The Project Gutenberg eBook, Anecdotes of the Great War, by Carleton Britton Case

Anecdotes of the Great War

Transcriber's Note: This cover has been created by the transcriber using the title page and is placed in the public domain.

ANECDOTES
OF THE
GREAT WAR

GATHERED FROM EUROPEAN
SOURCES

By CARLETON B. CASE

Shrewesbury Publishing Co.
CHICAGO

Copyright, 1916
by
Shrewesbury Publishing Co.

FOREWORD

THERE have been occasions, even in this greatest of world’s conflicts, when

“Grim-visag’d war hath smoothed his wrinkled front,”

and stopped fighting long enough to smile.

It could not be all slaughter and struggle, this war, or every combatant on the long, weary battle-line would go mad. There must be relaxation from the terrible tension. And there is.

Human nature proves to be much the same in time of stress as under more cheerful circumstances, and the lads at the front, in the trenches, and even in the hospitals, as well as the sad-hearted folks left behind, are quick to catch at any incident, however trivial, that shall relieve the strain by a suggestion of mirthfulness; a mild paliative for the awfulness of things as they are.

In all wars there are amusing happenings; still but few are ever recorded, so overshadowed are they by more momentous matters. And now, while shrapnel and gas-bombs are still fouling the European air and tremendous events that make history for a whole world are being enacted daily, seems the most fitting time to gather such material as the European press affords, to exhibit the lighter side of the world’s most dreadful war.

This is the first and so far the only collection of its kind published since the war began. In its compilation care has been taken to avoid all items calculated to give offense to any. The bitterness and hatred that characterize much of the current offerings, especially of the German and British press, are given no place here, for reasons that must be obvious.

The absence or scarcity of anecdotes from Russian, Japanese, Polish, Turkish, Bulgarian, Serbian and Italian sources may be attributed to the editor’s inability at this time to secure access to suitable material, if such exists at all, and not to any wish to limit selections solely to the other combatants.

ANECDOTES OF THE GREAT WAR

BLANKETY-BLANK

Mrs. Waring—“What language do the Belgians use, Paul?”

Mr. Waring—“I don’t know; but I know what language I’d use if I were a Belgian!”

HAS A MONOPOLY

“How is it that nobody ever ventures to discuss the war with Jinks, and he has all the talking to himself?”

“Well, you see, he’s the only fellow in the club who knows how to pronounce the names of those Russian and Polish jawbreaker towns.”

MERE TYPOGRAPHICAL ERROR

The proprietor of a café at Havre, in endeavoring to please his large-increased British clientèle, as a consequence of the war, started his menus in English. The first effort of the local printer was:—

“Soup, fish, entrée, joint, sweet, wife and coffee included.”

Three francs was the price, and one might say not at all dear at that figure.

FIGHT OR I QUIT YOU

Mabel—“I think I shall give up my flat next week.”

Maud—“Why, is it too small?”

Mabel—“No; he won’t enlist.”

WOULDN’T BACK OUT

One night General —— was out on the line and observed a light on the mountain opposite. Thinking it was a signal-light of the enemy, he remarked to his artillery officer that a hole could easily be put through it. Whereupon the officer, turning to the corporal in charge of the gun, said:

“Corporal, do you see that light?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Put a hole through it,” ordered the captain.

The corporal sighted the gun, and, when all was ready, he looked up and said:

“Captain, that’s the moon.”

“Don’t care for that,” was the captain’s ready response; “put a hole through it, anyhow.”

UNDER CANVAS

“Yes,” sighed the mother, “I am so often worried about my boy John. You have no idea how much concerned a mother is when her son is on the tented field.”

“Ah!” said the sympathetic listener. “And what regiment is your son with?”

“Regiment? Oh, he isn’t with the army—he’s employed in a traveling circus.”

PUNCTURED

“Reckon I look a reg’lar Bluebird,” quoth Tommy to himself, as he caught a khaki reflection of himself in a looking-glass.

On going nearer he gazed at the rough stubble of his chin ruefully, and took a thoughtful look at his watch.

“Just time,” he muttered, as he pushed open the door of an unknown barber’s shop.

That worthy, with patriotic fervor, placed himself at the disposal of Tommy absolutely, and, between various tricky questions on points of war, nicked and gashed the poor soldier’s face with consummate skill.

The job finished, the barber surveyed Tommy with pride and admiration as he flicked him down with a towel. Our hero, however, again went and surveyed his face in the glass.

