the expected attack of the Germans. The village was fifty miles away,
and we had but twelve hours for the journey. The pace proved too much
for my brave comrades, and one after another they dropped out, till
none was left save myself and the captain, whom I carried the last ten
miles on my back, together with the rifles and ammunition of twelve
of my comrades. Reaching the village, we requisitioned two houses,
one at each end. In one I took my stand with six rifles, in the other
the captain did likewise. Within an hour the Germans attacked both
positions in overwhelming force. After two hours’ violent fighting
those on my side drew off to re-form, and I immediately raced across
to the captain’s house, just in time to repel a desperate charge. Then
I returned to the encounter on my side, and these movements I repeated
five times during the night, till at dawn the rest of the company came
to our assistance. I had thirty-five bullet wounds, but none of them
being in a vital part, I desired the doctors to remove the bullets
at once, so that I might continue my duties. My great feet on this
occasion gained me the Order of the B.O.O.T. (Best of Our Transports).
But on one more occasion I was able to serve my country in an
exceptional manner. Our wireless operator, ordered to signal “Advance
to Nancy,” his mind being filled with another name, sent “Advance to
Lil,” to the French general. Discovering his mistake, he was unable
to correct it, for a shell shattered his instrument. Quick as thought
I flung off my coat and ran like the wind to the French headquarters,
five miles away, arriving exactly one and a half seconds before the
message, just in time to take off my hat and hold it in the way of
the oncoming message, which hit it with such force as to knock me
backwards. Thus I saved a ghastly mistake. At the conclusion of war I
was for this exploit made a corporal, and decorated with the Order K.
C. B. (Karnarftellem Cops the Bun).
WASTED SYMPATHY
Whilst making some purchases in a village shop in Scotland the other
day, an excited inhabitant rushed in with the news:—
“Tam Henry’s gaun awa’ wi’ the sodgers!”
The shopkeeper remarked dolefully:—
“My, the auld wife’ll miss him sairly.”
When the visitor had left to carry her news elsewhere, a customer
inquired sympathetically if “Tam Henry” was the old woman’s only son.
“Naw, naw,” the shopkeeper answered with a pitying smile, “Tam Henry’s
her best hoarse!”
KNEW HIM OF OLD
A certain recruiting sergeant was sent by the military authorities to
his native town, with a view to getting as many of his acquaintances to
enlist as possible.
One morning, as he was walking down the street, he saw a group of his
old pals standing at the corner.
Going up to the group, he said, “Now, lads, what do you say about
joining the colors? You know, I didn’t get these stripes for standing
at street corners.”
“Nowe,” replied one of his pals, “if they’d gi’n stripes for that tha’d
’a’ bin a bloomin’ zebra bi neaw.”
THIS ORIGINATED IN NEW YORK
In one of the French restaurants in Soho, where there had been a fight
a few nights before, the following was at once posted in large type:—
“The war will be settled abroad. Please do not start anything here.”
An enterprising man has printed these placards in large quantities, and
is selling them to the restaurants frequented by persons of various
nationalities now at war abroad.
TWO POINTS OF VIEW
The Family Man—“The cost of everything is increasing at a terrible
rate.”
The Military Expert—“Not everything. According to statistics in former
wars it cost fifteen thousand dollars to kill a man, but now, with
improved ordnance and ammunition, it can be done for one-third of
that.”
SOME KIND OF A MARSHAL
Wife (proud of her military brother-in-law, to husband)—“Do you know
Fred has been recently promoted to field-marshal?”
Husband—“To field-marshal! Impossible, dear.”
Wife (indignantly)—“Well, if it’s not a field-marshal he’s come to,
it’s a court-martial.”
NOR ON THE SOCKS
An English colonel, at kit inspection, said to Private Flanigan:
“Ha! Yes, shirts, socks, flannels, all very good. Now, can you assure
me that all the articles of your kit have buttons on them?”
“No, sir,” said Private Flanigan, hesitating.
“How’s that, sir?”
“Ain’t no buttons on the towels, sir!”
LESS WAR NEWS WANTED
A well-known London journalist never uses a notebook, but jots down
such events as appeal to him, with suggestions for his subsequent
articles, on his cuffs. At first his laundress was much puzzled by
these hieroglyphics, but as time went on she became able to read them,
and apparently derived much benefit and pleasure therefrom.
One day the journalist received, with his laundered garments, a slip of
paper on which was written:—
“Your last washing was very interesting, but we should be glad if you
would give us more about ‘Scandals in high life,’ and less about the
war.”
