“Twenty-two,” he said, in a voice like a foghorn. Then the lady swooned.
A seasoned sergeant major recently was horrified to see a pair of shamelessly baggy trousers appear at the top of the window in the orderly room at a London depot. He shouted out what he thought, as they descended the ladder, and the face of a woman window cleaner only completed his discomfiture.
An Australian soldier had overstayed his leave. He knew his Commanding Officer was fed up with hard-luck excuses, so wired:
“Not sick, nobody dead, got plenty of money, having a good time. Please wire two days’ extension.”
Lieut. John Philip Sousa, while organizing military bands for the navy, was talking to a correspondent about the submarine danger.
“A friend of mine, a cornet virtuoso,” he said, “was submarined in the Mediterranean. The English paper that reported the affair worded it thus:
“‘The famous cornetist, Mr. Hornblower, though submarined by the Germans in the Mediterranean, was able to appear at Marseilles the following evening in four pieces.’”
“And what were you in civilian life?” asked the captain.
“I was a traveling salesman, sir,” replied the recruit.
“That’s all right, then. You’ll get plenty of orders around here.”
“Now, I wonder if you saw anything of that young nephew of mine out there—Smith is his name?”
“Our Joe’s joined the army,” announced Mary Brown, proudly, “an’ ’e’s gettin’ on fine wiv ’is drill. In fac’, when ’is regiment passed ’ere the other day hevery one wot was in it was out of step ’cep’ ’im.”
“O, that’s nuffin,” retorted Tommy Johnson.
“When our ’Arry went to the front the captain ’e shouted: ‘Is Private ’Arry Johnson in the ranks?’ ‘Yes,’ sez somebody. ’Then let the war begin,’ sez he.”
First Soldier (looking at portraits of himself)—Which do you think is the best, Mike?
Second Soldier—Well, personally I think the one of you in the gas mask is the best.
“I’ve just had some good news,” said Bearnstean, upon meeting his friend Mr. Abrahams. “My son Solly has got a commission in the Army.”
“Go on,” replied Abrahams, rubbing his hands; “how much?”
Tommy: “Look ’ere, Jack, now you’re for Blighty, why don’t you make up to Kitty? Go in and win, mate! Upon my life she’s a regular pearl!”