“Give me a drink of water!” he gasped.

“You ain’t going to faint?” exclaimed the alarmed hairdresser.

“No—oh, no,” calmly replied Tommy, staunching the wounds on his face. “I just want to see if my mouth’ll hold water!”

HE WANTED POTATOES

A section of British infantry entered a French village in the evening and were going to billet for the night, so many thought it a good chance to cook a hot supper. A private had foraged round and found everything to make a good Irish stew except the potatoes. Being unable to speak French, he asked his section commander what was the French for potatoes. The section commander, being a bit of a wit and scenting some fun, replied, “Bon soir” (“Good evening”).

The private in perfect good faith went up to a house door and was answered by a Frenchwoman, who did not understand one word of English, and the following conversation occurred:

Private—“Bon soir.”

Frenchwoman—“Bon soir, monsieur.”

Private—“Yes, bon soir.”

Frenchwoman—“Bon soir, monsieur.”

Private—“Yes, yes! Some bon soirs, please.”

Thomas Atkins, seeing the look of amazement on the good Frenchwoman’s face, and seeing a potato lying in the roadway, thought he had better adopt different tactics, so, picking up the potato and showing it to the woman, said: “Here, missus, give us some of these blooming spuds!”

ABSENT-MINDED BEGGAR

The “Tommy” on leave from the front had been given a free railway pass to take him home to see his people, and he utilized part of his brief holiday to get married. On the return journey, when the ticket-inspector asked to see his pass, he produced by accident his marriage lines.

The inspector handed the paper back with a glimmer of a smile.

“This is a ticket for a very long and wearisome journey, young man,” he said, “but not on this line.”

AND THE TOOTUNS, TOO

First Native—“We’re doin’ fine at the war, Jarge.”

Second Native—“Yes, Jahn; and so be they Frenchies.”

First Native—“Aye; an’ so be they Belgians an’ Italyuns an’ Rooshians.”

Second Native—“Aye; an’ so be they Allys. Oi dunno where they come from, Jahn, but they be perfect fiends for fightin’.”

WAR BRIDE RETORTS

Soldier’s Unmarried Wife (who has been living with her man for eleven years, to charming and aristocratic widow, the local representative of the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Families’ Association)—“Well, ma’am, I am going to be married next week, and I want you to come to the wedding. You’ve been so kind it would not be right without you.”

Fair Widow—“I shall be delighted to come, Mrs. Brown. What day is it?”

Mrs. Brown—“On Thursday, ma’am.”

Fair Widow—“That is very unfortunate. I am afraid I cannot go, as I have another important engagement.”

Mrs. Brown—“Is it very important, ma’am? Can’t you put it off?”

Fair Widow—“Well, the truth is, I am going to be married myself.”

Mrs. Brown—“Ah, I quite understand. It doesn’t do to miss the chance of getting righted when you gets the opportunity, does it now, ma’am?”

TO A CIGARETTE—IN THE TRENCHES

I’m up to my knees in cold water,

There’s “Zeps” droppin’ bombs from the sky,

But I don’t care a jot for the whole bloomin’ lot;

I’ve got you—and my matches are dry!

A right guid frien’ ye are tae me,

Ye gie me strength an’ vigor.

A comforter ye are. But, oh!

If only ye’d been bigger!

I’m a bloomin’ modest ’ero ’oo the boys say never swanks,

And I’ve never told my story to reporters,

But I’ll be a bloomin’ Kiplin’ if they like, by way of thanks,

For the blessed cigarette the post’s just brought us.

Oh, Kitchener is worth a lot, and so is Johnny French;

We talk a heap about ’em both when sitting in our trench.

But if you want to know the chap whose name should be wrote big,

I tell yer straight, the best of all is good old Gen’ral Cig.

Here’s to the beggar that hasn’t a smoke,

Nor a “fag-paper” even to make one;

And here’s to the toff, may he never go broke,

Who asks Tommy Atkins to take one.

Bully beef and cocoa—you’re right when in the fray.

Cold roast beef and pickles—in barracks you’re my lay.

Chicken soup and jellies, in hospital you get.

But I’d swap ’em all, and welcome, for you, my cigarette.

When the “Black Marias” are tumbling, dancing, bursting, spitting, grumbling;

And to blow us all to bits is what they’re after;

Ah, my little cigarette, you’re the cheeriest friend I’ve met,

For you help to turn the slaughter into laughter.

