Why Hats Are Worn.
Instead of being lined with bright young men in knobby business suits and white stiff collars, the office is lined with far brighter young men in much more businesslike khaki. They keep their hats on while they work for they know not when they may have to dash out again into the cold and the wind and the rain. They keep their coats on for the same reason; there are no shirt-sleeves and cuff protectors in this office, for the simple reason that there are no cuffs to be protected and that shirt-sleeves are "not military."
There is no office clock for the laggard to watch. Instead, there are bugle calls, sounded from without. Or, again the hungry man puts the forearm bearing his wrist watch in front of his face, as if to ward off a blow, when he wants to know the time. Save for the clanking of spurs and the thumping of rubber boots, it is a pretty quiet office, singularly so, in fact, considering the work that is done in it.
Take it all in all, it's a strange kind of an office, isn't is? Well, it ought to be, considering it's in a strange land. It's an army newspaper office, that's what it is—an American sanctum in the heart of France.
TACTICS GET GOAT ACROSS.
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Requirements Include Perfume, a
Sack, a Kit Bag and Cheers.
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From the C.O. down to "Fuzzy," who would have rather taken court martial, no one wanted to leave "Jazz" behind. So there was no end of indignation when the order came at a certain American port that no animals (unless useful) could go to France with the squadron.
"Jazz," being only a tender-hearted billy goat, could not claim exemption from remaining in the U.S.A., for, as everybody agreed, he was no earthly use, just "a poor, no-good goat." But "Jazz" did go aboard the transport, later an English railway train, next another ship and finally a French train until he arrived with the squadron at America's biggest air post in France. There I saw him the other day appreciatively licking devoted "Fuzzy's" hand.
It is not difficult to guess that "Jazz" is the mascot of "X" squadron, accepted by pilots and mechanics alike as talisman for good at some training camp back home. This office he has performed with exceptional skill from the day "Fuzzy" permitted him to "butt in" at the mechanics' mess.
"Fuzzy" and some of his pals slipped the goat into a sack and laid him down among the cold storage meat when the time came to help load the ship, taking care that the sack of live goat did not get into the refrigerator. When the ship was well out to sea, the sack was opened and "Jazz" crawled out blinking.
Even then "Fuzzy" was cautious. For the first days, he did not permit the animal to promenade indiscriminately, but subjected him to repeated scrubbings, following by perfume, toilet water and talcum powder. So when "Jazz" was really discovered, he smelt, but more like a barber shop than a goat. The ship's officers appreciated the joke and so did everyone else and soon "Jazz" became a favorite on deck. Repeatedly shampooed and perfumed, wearing a life-preserver, he moved about like a good sailor. But there was less joyful days ahead of him.
He did not exactly set foot on English soil as did his friends. He went ashore at an unmentionable port in a kit bag. In this he lay with the other bags, surrounded by a screen of men. "Jazz" was uncomfortable and said so in his goat way, but before he had uttered a full syllable his friends set up a cheer which drowned his voice.
This happened again and again. The first time, British transport officers at the port politely disregarded the Americans' demonstrations, but after the third time one of them exclaimed:
"Extraordinary, these Americans. Wonderful spirit."
And a little later when the men burst into an excessively loud hurrah to annihilate the voice of "Jazz" an elderly British colonel came over to them and inquired of a young American officer nearby:
"Splendid lungs your chaps have! But, really, what are they cheering for now?"
"Oh," returned the American, who very well knew why, "they're like that. Always cheering about something. Shall I stop it?"
"No, indeed! I think it's splendid."
So that adventure passed over nicely and "Jazz" went on in a "goods van" with the kit bags to another British sea port. After that there wasn't any further trouble.
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WHERE LANGUAGE FAILS.
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Remember along about examination time how [you used to think Hades] would be a good place for the professor?
Two Williams College graduates have had the pleasure of meeting their old French teacher in the nearest earthly approach to the Inferno—the trenches.
Officers now, the ex-students finally readied the battalion commander's post in a certain sector after a two-mile trudge from the rear through mud and ice water up to their hips.
A French interpreter met them at the door of the post.
"Yes, the major is in," he said, "but he won't see you till you shake hands with me."
Both officers thought they were face to face with a nut. Then, as they recognized their old teacher, two hands shot and grasped both of his.
"Well, I'll be darned—you haven't changed a bit!" was all the French they could remember.
HIS IS NOT A HAPPY LOT
SAYS ARMY POSTAL CLERK
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Works Eighteen Hours a Day and Has To Be Both
a Directory of the A. E. F. and a
Sherlock Holmes.
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"Private Wolfe Tone Moriarity, Fighting Umpth, France."
The Army Postal Service clerk surveyed the battered envelope on the desk [before him,] pushed his worn Stetson back from a forehead the wrinkles in which resembled a much fought-over trench system, adjusted his glasses to his weary eyes, spat, and remarked:
"Easy! The 'Fighting Umpth' was changed over into the Steenhundred and Umpty-umpth, wasn't it? The last that was heard from them they were at Blankville-sur-Bum. Now they've moved to Bingville-le-somethingorother. Clerk! Shove this in Box 4-11-44!"
"Lieutenant Brown, care American Army, somewhere in France."
Again the Postal Service man, once-overed the envelope, purplish in hue, went through the motions of pushing back his hat, expectorated, and began: