Anecdotes of the great war, gathered from European sources — Story, Setting & Ideas

d 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.

This order was also obeyed, though with some trouble.

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.”

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.”

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?”

“No,” said the youngster, with a proud shake of the head; “eawr Jack hesn’t gone to France yet. ’E’s mindin’ India!”

“Do you mean that you want me to press your trousers?” she demanded, with all the sternness she could muster.

“Why, certainly, my dear,” replied Sergeant Euchre, affably. “Am I asking too much?”

“Well, I should just about think so, Charles William. I’d have you know that when you married me you didn’t marry a flat-iron.”

Charles William thought a lot. That same evening Mrs. Euchre chipped in with, “Oh, Charles, you might just button my dress up the back before you go out.”

But Sergeant Euchre merely filled his pipe as he chuckled softly, “Not much, popsy-wopsy. You must remember that when you accepted me you did not marry a buttonhook.”

And setting his cap at a rakish angle, he made for the sergeants’ mess.

BOUND TO KEEP OUT OF IT

A recruiting sergeant, holding forth on the absolute necessity of every man enlisting, encountered an Irish wit.

“Halloa, John! Why can’t you join the Colors? I don’t know how any man can stand aside in such terrible circumstances. Why, what would you do if the enemy came over here, eh?”

“Oh,” said John, “that’s the simplest thing on earth. Why, shure, I’d enlist for foreign service then.”

Private John Mackay was pondering over the common problem of “raising the wind.” He was absolutely stony, hadn’t even the money to buy himself a packet of “fags.” But as he pondered an idea of striking originality took shape, which so delighted him with its simplicity that he immediately put it into practice.

Entering a hut, which, along with hundreds of others, Kitchener has caused to be built to protect the soldiers from the changes of weather, he called to attention the party of new recruits.

“Gentlemen,” he began, as he produced a highly-polished silver watch, “I have here a watch to sell. I already have a wristlet watch”—here he used the conventional lie—“so there is no use keeping this one. Now, what do you offer for it?” The question was addressed to no one in particular.

Save for cries of “a halfpenny” and “threepence,” no one appeared to be interested. But Mac wasn’t downhearted. Advancing farther into the hut, he held up his hand.

“We’ll raffle it, then,” he suggested, still feigning that he believed he would get a purchaser. “Here is a pack of cards.”

The cards were handed over, shuffled, and with the actions of an expert card player, a recruit deposited a card in front of each of the assembled men.

“Now, each man back his card, threepence all round, and the watch goes to the highest card.”

This was done with remarkable speed, the recruits had pocket-money in plenty, and the schemer now gathered in his shekels. The cards were then turned, and the fellow who had managed to win rushed off to his corner, exultantly bearing his prize. Mac departed.

Half an hour later Mac quietly slipped into the recruits’ hut, and going over to the man who had captured the watch, whispered:

“The man I got the watch from is wanting it. I’ll very likely get into a scrape if I don’t get it. I’ll give you a shilling for it.”

The recruit quickly jumped to the conclusion that Mac had stolen the watch, and not wishing to be connected in any way with stolen property, promptly handed it back.

As Mac went off with his watch to his own hut he muttered: “That’s raised the wind, anyway.”

EXCUSE FOR POOR SHOOTING

The other day some Scottish Territorials were at the rifle butts. One of the men, a tailor by trade, was making exceedingly bad practice, and missing the target every shot. At length the officer in command became angry, and inquired gruffly:

“Can you not see the target, sir? Surely you, as a tailor, must thread your own needle!”

“Oh, aye, I can see the target,” replied the Terrier, calmly, “an’ I can thread a needle as well; but wha the mischief ever tried to thread a needle at twa hunder yairds?”

CORRECT; GO TO THE HEAD

The schoolmaster wanted to know whether the boys had an understanding of the functions of a British Consulate.

“Supposing,” he began, framing his question in the likeliest way to arouse the interest of his hearers, “supposing some one took you up in an aeroplane, and after a long, exciting flight, dropped you down thousands of miles from home in a country quite foreign, what place would you seek out first of all?”