SOME BOSS

How Lord Kitchener is regarded in the English army was shown once in amusing fashion at a “geographical tea-party.”

It was noticed that a young subaltern came into the room with a tiny portrait of Lord Kitchener in his buttonhole. No one could guess what geographical significance could be attached to it. At last the young man explained that what he had intended to convey was “The Bos-phor-us.”

WHAT MUFFS ARE FOR

“You are a regular muff, sir,” said an exasperated sergeant, after vainly trying to drill a recruit.

“Thank you sir,” replied the latter; “if I am a muff, I have done my duty—I have made you warm!”

GOING THE LIMIT

Even the war has its bright side. Two negro porters were discussing it as they waited for a train to pull into the station.

“Man,” said the first, “dem Germany submaroons is sho’ly gwine to sink de British navy. Yas, sir-ee, dey’s sho’ly gwine to ’splode dem naval boats dat’s waitin’ out yonda.”

“Sho!” said porter number two. “An’ what’s gwine ter happen den?”

“Why, dem Germany submaroons’ll come right on ’cross de ocean an’ splode de rest ob de naval boats ob de world. Dat’s what’ll happen den, Sambo!”

“Well, looky heah, Gawge. Ain’t yo’ an’ me better decla’ ouahselves a couple o’ noot—nootral—nootralities?”

“Man,” said Gawge, “yo’ all kin be a nootrality if yo’ wants to. Ah’m a German!”

TOMMY ATKINS EXPLAINS WHY “IT’S A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY”

Scene: A street in a French town. Enter Thomas Atkins, singing; he meets Jean Pioupiou.

T. A.—“‘It’s a long, long way to Tipperary, it’s—’ Halloa, cocky—how goes it?” (Holds out his hand, genially.)

J. P.—“Ah, mon cher ami! ‘For eeze a zholi good fellow,’ nest-ce-pas?” (Attempts to embrace his new friend.)

T. A.—“Whoa, mare—steady on! You make me blush, old sport—it’s not the thing where we come from. Kiss the girls—not half! But the men—not in these!”

J. P.—“You come from Teeperary—a long, long way, peut-être?”

T. A.—“Me? Never was there in the whole course of my natural, cher ami, see voo play, mong cher frère. What price my parley-vooing, eh?”

J. P.—“Charmant—charmant! Vous parlerez bientôt—”

T. A.—“Cut it, old dear; I like you—you’re hot stuff; but your queer langwidge is a bit too thick. Have a fag? No offense.”

J. P.—“Merci bien, m’sieu. Mais dites-moi—tiens! Tell me, eef you please, where is zis Teeperary, and why you sing always of it such a ’long, long way?’ Ees it that you all come from there?”

T. A.-“Well, I never met anybody yet who’d been there, but I’ll tell you one thing—promise you won’t let on?”

J. P.—“‘Let on?’ Pardon—I do not—”

T. A.—“You won’t tell anyone?”

J. P.—“Ah, non, non—pas un mot!”

T. A.—(Whispers hoarsely) “It’s in Ireland.”

J. P. (Ecstatically) “Ah—Teeperary ees in Ireland! Eet is the Hymne National of les Irlandais sans doute; the—what do you say—the National Anthem of that country!”

T. A.—(Rather taken aback) “Well, not exactly a hymn, my son. You’re a long way off it yet.”

J. P.—“‘A long, long way’ off eet, hein? But why so very far to this place you sing of? And why do you celebrate it so loudly on your marching?”

T. A.—(Puzzled) “Blowed if I know. It’s a long way because—you see, you’d have to cross the Channel; then first on the left and straight on till you board the Irish packet; then—ask a policeman. See?”

J. P.—(Sadly) “Ah, oui, oui. Je ne comprends pas—mille regrets.”

T. A.—“You no comprenny, eh? Same here—left my geography home on the piano, else I’d put it clearer.” (An idea comes to him.) “You see, it’s like this: we take Tipperary as kind of representative—oh, very hot. Now I’m oratin’. Twig?”

J. P.—“Pardon?”

T. A.—(Very earnestly, explaining to himself as well as his friend) “Means lots of things, Tipperary—home, the girl, a square feed, plenty of ’baccy, and the old pals, you know; all signified by the word ‘Tipperary.’ Understand? We pack it up tight for convenience in transport, and when we sing it, it all comes out—the jolly things we’ve left behind. Got it?”

