TRENCH HUMOR!

Gisborne Times, Volume XLVIII, Issue 4474, 15 February 1917, Page 3

TRENCH HUMOR!

“How is it,” I inquired of a Canadian with whom I foregathered in rest billets (writes “Pioneer,” in an English exchange), “that the Anglo-Saxon soldiers, British and Colonial alike, are able to display such extraordinarily high spirits, and preserve such an unfailing sense of humor in the face of the awful privations and dangers of the war?” His answer was characteristic and illuminating, »

“It doesn’t follow because there’s war on,” he replied, “that the clash of hostilities has the strangle-hold on human nature. It’s natural for us to see the funny side of things. We were born so, and that’s all there is to it. The more tragic our surroundings, an’ the more directly they affect us personally, the more we cultivate our sense of humor as a. weapon of defence against adverse circumstances. “The engrossin’ habit of squirtin’ fifty-seven different varieties of fatal termination at the savage an’ relentless Hun is only an added wing—an annexe, if you get me —of the selfcontained outfit of original emotions —of which a sense of humor is by no means the least —handed out to us by a long line of backslidin’ ancestors. “The fact of a guy bein’ first in war an’ a leader of forlorn, hopes—and the beginning of this war was one large Forlorn Hope which became gradually less, forlorn as time advanced, until it’s the Sure Thing it is to-day—-doesn’t mean he’,s got rid of his old stock of inheritin’ instincts !

“No, siree! In war a man’s just the saiiie as he was before plus an acquired agility in dodgin’ buckshot an’ a passion for tlirowin’ bombs.” Which, I consider, is an admirable summing-up of the situation.

A uery tall, tliin English boy repoited to a Canadian battalion in Flanders. His colonel was bald and elderly, but adored by his men. After a few days’ experience of his new command the sub. approached the O.C. and asked permission to ventilate a grievance. “I 1 wish you would use your influence, sir, to restrain my platoon from referring to me as ‘Legs,’ ” he said. “Sure! my lad, sure!’’ replied the colonel, solemnly, “if you’ll use yours to stop my whole damn battalion callin’ me a bald-headed old When my own battalion first “went over’-’ we were put into the trenches with other regiments for four days to “try us out.” The second afternoon we were in, the Boche shelled us hard for two hours, which was rather a severe ordeal for troops who had only just left England. When the shelling ceased I walked down the trench to see how the men had stood the test.

A diminutive boy from Manchester was just crawling out of a dug-out. “Well, Morton,” I said, as cheerily as I could, “what do you think of it?” He looked up at me with an inexpressibly humorous twinkle iii his eyes.

“My Gawd, sir.” he said, “do you know, I don’t think it’s safe!” Whether the Germans knew there were raw men in the trenches I cannot say, lint certainly the shelling was particularly heavy for that four days. When we go hack to battalion headquarters we swapped yarns as to our experiences, as, the regiment being distributed over so many different trenches, the officers had seen very, little of each other during the tour of duty.

Two of them were discussing a muual friend who had not- succeeded in persuading the powers that be to send him over with reinforcements and was kicking his heels in England. “I met him in Folkestone just before we left,” said one, “and he’d have given all lie had to get here.” From the depths of a roll of blankets in a corner came.' the voice of one who had been shelled unmercifully in his particular bit of trench all that day.

“Your friend could have had my place d— —(I cheap this afternoon!” lie said.

Once when we were in rest billets I went to dine at another mess. It. was late when I started back to billets, and the night was so dark 1 lost my way. Suddenly a figure loomed up m the darkness, and I was just able to distinguish the khaki of a British private. I halted and inquired the way hack to

For an appreciable moment, he stood in front of me. slightly swaying on his heels as a young sapling in a breeze.^ “Lunirae guv’nor, you drunk too!” was all he said. The following incident took place in the early period of the war, when we were lamentably short of guns and ammunition. A certain regiment had been under almost unceasing shell-fire for five days, and were just about “fed up. The second, third, _ and fourth days they asked permission to go over to the German trenches and try and ‘ ‘get a bit ’of ’their own back.” Consent was withheld until the night of tlie fifth day, when instructions were given to raid a portion of the Geiman line at a given hour. At the appointed hour the men went over the parapet with a rush which nothing could stop. They gained the trench without heavy casualties. . The particular party with whom we are concerned was led by an enormous sergeant armed with a heavy calibre revolver,.

They cleared out one bay very quickly and went on to the next. Just round the traverse they were met by a very fat German private, desperately anxious to surrender, but unable to express his desires in the correct formula. With hands held high above Ins head he advanced to the big sergeant. 1 ‘Kamarad ! Kamarad !” he shouted, in the accepted whine of Teuton entreaty... “See! I"’ave my hands! I ’ave my hands!” “You don’t want no anas! saul the sergeant, happily. “What you want is a. pair of wings!”