An eager hand was instantly uplifted.

“Well, Willie, what do you say?”

“Please, sir, the hospital.”

SELF-INTEREST PARAMOUNT

A senator was talking about the war. “Each side,” he said, “is declaring hotly now that it will never receive the foe within its hospitable borders again, and that after the war there will be no trading with the enemy forevermore.

“When we hear talk like that, let us smile skeptically, remembering the vain campaign of Wilberforce.

“When Wilberforce was fighting against slavery in London a shopkeeper put up a sign: ‘No goods made with slave-grown cotton sold here.’ But the man’s rival then put up another sign: ‘All our goods are made from cheap, slave-grown cotton.’

“This latter sign got all the trade, of course. If the first one hadn’t been taken down at once it would have driven its author into bankruptcy.”

WHY THEY WOULDN’T SHOOT

A correspondent sends to the “Manchester Guardian” this story, evidently from an ironical Swiss paper. A few soldiers belonging to the brass band of a regiment in garrison at Basle went to a certain café for refreshments. One of them sat down alone at a table. Later a civilian, a German, joined him, and the two began to talk war politics.

“Would you shoot the Germans if they invaded Switzerland?” asked the German.

“Oh, no, never!” exclaimed the soldier.

“Waiter, a pint of beer and a beefsteak with potatoes for this brave man,” ordered the civilian. “And your pals sitting at the next table—would they also not shoot the Germans if they tried to invade this country?”

“Oh, no, never!” retorted the Swiss.

“Waiter, a glass of beer for each of the soldiers at the next table!” ordered the civilian. And, addressing again the soldier, he asked: “Is this generally the view held in the Swiss army in regard to a possible German invasion? Are all the Swiss soldiers so Germanophil?”

“I don’t know,” replied the soldier.

“But why would you not shoot the Germans?”

“Because we belong to the band!”

She—“Tell me, when you were in the army were you cool in the hour of danger?”

He—“Cool? I actually shivered.”

Pat Molloy came in for his evening’s beverage, and paper in hand, as usual. The crowd kept quiet to hear the latest war news. Pat said the war had reached a crisis, and that there was only one obstacle between the Allied Forces and Berlin. His listeners were dumfounded, and one of them, recovering quicker than the others, asked:

“And what might that be, Pat?”

“Oh,” said Pat, emptying his glass; “it’s nothing but the Germany army.”

The Irish Tommy, prisoner, was feeling very wroth with the destroyers of Louvain, when a German officer dashed by on what Paddy termed “a rare bit of horseflesh.”

“Faith, that’s an Irish horse,” said Paddy, and his eyes glinted maliciously at the Teutonic soldier, who had a fair knowledge of English, and at once took up the glove. They would probably have come to blows, in spite of Paddy’s precarious position, had not a compatriot of his proposed that whoever could tell the biggest lie might claim the horse for his country. Paddy forthwith began a tale which was one lie from beginning to end, and stopped triumphantly. Then his Teutonic opponent began, in slow, but correct, English:——

“There was once a German gentleman——”

“That settles it,” said Paddy, with a sigh of resignation; “the horse is a German one!”

Rain was falling steadily as the weary cyclist plodded on through the mud. At last he spied a figure walking towards him through the gloom. Gladly he sprang off his machine, and asked the native:—

“How far off is the village of Poppleton?”

“Just ten miles the other way, sir,” was the reply.

“The other way!” exclaimed the cyclist. “But the last signpost I passed said it was in this direction.”

“Ah!” said the native, with a knowing grin, “but, ye see, we warped that there post round so as to fool those ’ere Zeppelins.”

The occasion was the regimental ball. The band was there, and the palms and the refreshment buffet and everything was lovely.

But in one corner, behind a beautiful green rampart of palms, the young lieutenant and the colonel’s daughter were trying to occupy the same chair, and were giving other evidence of the fact that their hearts had been pierced by some of Cupid’s darts.

Suddenly an intruder appeared—a fierce intruder in the uniformed personage of the young lady’s father. Instantly the chair was abandoned, and the youthful swain stood at attention.

