last, after a
failure on his part of unusual flagrance, the examiner scowled at him
and thundered:—
“Idiot, you want to defend your country, and you don’t know where it
is!”
LATEST SCOUTING STORY
One of the most dangerous duties a scout is called upon to perform in
war-time is that of ascertaining whether some particular position is or
is not occupied by the enemy’s forces. Every scout has his own methods
of working, but the first thing each does is generally to attempt to
trap the hidden men into betraying their position.
The other day a British scout, who, previous to the outbreak of war,
had been a well-known man about town, was told to examine a little
wood on the right bank of the ——. He went forward and tried all the
usual artifices, including the somewhat threadbare one of pretending
to gallop away in alarm, but in vain. Not a German showed himself. Yet
the scout was not satisfied, and suddenly a bright thought struck him.
He advanced a few paces and, jingling some loose silver in his pocket,
roared out:
“Waiter! Get me a taxi!”