J. P.—(Smiling happily) “Ah, bien entendu—you ‘pack it’—ze Irish packet of which you have spoke, is it not?”

T. A.—(Groaning softly) “Oh, Lord! Cheese it, Frenchie—you make me perspire. What I mean is, when we sing ‘Tipperary’ it reminds us of all these things. And we like it. Makes us feel nice all over.”

J. P.—(Joyously) “Voilà—comme c’est bon—c’est symbolique, un coup de l’imagination, n’est-ce-pas?”

T. A.—(Catching the word) “That’s it—you’ve struck it; it sets our imagina-see-on to work. Also it’s a special swanky tune for marching to; makes you forget your poor feet. Like the tune, eh? Savvy? Tipperary—you ’preciate the air—le music, tray bong, nace-pah?”

J. P. (Beaming) “La musique—la mélodie—ah, oui, mais c’est—how do you say him?” (triumphantly): “Luv-lee!”

T. A.—(Enthusiastically) “Oh, good! Bong garsong! You cottoned on beautifully that time, anyhow.”

J. P.—“Comment?”

T. A.-“Come on? Where? Oh, I see—one of your words. Well?”

J. P.—“But, tell me, eet is how long—how far—to Teeperary?”

T. A.—(Desperately) “Now look here, old dear; I’ve had enough of this. You take it from me there’s some things you bally well can’t get the hang of, and this is one of ’em. Never mind; donny-moi one of those funny little black fags of yours and we’ll toddle to a caffy and drink to William the Conqueror—I don’t think. Come on!”

J. P.—“Comment?”

T. A.—“That’s what I said.” (Takes his arm and sings): “‘It’s a long—’”

J. P. (Joining in with huge glee as they go off) “‘—long way to Teeperary, eet’s a long, long way to go-o-o—’” (Exeunt.)

PLENTY TO CHOOSE FROM

Will Irwin, the war correspondent, supped in London recently with Lincoln Springfield, editor.

“Lord Kitchener,” said Mr. Irwin, “told a young lady some years since that, if he ever married, his choice would be a German widow.”

“Well, he’s making plenty of them now,” chuckled Mr. Springfield.

WINNING A BET

One of the best stories told about Sir John French is how, one night at dinner, some officers were discussing rifle-shooting. The general was listening, as was his wont, without making any remark, until at length he chipped in with:

“Say, I’ll bet anyone here,” in his calm, quiet, deliberate way, “that I can fire ten shots at 500 yards and call each shot correctly without waiting for the marker. I’ll stake a box of cigars on it.”

The major present accepted the offer, and the next morning the whole mess was at the shooting range to see the trial.

Sir John fired. “Miss!” he announced. He fired again. “Miss!” he repeated. A third shot. “Miss!”

“Hold on there!” protested the major. “What are you doing? You are not shooting at the target at all.”

But French finished his task. “Miss!” “Miss!” “Miss!”

“Of course I wasn’t shooting at the target,” he said. “I was shooting for those cigars.”

COCKNEY GERMAN

He was a shining light of the Intelligence Corps, and before he arrived at Swakopmund his abilities as a linguist were spoken of with bated breath. To him there came his captain.

“Glad you’ve come, Jones,” said he; “we need a man who speaks German. Take a file and go down and tell that officer we made a prisoner yesterday that I’ll give him parole, but if he attempts to escape he’ll be shot.”

Off marched Jones, full of the importance of his task.

“Sprechen sie Deutsch?” he asked the chap, to the great admiration of the onlookers.

“Ja, ja,” said the big German, eagerly, glad to find some one who understood him at last.

“Oh! yer do—do yer?” said Jones. “Well, old sauerkraut, the captain says as ’ow ’e’ll give yer parole, but if you blooming well tries to skip it, there’s a bullet for yer! See?”

IT PAYS TO ADVERTISE

When the opposing lines of trenches are near enough together, bombs of all kinds are being used by both belligerents. Some of these bombs are made out of old jam tins; and it is related how, when one Pure Plum and Apple, bearing the maker’s name, had succeeded in reaching its destination, the following plaintive remark was heard from the German trenches:

“Ach, Himmel! These English, these shopkeepers, how dey vos advertise!”

ENGLISH MILITARY SLANG
Tommy and His War Talk

The fondness of soldier-boys for nicknames and slang is proverbial. Their talk in barrack-room and camp would at times puzzle the most versatile of linguists, for “Tommy” prides himself on the originality of his expressions. He has already developed a slang of his own in connection with the German war, and the official despatches mention that he has dubbed the huge German shells “coal-boxes,” “Black Marias,” “Jack Johnsons,” and “suit-cases.” Trenches exposed to artillery fire are “stalls for the pictures,” while when an artilleryman makes a good shot he chuckles over the fact that he has “handed the Germans a good plum.”