TWENTY STRAIGHT
Sergeant (disgustedly, to Private Jones, who is not exactly an expert
at shooting)—“Ugh! don’t waste your last bullet. Nineteen are quite
enough to blaze away without hitting the target once. Go behind that
wall and blow your brains out.”
Jones walked quietly away, and a few seconds later a shot rang out.
“Great sausages, the fool’s done what I told him!” howled the sergeant,
running behind the wall. Great was his relief when he saw Private Jones
coming towards him.
“Sorry, sergeant,” he said, apologetically; “another miss.”
RUSSIAN EXPECTATIONS
A retort that shows something of the attitude of Russian and Austrian
officers before hostilities actually broke out is reported by a
Petrograd correspondent.
In the course of his last interview with the Russian military
authorities before the war, Prince Hohenlohe, the Austrian military
attaché, expressed surprise that the Russians should be requisitioning
so many automobiles, the extensive use of which since then may help to
explain the rapid alternations of fortune of engagements that have so
often proved confusing.
“Your roads are too bad,” the Austrian remarked. “Of what use are
automobiles?”
“Ah!” replied the Russian, “but you must remember that your Austrian
roads are very good!”
FREAKS OF BULLETS
Wonderful Escapes From Death
A sapper in the Royal Engineers tells the story of an extraordinary
escape which one of his comrades experienced. A bullet took his cap off
and cut a groove through his hair, without injuring the scalp, in such
a manner that it looked as though he had carefully parted his hair down
the center.
This is but another illustration of the tricks that bullets play at
times. It is doubtful, however, if any soldier in the present campaign
has had such marvelous escapes as Lieutenant A. C. Johnston, the Hants
County cricketer, who relates how, shortly before he was slightly
wounded, a shell hit the wall six inches above his head, while shortly
afterwards a bullet hit the ground half a yard in front of him, bounded
up, and hit him on the body, bruising his ribs. Then a bullet hit him
over the heart, but was spent before reaching him, and when in the
hospital he picked it out of his left-hand breast-pocket and sent it
home to his wife.
A charmed life, too, seems to be borne by a private of the Manchester
Regiment, who relates how, while smoking a cigarette in the trenches,
a bullet took the “fag” out of his mouth, while another cut the crown
off his hat, leaving the peak still sticking on his head. And it is
characteristic of the humor of “Tommy,” even when the fire is hottest,
that when a bullet took off the top of a tin of bully beef which
another private had in his hand, he looked at it, coolly turned round,
made a bow in the direction of the enemy, and thanked them for saving
him the trouble of finding a can-opener.
A curious escape from what might have been a mortal wound was that of
a Royal Scots Fusilier. During a severe fight he suddenly felt the
shock of a bullet. “I am hit,” he said to his chum. Looking down,
however, he saw that the bullet had struck a clip of cartridges in his
top left-hand pouch, but had done no other damage. The first cartridge
must have been a little loose, and as it twisted round when it was
struck, the bullet was turned off instead of going straight through the
soldier’s body, as it would have done had all the cartridges been firm.
Mr. Frank Scudamore relates an extraordinary incident which occurred
during the Soudan campaign, when he saw an officer, a friend of his,
go down apparently shot through the head. “To my surprise,” he says,
“I met him walking about after the battle, apparently none the worse,
save that his head was bandaged. Then he showed me how the bullet,
striking and deflected by one of the hooks of his helmet chain, had run
right round his forehead, cutting a groove under the skin, and had then
glanced off the helmet hook at the other side.”
FINDING AN EXCUSE
Private Atkins—“Jones just stood me a drink.”
His Best Girl—“And did you stand him one back?”
Private Atkins—“No; a true British soldier never re-treats.”
ONLY A MATTER OF TIME
The general was busily inspecting a regiment the colonel of which was
a very bad horseman, and this was well known to his men. The battalion
was formed up in quarter column, and as the commanding officer gave
the order “Advance in column,” the band struck up the regimental march
past, with the result that his horse plunged and kicked furiously, and
he was very nearly unseated.
As the leading company was nearing the saluting-base the captain
glanced round to see if his men were marching well, and was horrified
to see the whole of the front two ranks bunched up in the middle and
every man watching the commanding officer’s efforts to retain his seat.
“Ease off, there!” he shouted, angrily.
“No ’ee ain’t,” said a young recruit, “but ’ee soon will be!”
SOUNDS LOGICAL
Pat, who had joined the new army, was given his uniform by the
quartermaster. Everything fitted all right till he came to put on the
trousers, which he said were far too tight.
