In a certain hospital “somewhere in France” one of the nurses, before going out shopping, was inquiring of the wounded soldiers whether they required anything brought in, and, if so, what.
One poor chap asked her to bring him a bottle of “Scotch.” She told him that was impossible, as he had been forbidden to drink anything, whereupon he promptly replied:
“Well, have it frozen, and I’ll bite it.”
ON A SCOTTISH BATTLEFIELD
Patriotism is more than name-deep. In the early summer a tourist party at a Stirling hotel included an obvious German who had a few months previously gone the whole hog in the matter of naturalization.
He had called himself—say—Hector McKiltie. The party strolled out to the field of Bannockburn. Standing beneath the flagstaff, “McKiltie’s” eyes beamed through his spectacles for a minute. And then came the patriotic outburst:
“Mein gracious,” he exclaimed, “so dis vas vere ve beat der Inglish!”
IT HIT HIM FIRST
The wounded soldier explained his grievance to his nurse.