Cathedral College of the Immaculate Conception - Annual Yearbook (Brooklyn, NY)

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A N N U A L 1 9 3 6 0 0 Captain says, Steve old bean, best of luck. l'll see to it personally that a gold star is put alongside your name on the Bloomsbury honor roll. That gave me a creepy feeling, so I Creeps over the parapet and out between the lines. I meant to stay in one spot and then creep back again. But it was a low-lying country and the mosquitoes were a trifle worse than bad. Consequently I kept moving about from place to place. Then pretty soon, quick as a flash, I was lostl Not knowing where I was, I groped blindly about. Suddenly I could hear someone singing We'll be coming down the Vosges when we come, and then I realized I was within hailing distance of the Holstein hillbillies, who occupied the trench opposite ours. The music got in my blood somehow, and I started a little jig all by my lonesome. All of a sudden I danced right smack into a German sentry. He challenged me in a thick, wursty sort of guttural voice. Chi e? he blusters. A frightful mess, says you. Rawtherl says I. However all is not lost. I bashed him one in the choppers. Ach, yust like mein brudder, he says. Next I kicked him in the rump. Ah, yust like mein fadder, he ecstatically mur- mured. And finally I calumped him over his cabbage head with a birch log Cthere were birch logs handy thereaboutl. Ah, yust like mein mudder. As he vent down for the third time he smiled and muttered, I-Ioch est der Vater- land. Iss yust like heim. CYah, geshichtell ' He had a pig's knuckle in one hand and a bottle of beer in t'other. Before doing anything else, I very wisely helped him finish these. While doing so I began to realize that a conscious German would be much more useful to me than an- unconscious one. So I hit him another clip over the head with the bottle, and that brought him to. In rapid fire succession I asked the following questions and elicited their corresponding replies. Whats the number of your regiment? Nein. How many thousand infantry? Nein. it How many artillery corps? Nein. What time will you attack? Nein. Cheerio, ' I said, and walked off. xx With a bit of a pig and a bottle of brew in him, a soldier has a better chance of finding his way home than otherwise. So before long I tumbled into the British lines and reported to the Captain. I felt pretty good. With four nines we should be able to lick any three kings in Europe. The Captain however didn't think so. Neither did the Colonel or the Major. A general staff meeting was hurriedly called. 'Private Monkhouse re- ports nine thousand infantry will attack at nine in the morning,' says Captain Courageous. 'What shall we do?' Everyone was at a loss for a suggestion. The Allied cause seemed hopeless. Lieutenant Pipsqueak piped up with a plan. 'Let's bring up the Scottiesf he says. 'They're just the men for a tight place. Besides, with legs like Irish blackthorn sticks, they'll scare the Huns. ll7

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0'CATl-IEDRAL C'OLLEGE The Man Who Won The War NCE in every author's life a true story with a perfect plot comes along, smacks him in the teeth, and leaves him lying prostrate and flabber- gasted. Such is the following true story. Proof of its veracity will not be found in the secret files of any War Office. The files are too secret for that. So you'll have to take my word for it. And don't forget, the word of a Dinkle is a joy forever, or words to that effect. 'k 'k uk' One wintry night late in August l was traveling between Bordeaux and Gardeyloo on the Poupaloup Express. The locomotive had just stopped for wine, water being very scarce, at a tiny wayside station called lesuistuesilest- noussommesvousetesilssont, also known as Pomfret. Suddenly the door swings open and lo and beholdl who blows in but a mad dog of an Englishman. Gaunt, gray, grim and glum, he looked as though he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Utter woe looked out from each weepy eye. As soon as he spotted me he opened up his buck teeth Che was an ex-privatel and barked, Oh, so you think the Americans won the war, do you? Well, let me tell you something, Yankee, you've got another think corningl Well, it ain't comin' very fast. Who did win the war? l did, old bean, that's who. The very chapl l induced him to tell me all about it. He told me the following story which l give to you in his own words-mostly. -k ul' 'Ir Monkhouse is my name, Abbie Monkhouse. At the outbreak of the Great War l joined up with the Bloomsbury Fusileers, a crack regiment they were. We were ordered across the channel in no time at all and saw action in the very first days of the war. As our first assignment we were sent up to hold a tough line of trench somewhere between Windshield and Wipers. The Bochies had been coming fast, their assault crushing and grinding all before them. By love, it didn't look as though anything could stop the German steamroller. Well, on the night in question, Captain asks for volunteers to do patrol duty in no man's land. I happened to cough just then and the Captain says, Good, That's fine, Monkhouse. We'll pick you as long as you volunteer. So I'm the goat for that night. Captain What's-his-name says, Well, Steve. Didn't l say my name was Steve? It must be my nickname, then. Well, Steve, he says, just go out there and if you see a shrapnel coming, be sure to duck. All you have to do is reconnoiter. I don't know what it is recon- noiter, you understand. But whatever it is l figure l'll do it to the hilt, wot? Rawtherl T And so with a hearty clap on my shoulder and a manly handshake, ll6

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CATI-IEDBAL COLLEGE Their carbuncular knees make one think they have bubonic plague. Really they dot' This was the best suggestion of the evening, but was finally voted down because the general staff believed that not only the Scotch Highlanders but every last one of us would surely be kilted on the morrow. Meanwhile I was squatting outside the dugout chasing a cootie and dreaming of fish and chips, bloaters and ale, and such like gastronomic de- lights, Suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, a mere Wraith of an idea shot through my soporific brain, l grabbed it as it flew by, hung on, wrestled five or ten minutes and finally pinned it to the mat. Lord love us, what a grand idea it seemed to bel Here was the very thing that would halt the German advance, save Paris, win the war for the Allies, make the world safe for democracy, and make Steve Monkhouse famous, all at one fell swoop. I boldly decided to carry it out. Carrying out my bold decision, I quietly raided the commissary, swiped everything in sight, and made off to a wee spot of woods in no man's land. Here with a hammer and saw which I had in my back pocket I set up twenty of thirty tables. On each table I laid out a magnificent spread of vittles, vita- mins and vin ordinaire, not to mention beer and pretzels and scads of skittles. Then I meticulously painted a half dozen large board signs, each of which read, 'Das ist ein Biergartenf A remarkably cheerful little spot it turned out to be. I acted as first customer as well as host, and by the time I rolled into my home trench I felt jolly well like a barrel that would like to loosen a hoop or two. Extraordinary, wot? Next day the Huns did attack, but the bally rotters started at dawn in- stead of nine o'clock as they had said. However, my scheme worked to per- fection. They were half way across when the bounders saw my ground-floor rathskeller. Now no true German can resist a lil' snack with something to wash it down. Believe it or not, they didn't reach our trenches till two in the morning of the following week. I-Iawl By that time Paris was saved, the war won for the Allies and the world made safe for democracy. Unfortunately, however, Steve Monkhouse was not on his way to fame. I was just busying myself on a scheme to shoot bottled beer at the enemy aviators instead of anti-aircraft shells, when my arrest was ordered by Major Coincidence. They court-martialed me for committing mayhem on the com- missary. No one seemed to realize that I was the man who saved Paris. Or maybe the ungrateful wretches didn't see any sense in saving Paris after all, At any rate, I was found guilty and shot at sunrise on a gloomy Sunday. I say, don't look so frightened. I really was shot, you know. Then to show, as an everlasting example, what happens to imaginative birds who dream of bloaters and ale, fish and chips, and such like gastronomic delights, they had me pickled and preserved in a glass tank which was trotted all over France and the British Isles. So, my friend, here you see me-a forlorn little chappie who won a war, now dead as a doornail. And by love, am I pickledl Hicl I ll8