"Excuse me, Sir, but you wanted a return of various commodities we have in the field. What field?" "Oh, the field of Mars, fat-head!" Patrick snapped and rang off. A quarter of an hour later he was called to the phone once more and the familiar bleat of Jimmy tickled his ear. "Excuse me, Sir--whose mother?" On the other hand the great Brass Hat is human and makes a slip, a clerical error, now and again sufficient to expose his flank. And then the humble fighting-man can draw his drop of blood if he is quick about it. To this same long-suffering Jimmy was vouchsafed the heaven-sent opportunity, and he leapt at it. He got a chit from H.Q., dated 6/7/17, which ran thus:-- "In reference to 17326 Pte. Hogan we note that his date of birth is 10/7/17. Please place him in his proper category." To which Jimmy replied:-- "As according to your showing 17326 Pte. Hogan will not be born for another four days we are placed in a position of some difficulty. _Signed_ ---- "P.S.--What if, when the interesting event occurs, 17326 Pte. Hogan should be a girl? "P.P.S.--Or twins?" Our Albert Edward is just back from one of those Army finishing schools where the young subaltern's knowledge of SHAKESPEARE and the use of the globes is given a final shampoo before he is pushed over the top. Albert Edward's academy was situated in a small town where schools are maintained by all our brave Allies; it is an educational centre. The French school does the honours of the place and keeps a tame band, which gives tongue every Sunday evening in the Grand Place. Thither repair all the young ladies of the town to hear the music. Thither also repair all the young subalterns, also for the purpose of hearing the music. At the end of every performance the national anthems of all our brave Allies are played, each brave Ally standing rigidly to attention the while, in compliment to the others. As we have a lot of brave Allies these days, all with long national war-whoops, this becomes somewhat of a strain. One morning the French bandmaster called on the Commandant of the English school. "Some Americans have arrived," said he. "They are naturally as welcome as the sunshine, but" (he sighed) "it means yet another national anthem." The Commandant sighed and said he supposed so. "By the way," said the _chef d'orchestre_, "what is the American national anthem?" "'Yankee Doodle,'" replied the Commandant. The Chief Instructor said he'd always understood it was "Hail, Columbia." The Adjutant was of the opinion that "The Star-Spangled Banner" filled the bill, while the Quartermaster cast his vote for "My country, 'tis of thee." The _chef d'orchestre_ thrashed his bosom and rent his coiffure. "_Dieu!_" he wailed, "I can't play all of them--_figurez-vous_!" Without stopping to do any figuring they heartily agreed that he couldn't. "Tell you what," said the Commandant at length, "write to your music-merchant in Paris and leave it to him."