When it came to collecting, camouflaging and transporting the goods---Deutschland to Brest to Home---we had one man in the 329th who could go against the entire A.E. F. and win hands down, "under wraps."

        Big Smith of Battery C is the man. And if any Buddy in the A.E.F. or the world, wants to try to equal his achievement, let him get busy tout suite or forever hold his peace.  Single-handed and entirely on his own, the Big Indian from "C" Battery carried a complete (and entirely serviceable) German machine gun all the way home in his roll. Can you beat it?  We ask you---fat, lean or heavyweight---weren't those blankety-blank packs heavy enough for the most of us without a young arsenal inside?

        Some of the boys who knew Smitty noticed the length of his roll one day, during the "travel-log" over France, and inquired facetiously, "Whatcha got there, Smitty?  A hunk of the old Roman viaduct, or just the village of Messac?"

        "Neither," grunted the king of souvenir scroungers, "just a little old Boche machine gun." And we verified that fact.  We saw the "typewriter" taken down in France, and know for a fact that he startled his home town natives by setting the gun up at the family reunion. Proved it would still operate, too.

        How did he get the gun by the inspection hounds?  Hanged if we know---unless he swallowed it passing through the double-o shed.

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         Stg. Hensler (to Mess Sgt. DiLaura, who was suffering from seasickness on the Maungunui): 

         "What's the matter, Pete?  Weak stomach?"

        Mess Stg. DiLaura (indignantly): "What makes you think I got a weak stomach?  Ain't I throwin' it as far as anybody?"

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         Shorty Janecek grew tired of the routine at Pont-a-Mousson and decided to explore the town across the river.  The M. P. stopped him at the bridge.  He went away, did a little salvaging and returned in a short time wearing an old French cap and coat.  "Here, you can't go across that bridge."  "No compree, no compree," from Janecek.  "Get across there, you no compree frog," said the guard and Shorty went merrily on his way.

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    "Bill" Surden went on sick call the morning of Nov 7th.  "You have a sudden rapid rise in temperature, with symptoms of diarrhea," said the Medical Captain after looking him over, "caused by a shock of some kind." He did not know that Bill had been out on the ammunition detail the night before, when the Germans began throwing them over.

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     Lt. Dickie:  "Of course you can readily understand what it means to drop fire bombs on the enemy's vast stores at night."

     Rosenberg:  "Sure! Fire sales the next morning."

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      When Garvalia was a Corporal drilling the "squad of all nations," he lost every man because in maneuvering around a ditch he gave them "Back Step" and they all fell into a deep ditch.

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Positives--Negatives

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Corp. Tricker: "Goodness gracious, Sergrant. Sounds like old Frtiz coming over in the mud---squish squash, squish, squash."

Stg. Atkins: "That's all right, Lillian; that's only those Americans over in Calabresi section a'chewing their gum rations which Big Hearted Charlie just sent up."

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"I should like a porthouse steak with mushrooms, French fried potatoes, a nice combination salad, some delicately browned toast with plenty of butter, and a big cup of coffee," said Stg. Verry in a cafe in Pont-a-Mousson.

"Excuse me," interrupted the waitress, "are you trying to give an order or just reminiscing about old times?"

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        Private Sliger had the scare of his young life at the echelon. He had mislaid his gas mask one evening so when the gas signal was given he ducked his head under the blankets and pleaded with his comrades to save his life.  He could smell the gases penetrating his blankets!  How was he to know that it was his imagination working overtime and that the gas attack failed to develop?

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The Ministers’ Picnic

    Battery A’s genial skipper—Captain Moore—doubtless left a longer trail of jokes, original and aboriginal, pranks, harmless and devilish, cuss words, novel and otherwise, behind him than any man that ever taught a rookie how to equitate.  He invariably got away with them, too.

    But one day at Fort Sheridan he pulled one that nearly broke up the party.  He was equitation instructor there and had his charges—and chargers—out at the edge of the field giving them hallelujah.  “What’s a matter there?  Sit down in them saddles!  Are you a lot of blankety-blank-blank blankeses?” he howled.  And then observed that the woods were full of a ministers’ picnic.  “Countermarch!” he yowled.  “Trot!  E-To!  Gallop!  YO-O!  This is NO place for a leather vocabulary!”

    One of the Captain’s pupils at Sheridan was a short, fat individual who found equitation a sad proposition indeed.  His arms and legs would flop up and down as he bounced unmercifully in the saddle.  One day Capt. Moore noted him careening thus and yelled, “Sit down in that saddle there!  What’s the matter with you.  You ain’t no angel!”