HAND OUT A SMILE

Camp News, Volume 1, Issue 5, 12 January 1940, Page 6

HAND OUT A SMILE

In these days a smile is invaluable. Makes things feel good. Not that things are too bad, but they look better if you smile. Here’s one of the best Army smiles in the stories herewith. If you can think of one better send it to us on a . post-card addressed to “Smiler,” “Camp News,” 11 Manners Street, Wellington, C.l. For the best ope published each week, we pay 5/-, and for the best of the month 10/-. And that will make you smile, eh? GOOD OLD SERGEANT-MAJOR. They were burying the sergeantmajor. And sitting in church at the funeral service the men were listening to the chaplain’s address. • As the virtues of the dead rolled off the chaplain’s lips, the “Bad Lad” of the crowd became more and more amazed. When the chaplain referred to the deceased’s “lovable qualities,” he could stand it no longer. He rose in his place, and after a cough to attract the chaplain’s attention, asked: — “Excuse me, sir, BUT ARE YOU SURE YOU’VE GOT THE RIGHT CORPSE?” *** . * The British pilot-officer returned from a raid into Germany. “Sorry to be three hours late, sir,” he explained to his commanding officer. “I misunderstood instructions and pushed the leaflets under people’s doors.” **■ * * POETRY ON PARADE. The battalion recently received as a recruit a young man of education and culture, who had failed to make good in other vocations. On his first day on the parade ground he was exhausted by several hours of marching up and down. “Stand at ease!” ordered the officer at last. “How wonderful is death!” muttered the recruit. The officer turned like a flash. “Who said that?” he demanded. The culprit smiled wanly as he replied: “Shelly, I believe, sir.” * * * * New Recruit: Is the air always clear around here? Old Hand: Yes, except when it is blowing from the parade ground. **.*.* Nurse: Oh, dear me, your temperature is very low! Recruit: Well, you’re not so hot yourself.

A young recruit, remembering his mother’s advice always to be polite, displayed his best manners in the mess by quietly asking, “Please pass the salt.”

Several times he repeated the -request, until at last, losing his patience, he bellowed, “Hi! Ain’t none of you knock-kneed, hen-brained perishers got enough manners to pass the salt?” Oh, crumbs,” said a quiet voice, “why on earth couldn’t you have said

that at first? ’Ere, catch!”