PROUD OF IT
A train loaded with wounded soldiers drew up at a certain station. Among these was one whose face could not be discerned for bandages.
“You poor, poor boy,” sympathized an English lady, who approached him timidly.
“Madam,” replied the soldier, with as much pride as springing to attention would convey, “don’t pity me. Pity my chums in the train there, who got hit where it won’t show.”
“Why, why,” she stammered. “I thought you would not like to be disfigured.”
“Disfigured!” the soldier replied, scornfully; “I am not disfigured, I am decorated!”