“No, no,” said the quartermaster; “they’re fine.”
“I tell you they are too tight,” said Pat. “They are tighter than me
skin.”
“Nonsense, Pat; how can they be tighter than your skin?”
“Begorra!” exclaimed Pat. “I can sit down in my skin, but I can’t sit
down in the trousers.”
UNWILLING MARTYR
Some time ago little Willie rambled into the house, threw his soldier
suit in the corner, and began looking over a book. This was unusual for
the youngster, and mother began to investigate.
“What did you come into the house for, Willie?” she asked. “You haven’t
quarrelled with Georgie Brown, have you?”
“No, mother,” answered Willie; “but I’m not going to play war with him
any more.”
“Why not?” queried mother. “What has he been doing?”
“It’s just this way,” explained Willie. “When we play war I’m Germany
and he’s England, and if I don’t let him lick me every time he says
that I’m not patriotic.”
THE TAR AND THE TARTAR
Pat has always been celebrated the world over for his repartee, and he
did not belie his reputation for smart retorts quite recently.
It happened that a warship touched at a military port on the coast
of Ireland, and a “Tommy,” meeting a full-bearded Irish “tar” in the
street, accosted him with:—
“Here, I say, Pat, when are you goin’ to put those whiskers of yours on
the reserve list?”
Pat turned and eyed his questioner thoughtfully for the space of half a
second, then:—
“Begorra, just as soon as ever you place your tongue on the civil
list,” was his reply.
DON’T SAY “ROVER”
The inhabitants of a Sussex village recently received somewhat short
notice of the visit of a regiment of soldiers, and local butchers’
shops were absolutely cleared out in the endeavor to treat the visitors
well at their various one-night billets.
One motherly old dear, who was cute enough to foresee the possible
shortage, was early on the market and managed to secure a nice piece of
steak weighing two-and-a-half pounds.
Her three men arrived, very tired and very hungry, and by the time
their ablutions were through the meat was done to a turn.
“There,” she said, proudly, as she placed it on the table, “I thought
you’d like somethin’ substantial. If you manage to eat that you won’t
be wanting much more till the morning. You’re lucky to get it, I can
tell you, for there isn’t another scrap o’ meat to be had in the place
for love or money. Just shout out if you’re wantin’ any more tea made.”
The soldiers decided to have a joke with the old lady. They transferred
the steak to a spare plate, popped it under the table, and called for
her attendance.
“Are the other two steaks ready yet?” came the question.
The old lady eyed the empty dish and held up her hands in astonishment.
“Other two!” she exclaimed. “Why, I thought that one was enough for the
three of you. Well, well, I’m done altogether. I can’t beg, borrow, or
steal a bit, and I’m right down sorry for you, that I am.”
“It’s all right, mother,” laughed the soldiers. “It’s too bad of us—we
were only having a joke. The steak’s under the table.”
“Good gracious!” screamed the lady. “So is Rover!”
Instantly the men dived underneath the table to secure their meat. They
saw a big black retriever dog, looking on very good terms with himself,
beside an empty dish. The steak was gone.
And three very tired and very hungry men made a meal off bread and
cheese. It is dangerous to say “Rover” in their hearing nowadays.
SCARS OF BATTLE
“Yes, John received his trunk this morning. It’s been somewhere over
there in Germany for eleven weeks.”
“Where is John?”
“Why, he’s out in the garage shooting bullets through the trunk. He
thinks they’ll make it look so much more interesting, don’t you know.”
SUITED TO HIS POSITION
The Irish adjutant’s wife was telling Bridget about her husband.
“My husband, Bridget,” she said, proudly, “is at the head of the
Tipperary militia.”
“Oi t’ought as much, ma’am,” said Bridget, cheerfully. “Ain’t he got
th’ foine malicious look?”
KAISER WILHELM II
“I don’t know that there is much use in keeping my school open more
than a month or two each year,” said the German pedagogue.
“Why is that?”
“Our Emperor has simplified matters to such an extent that when you
ask the name of the world’s greatest poet, painter, musician, general,
traveller, or monarch, there is only one answer to all the questions.”
AS SEEN IN FRANCE
Two French soldiers took their places in the trenches—the one
middle-aged, who had long since received his baptism of fire, the other
a mere youth, whose chattering teeth and blanched face proved it was
his first experience of real war.
The older soldier tried to reassure his frightened companion. “Be
brave, my lad; remember you fight for France.”
A shell screeched through the air close overhead, and the young man’s
terror increased.