Wire entanglements are known as the “Zoo,” while German spies are “playing offside.” “Flag-waggers” and “helio-wobblers” for signalmen are fairly obvious nicknames, and the latter’s grin when they hear them is only equaled by that of the members of the Medical Corps, who are known by the somewhat undignified names of “poultice-wallopers” or “linseed lancers.”

The Ordnance Store Corps has been nicknamed the “Sugar-Stick Brigade,” on account of the trimmings on its uniform. Tall men in the army are generally referred to as “lofties,” and more often than not a cavalryman calls his horse his “long-faced chum,” buglers being “fiddlers” or “wind-jammers.”

In ordinary conversation “Tommy” speaks of his clothes as his “clobber,” and the canteen as the “tank,” a man who talks too much being known as a “chin-wagger.” To be in hospital is to be “in dock,” while money is referred to as “oof,” “rhino,” “the ready,” “pewter,” or “shiners.” A sovereign is a “canary,” and if a man wants to borrow money he is “trying to raise a station” or “to get his feet under” (meaning the canteen-table).

The man who drinks a lot is known as a “mopper,” and “bun-stranglers” are temperance soldiers.

A Reservist is a “dug-out,” a recruit a “rookie,” and a veteran an “old sweat.” A wheelwright in the artillery is a “spoky,” while the long-service medal is called the “rooti” medal—“rooti” being the slang term for bread, because the owner has eaten most. Puttees are known as “war socks,” and jam as “possie.”

INFORMATION WANTED

The way they do things in some of the odd corners of the British Empire, where they are comparatively free from wireless telegrams, is very pretty. The officer in charge of a certain hinterland received from his superior officer at the base some time in August this message:

“War has been declared. Arrest all enemy aliens in your district.”

With commendable promptitude the superior officer received this reply:

“Have arrested seven Germans, four Russians, two Frenchmen, five Italians, two Roumanians, and an American. Please say who we’re at war with.”

THE AMUSING MONOCLE

“Say, pop,” said the American tourist’s little boy in London, “why does that there soldier wear an eyeglass only on one eye?”

“So he kin use t’other one to see with!” Mr. Scrapple answered.

SURROUNDED!

A weaver, who is noted for his joking propensities, took his fellow-workers quite unawares the other morning. He was reading, as has been his custom since the war began, the latest news of Army and Fleet. After glancing through the first page they were astonished to see Jock looking wildly about him, and gesticulating to his partner.

“What dost think? What dost think? British Fleet ’as gotten surrounded. Dost yer? Dost yer? Our Fleet ’as gotten surrounded!”

In less than five minutes they were off scanning their papers for the unbelievable news. At last one of the weavers, not being able to find the news in his paper, approached Jock.

“Aw say, Jock, lad, wheer is it?”

“Wheer’s what? Th’ British Fleet? Whey, in t’ North Sea, aw reckon.”

“Aw mean wheer did ta see it about t’ German Fleet having surrounded our Fleet?”

“Aw never said owt about th’ German Fleet; aw said our Fleet ud gotten surrounded.”

“Well, what else con it be surrounded wi’, then?”

“Whey, it’s surrounded wi’ waythur, tha foo’!”

TEXT FOR A BIG “STORY”

An English correspondent said in Washington:

“I once tried to interview Lord Kitchener, the English war minister. I tackled him after dinner in a hotel lounge as he sipped his coffee and puffed on a huge cigar. He stared at me when I proffered my request, then he blew a cloud of smoke and said:

“‘I never gave an interview in my life, and I never intend to.’

“This seemed decisive enough. I felt myself getting red, and I stammered, as I prepared to go:

“‘Well, then, Lord Kitchener, will you at least give me your autograph? It would be worth having.’

“He blew another cloud of smoke. Then he answered:

“‘You’d better go off and make your own autograph worth having.’”

NOT AS IT SEEMED

Whilst making his usual daily inspection of the stables the colonel noticed Private Jones giving his horse a piece of lump sugar.

“I am very pleased to see you making much of your horse, Private Jones,” he said; “it shows that you regard him with the true spirit, and I will not forget you for it.”

Private Jones waited until his commanding officer was out of earshot, and then turned to his neighbor.

