JOTTINGS.

Stratford Evening Post, Volume XXV, Issue 22, 27 January 1915, Page 2

JOTTINGS.

A man who lias recently manoged to get through from Brussels says that we may expect another Battle T>) - of. Waterloo some time soon. The Germans, he says, have, run some wonderful concrete trenches right across the field of that famous fight. And some day the Allies are going to push the Germans out of those trenches.

The men who are fighting know lar less about the progress of the war than we do, but they have their own little stories. One that has gone the rounds of all ranks is of an Indian soldier wounded and in hospital. The authorities had the greatest difficulty in keeping him in bed. Twice he escaped. The last time he was caught, de 7 spite his wounds, crawling stealthily towards the German trenches with a large knife in his hand!

Among other things upon which the German prides himself is his perfect knowledge of foreign languages. Hero is a copy of some “English” notices displayed in a fashionable and expensive German hotel. They read:—(l) “When Visitores at an early hour, the Hotel are Departing, All Visitores are Respectably prayed Quiet to make”; (2) “If Visitores at an Hour other than prescribed Hours in the Meal-room come, can they not to them served have, the foregoing Courses.”

Here is a bright little story of the war. When the Germans broke through into the champagne country some of the officers and men marched to the wine-cellars of the well-known firm of Laucon and Co. and demanded wine. “It is the fortune of war,” said the manager, who /was' powerless. “How much do you want?” “Four hundred dozen.” The wine was handed over courteously and with a smile. The Germans were pleased and even paid a small price for the wine. Sympathy was extended to the manager, but “It is the fortune of war,” he said, and smiled reflectively. Then, very slowly: “I might tell you that all that wine was ordered by a German firm before the war and paid for in advance!”

A touching story is that of a young French infantryman—he was a youthful volunteer of eighteen—who was shot in the firing line. As his lifeblood ebbed he wrote a farewell note, which was found afterwards pimled on the point of his b'hyonet: “I advanced at the order of my captain to the edge of a wood ,to take up a position. 1 received ! a bullet in the fchest, and I am dying. My dear parents sent me yesterday a postal order for five francs. I know they must have deprived themselves to send me this. So I beg whoever finds my body to send them back the postal order, which they will find in my pocket.” The poor little “piou-piou” had not much to leave, but his last will and testament is a charming example of tenderness amh consideration.'

It is pleasant to hear that the stern business of drilling has its light side, as well as most other things. A writer in the London Daily Mirror says: In a certain Territorial regiment,' I' was told, not many miles from London, one of the newest recruits was awaiting his turn on parade, to be inspected. Presently to him came the youthful officer in charge. He has what is known as ’Varsity accent, and by those who do not know it outside the stage it may easily be mistaken for facetiousness. The “nut” officer stooped and inspected. Then: “Ha, ha, no shave,” he said. “He, he, no razor,” replied the new recruit blithely, thinking that he had met a sociable soul with a pleasant way of reprimanding. The result was, of course, disastrous to the recruit. But now, when the regiment is marching and “Tipperary” is getting a little overdone, the monotony is varied by the front section suddenly calling out in fullthroated unison, “Ha, ha, no shave,” which is instantly replied to from the back with a stentorian roar of “He, he, no razor.”