More soothing words, but more shells, and the upset nerves still on
edge. An hour passed, punctuated by many kindly encouragements, but the
new soldier’s fear had not abated.
The patience of the other was at last exhausted.
“Why do you shiver and shake like that, you vain young fool?” said he.
“You don’t suppose the Germans are firing all these expensive shells at
you, do you? You are not a cathedral or a work of art!”
ANYTHING TO QUALIFY
A lot of old-timers of the Army and Navy Club in Piccadilly were
swapping stories.
“One Sam Haskins,” says a retired brigadier-general, “decided to
enlist. He burned with a desire to serve his country. So he applied at
a recruiting office, and was duly punched and prodded, trotted up and
down, jumped over chairs and tables, and so forth.
“Then came the questions. All manner of them were fired at him, and he
answered most of them satisfactorily. Then came the stern inquiry:
“‘Have you ever served a term of imprisonment?’
“‘No, sir,’ stammered Sam; ‘but,’ he added, hastily, ‘I’d be willing to
serve a short one, if it’s necessary.’”
TAKING THE JOY OUT OF LIFE
Wife—“The heavy explosions of a battle always cause rain. It rained
after Waterloo. It rained after Fontenoy. It rained after Marathon.”
Husband—“But Marathon was fought with spears and arrows, my dear.”
Wife—“There you go again! Always throwing cold water on everything I
have to say.”
ON HIS WAY
Still another recruiting story. A new cavalry trooper was being
initiated into the mysteries of riding when his horse bolted. “Where
the deuce are you going?” thundered the instructor. The reply came back
in gasps: “Don’t know—but the ’orse’s ’ome is at ’Ammersmith.”
MORTIFIED THE FRENCHMAN
“Of course, doctor, German measles are seldom serious?”
“I never met but one fatal case.”
“Fatal!”
“Yes; it was a Frenchman, and when he discovered it was German measles
that he had, mortification set in.”
CHECKS FOR TWO
When the young officer, ordered to the Front, called on his tailor to
get a fresh outfit, the tailor could not forget that there was already
an old and unsettled account.
But he felt nervous about broaching the subject.
“I see the Germans,” said the young officer, casually, “have had a
check.”
“Lucky Germans!” said the tailor, wistfully.
The young man looked puzzled for a moment, and then took the gentle
hint. Next day the bill was settled.
SYMPATHETIC SOUL
Scene—Soldiers’ concert at which no alcoholic liquors are being
supplied, the men being served with mineral waters by young lady
helpers.
Soldier (to young lady helper)—“Do you see that the man who is singing
has got his eyes half-shut?”
Young Lady—“So he has. What’s he doing that for?”
Soldier—“He can’t bear to look at us. He knows wot we’re sufferin’.”
A QUESTION OF DIET
During a particularly nasty dust-storm at one of the camps a recruit
ventured to seek shelter in the sacred precincts of the cook’s domain.
After a time he broke an awkward silence by saying to the cook:
“If you put the lid on that camp kettle you would not get so much of
the dust in your soup.”
The irate cook glared at the intruder, and then broke out:
“See here, me lad. Your business is to serve your country.”
“Yes,” interrupted the recruit, “but not to eat it.”
A GENTLE HINT
The British soldier is never at a loss when sarcasm is needed, and an
example of his readiness was seen only the other day.
A long route march had been in progress and the officer had been none
too patient. Several times he had had occasion to speak strongly to
the men. At last, on the march home, the order came, “March easy”—the
time when songs are indulged in. There was no call for “Tipperary” this
time, but unanimously they started singing, “Kind Words Can Never Die.”
A MATTER OF PUNCTUATION
Bix—“I see there’s a report from Holland that concrete bases for German
cannon have been found there.”
Dix—“Don’t believe a word you hear from Holland. The geography says it
is a low, lying country.”
AND THERE ARE OTHERS
First Lady—“I see the master cutting a dash this morning. Nobody would
think he was hard-up.”
Second Lady—“Lor’ bless yer, no! Since this ’ere Merrytorium come in
he walks down the High Street in front of all the shops as though he
didn’t owe ’em a penny.”
SOME BONEHEAD
The value of army remounts was exemplified the other day by the cavalry
sergeant who lost patience with an awkward recruit.
“Never approach the horses from behind without speaking,” he exclaimed.
“If you do they’ll kick you in that thick head of yours, and the end of
it will be that we shall have nothing but lame horses in the squadron.”
PROUD OF IT
A train loaded with wounded soldiers drew up at a certain station.
