Part 4

“Do you mean to say,” bellowed the instructor, “that you do not know where your front is?”

“Yes, I know, sir,” he replied.

“Well, then, where is it?” demanded the instructor.

“Please, sir,” he faltered, “it’s gone to the laundry.”

SUPERIOR MARKSMANSHIP

Pat was a witty young recruit, who was taking instruction in marksmanship. The squad had finished firing. Pat was brought to task for his poor shooting, and told that he must do better at the next distance; there were to be seven rounds of quick firing.

“Now, Pat,” the sergeant told him, “fire at target number five.”

Pat banged away, and hit target number four seven times in succession.

“What target did you aim at?” asked the irate officer.

“Number five sor,” answered Pat.

“And you have hit number four every time.”

“Bedad, sor,” retorted Pat, “that would be a grand thing in war. Sure, I might aim at a private and hit a gin’ral!”

NOT A THIRST IN THE LOT

A soldier, charged with being drunk and disorderly, mentioned, in extenuation of his offense, the fact that he had been compelled to travel up from camp in very bad company.

“What sort of company?” asked the magistrate.

“A lot of teetotallers!” was the startling response.

“Do you mean to say teetotallers are bad company?” thundered the magistrate. “I think they are the best company for such as you!”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sor,” answered the prisoner, “ye’re wrong, for I had a bottle of whisky and I had to drink it all mesel’.”

HIS SKIRTS CLEAR

A sturdy little Lancashire lad went to a recruiting station to enlist.

He was much disappointed when the officer told him he was too small and too young.

“Can’t you find me some job in th’ army what I am big enough for?” 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!”