“I wasn’t making much of him,” he said. “The blighter threw me off this morning, and I’m trying to give him the blinkin’ toothache.”

THERE WERE HOPES

Mollie (aged seven), English, and proud of it, was presented with a new and beautiful doll one morning.

A little later in the day she discovered the horrid fact that it was “made in Germany.”

For a few tense moments the pride of her new possession had a mental wrestle with patriotism. Then Mollie remarked:

“Well, never mind, she’s very young, and I’ll bring her up English.”

FAMILIAR SOUNDS

He had been a riveter in one of the large shipyards, and was used to the din and roar of the thousands of hammers used in connection therewith, which causes deafness to many of the men engaged in this occupation.

When the call of King and Country sounded he nobly responded and enlisted, and was eventually drafted to the front.

It happened that the first of his nights near the scene of action was supremely quiet, but just before daylight the enemy’s guns came into action, and the boom and roar of the “Jack Johnsons,” etc., woke him with a start, and he gazed round the unusual surroundings of his billet.

“What’s wrong, mate?” asked one of the old hands, seeing the expression on his face; “did you think the world was comin’ to an end?”

“No,” was the reply, “but I thought I had slept in, and they had started work without me.”

IMPORTANT MESSAGES

Recruiting is responsible for a good story from Carmarthenshire. One of the latest accessions to Kitchener’s army is a stalwart man 6 feet 2 inches in height, from the heart of the country, and on joining he expanded his chest with pride and ejaculated, “Now for the Germans.”

The following day he received from London a telegram: “Heartiest congratulations.—Kitchener.”

This was duly shown around, but next morning his pride was boundless on receiving the Royal message: “The Empire is proud of you.—George.”

It was not until the third day, when he received a wire, “For Heaven’s sake, keep neutral.—Wilhelm,” that he realized a waggish friend had been pulling his leg.

THE JEW AND THE CROSS

“I am told,” said the Kaiser, “that you are a very poor man, and the only support of your aged parents. Because of your poverty you shall have your choice between taking the Iron Cross or a hundred marks.”

“Your Majesty,” inquired the hero, “what is the Cross worth in money?”

“Not much,” said the Emperor. “It is the honor that makes it valuable. It is worth perhaps two marks.”

“Very well, then,” said Einstein, drawing himself up to his full height and saluting. “I will take the Iron Cross and ninety-eight marks in cash!”

RETREAT IN ORDER

Even an extremely aggressive enemy can be conquered by strategy; it is only a question of employing the stratagem fitted to the case.

An open-air preacher of East London understood this, and his stratagem fitted to a charm. He was addressing a crowd when a soldier who had been drinking came up and ridiculed the service. Finding it was useless to ignore the man, the preacher said:

“Ah, my friend, you’re no soldier. No servant of the King would get drunk and interrupt a peaceful service.”

The man said he was a soldier, and asked the preacher to test him.

“Very well,” was the reply, “I will. Now, then, attention!”

This the soldier did as well as his condition would allow.

“About—turn!”

This order was also obeyed, though with some trouble.

“Quick march!”

And off went the valiant soldier, marching down the road at a quick pace, while the preacher resumed his address.

SUFFICIENTLY EQUIPPED

Recruiting Sergeant—“I can’t enlist you, my good man; you have only one eye.”

Patriotic Scotsman—“Hoots! that disna matter. Ye’ve tae shut ae e’e whin yer shootin’ onywey.”

“NEXT OF KIN”

A good recruiting story, told by an officer at Seaforth, shows how prone is a simple mind to be confused by the elaborate cross-questioning which the new recruit has to undergo. The officer was entrusted with the collection of particulars necessary for the allotment of allowances to the soldiers’ dependents.

He was interrogating a young fellow who did not seem to have a clear idea what it was all about.

“Next of kin?” he asked, in a sharp, business-like way.

The young soldier dropped his voice and became confidentially apologetic.

“I’m only wearing a jersey,” he replied; “my shirt’s getting washed.”

HIS BROTHER’S TASK

A young lad applied for work the other day at a shed in Burnley, where his three brothers had worked previously, but had ’listed.

The manager, a thorough patriot, told the lad he could find him two looms at once, and then asked him:

“How’s your brother Frank going on?”

“’E’s out at the front, sir, feighting.”

“Is your brother Albert out in France as well?”

“Yes, sir, ’e’s wi’ eawr Frank—same regiment.”

“Your eldest brother, Jack, will be out there also, I reckon?”