Among these was one whose face could not be discerned for bandages.
“You poor, poor boy,” sympathized an English lady, who approached him
timidly.
“Madam,” replied the soldier, with as much pride as springing to
attention would convey, “don’t pity me. Pity my chums in the train
there, who got hit where it won’t show.”
“Why, why,” she stammered. “I thought you would not like to be
disfigured.”
“Disfigured!” the soldier replied, scornfully; “I am not disfigured, I
am decorated!”
DIPLOMACY
A well-known English politician was much annoyed by reporters. One day
he was enjoying a chat at a London hotel, when a strange young man came
up who seemed to have something of importance to communicate, and led
him across the room. Arrived in a corner, the stranger whispered, “I am
on the staff of an evening paper, and I should like you to tell me what
you think of the Government’s foreign policy.” Mr. Dash looked a little
puzzled; then he said, “Follow me.” Leading the way, he walked through
the reading-room, down some steps into the drawing-room, through a long
passage into the dining-room, and drawing his visitor into the corner
behind the hat-rack, he whispered, “I really don’t know anything about
it.”
AN OVER-DOSE
A well-known physician was examining a class of nurses. He described
the condition of a patient, and asked one nurse how much morphine, in
her opinion, should be administered to the sufferer.
“Eight grains,” promptly replied the nurse.
The doctor made no comment, and the girl passed on. When her turn came
again she appeared greatly confused, and said to the examiner, “Doctor,
I wish to correct the answer I made last time. I meant to say that
one-eighth of a grain should be given to the patient.”
“Too late,” remarked the physician, without looking up from his
question paper. “The man’s dead.”
NOBODY CONCERNED
The wounded soldier was being attended by the doctor. The latter seemed
to treat the case in a light-hearted manner. He prodded the soldier in
the ribs, and grinned.
“You’ll be all right,” he said. “You’ve got a bullet in your left arm;
but that does not trouble me in the least.”
“I don’t suppose it does,” said the soldier. “An’ if you’d got a bullet
in both arms I don’t suppose it ’ud trouble me, either.”
HARD LUCK
He was a Canadian and he wore a corporal’s stripes. There he sat snugly
in a sheltered part of his trench in that little corner of Belgium and
played poker with a quartet of his comrades. Luck was against him. He
had lost about everything he had to lose, when at the very height of
the game—just after the dealer had done his best and worst—a shell came
through the roof of the shelter, passed between the Canadian’s long,
lean legs (luckily without hitting him), and buried itself harmlessly
in the soft earth. The others of the party leaped up in not inexcusable
haste and fled from the place, but the Canadian did not move.
The disturbance brought the company commander on the run.
“What’s up?” says he.
“Well, sir,” says the Canadian, “that there shell drops in on us and
when it don’t explode at once I judge it is pretty safe not to go off
at all. So I just set where I am. The cursed luck of it is that I’ve
been playin’ away here all morning’ drawin’ rotten cards and losin’
my shirt, and here just as I holds the first four of a kind that’s
gladdened my two eyes since Hector was a pup—and kings at that, sir—at
that identical moment there comes this pifflin’ German turnip and the
other fellows beats it.”
HOW HE TOOK HIS
English men-of-war have no ice-making machines on board, as do our
ships, and everybody knows how the English fail to understand us on the
subject of the use of ice, especially in our drinks.
An English officer was aboard one of our ships of the Asiatic fleet,
and, on being served with an iced drink, commented on the delights of
having cool water aboard. The American officer responded with an offer
of a small cake of ice, which was sent the following morning. Meeting
the Englishman ashore a week later, the American asked him if he had
enjoyed the ice.
“Enjoy it, old top? Why, do you know, that was the first cold bawth
I’ve had since I left England!”
WILLING TO OBLIGE
A recruit very anxious to join Kitchener’s Army enters recruiting
station determined to accommodate himself to any condition required.
Officer (filling in form)—“What’s your religion?”
Zealous Recruit—“Well, what are you short of?”
CAUSE FOR PREJUDICE
“Why are you for the Allies?” a friend asked a solemn-looking neutral,
who looked as if there had been much suffering in his life. “Is it
because you abhor Prussian militarism?”
“No.”
“Is it that you fear Germany’s desire to expand, to absorb foreign
lands? Is it that you dislike the German character?”
“No,” replied the solemn-looking individual.
“Well, why are you for the Allies?”
“Because,” said the other, with a pensive air, “I once ate some
sauerkraut.”
SELF-BETRAYED