. The American Legion Weekly [Volume 4, No. 11 (March 17, 1922)]. that forhilarity and general good spirits hasthe annual report from the Morgue ora diary kept in the Black Hole of Cal-cutta looking like the weeks best Burstand Dud. Its about these latest war inventions. You might think theyd reached thelimit along the line of schrecklichkeit(how that word does remind me of theglorious days when the Jerries and notthe soldier element were the nationalbugaboo)—you might think theydreached it when they thought up thatpatented A. E. F. corned willie tin thatno man on earth could open withoutlosin
. The American Legion Weekly [Volume 4, No. 11 (March 17, 1922)]. that forhilarity and general good spirits hasthe annual report from the Morgue ora diary kept in the Black Hole of Cal-cutta looking like the weeks best Burstand Dud. Its about these latest war inventions. You might think theyd reached thelimit along the line of schrecklichkeit(how that word does remind me of theglorious days when the Jerries and notthe soldier element were the nationalbugaboo)—you might think theydreached it when they thought up thatpatented A. E. F. corned willie tin thatno man on earth could open withoutlosing his temper, his chances of salva-tion and at least one finger. Or when they started manufacturingsquad leaders who at formation tookdelight in reporting: Sir, all present or accounted forexcept Private B-R-R-RUMP! andbrought out your name like the crackof doom so that every corps commanderfrom San Francisco to Coblenz wouldhear it and say sternly: Make a noteof that mans name, adjutant. You might have other ideas of thelast thing in deadliness or heartless-. A cross between a hospital and a skylark willpick you out of midair ness. You might conceive it to bereveille on Sunday, or a sergeant majordoomed to wear woolen issue underwearin July, or having la belle Blondie atthe Cafe de la Mairie in Pontlevoyrefuse you, or having her accept you,or having extra guests quartered withyou under your pup tent on a rainynight, or being called in to help figureout what the payroll was all about, orhaving your girl find a Smith and Wes-son trade-mark on the genuine Ger-man Luger that you only secured aftera hand-to-hand struggle—the kind of astruggle wherein twelve good dollarswere passed from your hand into thehand of the hardware clerk in Paterson,N. J., before you got the darn thing. But youd be wrong. Such is not thecase, as the revenooer told the boot-legger who tried to convince him thatthe crate in the bottom of the truck onlyheld a dozen sarsaparillas. Man, these inventive cuss
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