“Sir,” he said, in sharp, staccato tones, “I have the honor to report an engagement, in which I have been entirely victorious. Now, sir, it merely remains for you to give your official sanction of the terms of surrender.”

“Hush!” whispered his wife. “That’s your soup. They serve small portions in war time.”

Frau von Schmidt (of Berlin)—“Otto, where are we going for holidays this summer?”

Otto—“Well—er—there’s Turkey.”

Village Haberdasher—“Yew take it from me, sir, folk in our village be very spiteful agin the Germans. Why, Oi reckon Oi’ve sold fifty ’ankerchers wi’ Kitchener’s face on ’em!”

Actual extract from a sailor’s letter to his wife:

“Dear Jane,—I am sending you a postal order for 10s, which I hope you may get—but you may not—as this letter has to pass the Censor.”

EXTREMITY; MEANING FEET?

He—“I hear that you are knitting socks for the fighting soldiers.”

She—“Yes; man’s extremity is woman’s opportunity, you know.”

“Since the war began women have been taking the places of the men on the Paris street-cars.”

“Well, they’d do it here, but the men are too ill-mannered to get up.”

AN OLD JOKE WORKED OVER

A school teacher recently gave his pupils a lecture on patriotism. He pointed out the high motives which moved the Territorials to leave their homes and fight for their country.

The school teacher noticed that one boy did not pay attention to the instruction, and as a test question he asked him:

“What motives took the Territorials to the war?”

The boy was puzzled for a moment, then, remembering the public “send-off” to the local regiment at the railway station, he replied:

Softly the nurse smoothed the sufferer’s pillow. He had only been admitted that morning, and now he looked pleadingly up at the “ministering angel” who stood at his bedside.

“An’ phwat did yez say the docthor’s name was, nurse, dear?” he asked.

“Dr. Kilpatrick,” was the reply. “He’s the senior house surgeon.”

The sufferer winced, and pulled a wry face.

“That settles it,” he muttered, firmly. “That docthor won’t get no chance to operate on me.”

“Why not?” asked the nurse, in surprise. “He’s a very clever man.”

“That’s as may be,” the patient said again, his voice cold and strong. “But me name happens to be Patrick.”

Some men, dressed in civilian clothes, gathered together in the smoking-room of the hotel, discussing the joys and sorrows of life at the Front.

“Well, I’ve been with the Army and had a very interesting time,” said one.

“Ever got really alone with the enemy?” asked another.

“Rather! I once took two of their officers.”

“Of course! And the very next day I took eight men!”

“All wounded, I expect,” sneered a listener. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

“Just a slight scratch, that’s all. And two days after I took a transport wagon, and followed up that by taking a big gun.”

“Sir,” said a disagreeable auditor, “I have seen some of the finest specimens of anything you can call to mind, but I wish to state that you are the biggest romancer that ever trod this earth.”

“Oh no, I am not that,” replied the hero; “but I am a photographer!”

A well-informed miss of fourteen inquired of her brother, “What would you say if you met a German lady and she said, ‘Good morning, God punish England’?”

The boy quickly replied, “I’d say, ‘Don’t you think you’re very Hun-ladylike?’”

JUST TWO SHOTS APIECE

They are telling a story in Switzerland about what would happen if the Kaiser violated Swiss, as he has already violated Belgian, neutrality.

The Kaiser was amazed at a Swiss drill by the shooting of the Switzers, who all scored bull’s-eyes.

“Wonderful shots!” said the Kaiser to a Swiss general. “Wonderful shots!”

“And we have, your Majesty, 100,000 such shots in the Swiss army,” the general answered.

The Kaiser laughed, and in a joking way he said:

“But suppose I invaded you with 200,000 soldiers?”

“In that case, your Majesty,” said the other, “we should each of us fire twice.”

MISSED THE USUAL SIGNAL

A certain regiment stationed in Belfast was mustered in the Ormean Park for inspection, and were standing awaiting the arrival of their colonel. Presently the commanding officer was seen approaching on horseback, but when a few paces from the troops the horse (which had been hired for the day) stood stock-still, and refused to move.

The officer made desperate efforts to urge on his steed, but all to no purpose. Before long a group of bystanders encircled him, and one of them, a ragged urchin, suddenly cried out to his chum:—

“I say, Bill, run and ring the park bell; it’s a tramcar horse.”

This was enough for the colonel, who at once dismounted.

RIVERS IN THE WAR, NOW FAMOUS IN THE WORLD’S HISTORY

Rivers have always played a great and sometimes a decisive rôle in the great drama of war, and the colossal European struggle raging at the present moment is no exception to the rule. On the contrary, the greatest battle the world has ever seen, both by reason of its duration and the numbers engaged, is not unlikely to go down to history as the Battle of the Rivers. These are the Aisne, the Oise, and the Somme, all of which, during that interminable battle, literally ran with blood.

What a rôle, too, has the Meuse played in this war! Indeed, it may be safely said that this river literally saved the situation, for it was the difficulty of crossing it in the face of the fire of the Liége forts which caused that fortnight’s delay in the carrying out of the Kaiser’s programme which saved France, and perhaps eventually the British Empire. During that fortnight the waters of the Meuse were choked with the bodies of the slain.

The River Marne will ever be memorable because it was along the line of that river that the great battle—a battle which may later be regarded as one of the decisive battles of the war—took place, which turned the Germans back upon their long journey home. Tens of thousands on both sides were slain in attempts to cross and recross this stream.

The River Nethe, a tributary of the Scheldt, formed one of the main obstacles to the Germans in their great assault upon Antwerp. Time and time again the Germans succeeded in getting a pontoon bridge completed and came down to the river bank in solid masses to cross it. As they came every Belgian gun that could be turned upon the spot was concentrated upon them and they were blown away and the bridge destroyed, until the river literally ran with blood. Similar destructions of pontoon bridges burdened with their living freight of men and horses and guns have occurred on all the many rivers which this war has brought into the terrible limelight of battle.

“Jones, the captain wants you, matey. Whatcher bin doin’?”

“It’s that dog!” ejaculated Private Jones, as he made ready to appear before his superior officer.

“Jones,” said that worthy, frowningly, “this gentleman complain that you have killed his dog.”

“A dastardly trick,” warmly interrupted the owner of the dog, “to kill a defenseless animal that would harm no one!”

“Not much defenseless about it,” chimed in the private, heatedly. “He bit pretty freely into my leg while I was on sentry duty, so I ran my bayonet into him.”

“Nonsense!” answered the owner, angrily. “He was such a docile creature. Why did you not defend yourself with the butt of your rifle?”

“Why didn’t he bite me with his tail?” asked Private Jones, humbly.

WE SUGGEST THIS TO ALL OF ’EM

A visitor to a West-end restaurant in London, being waited on by a particularly tall and fine-looking waiter with a foreign accent, asked the man his nationality.

“Oh, I am a Hungarian,” was the reply.

“How comes it, then, that a big, strong fellow like you is not in the firing line?” asked the visitor.

“Vell, sir, it’s like this,” replied the knight of the napkin, pointing to a brother waiter a few tables off; “you see that man? Vell, he’s a Serb, and we have vat you call paired.”

CAUSE FOR HOME-SICKNESS

The recruit walked into the barrack-room and inadvertently left the door open. An old soldier immediately yelled:—

“Shut the door, you fool! Where were you born—in a barn?”

The youngster closed the door, then, dropping down on his cot, buried his face in his hands and began to weep. The old soldier looked somewhat uncomfortable, and, rising, finally walked over to the weeper and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Look here, boy,” he said, “I didn’t intend to hurt your feelings. I just wanted the door closed.”

The weeper raised his head and grinned.

“Comrade,” he said, “I’m not crying because you hurt my feelings; but because you asked me if I was born in a barn. I was, and every time I hear an ass bray it makes me feel home-sick.”

A sailor belonging to one of His Majesty’s ships returned home unexpectedly.

“Why, what’s up, Jack?” asked his old father, when he saw him.

“Had to put back. Too rough,” said the Tar, jocularly.