3rd London General Jottings

August 1916

The Medical Officer enquiring about patients in the wards said to one man:
"Well, what are you, T.B.?"
"No Sir," was the reply, "A.I.F."

A member of the 3rd L.G.H. staff has brought two stories straight from France.
Some of our Tommies, badly gassed, were being taken back from the trenches, and at a canteen where they halted a lady helper offered refreshment and endeavoured to cheer them.
"Oh, we'll soon be better, lady," one responded. "We're going to eat apples."
"But are apples a cure for gassing?" she enquired with interest.
And it was only after bewildered explanations that she realised her faux pas. The party were going to Etaples.

This same canteen had two divisions, one for British, one for French. At the former all new arrivals were given tea, and at the latter they received coffee.
A British Tommy who entered took his place in the compartment prepared for his Gallic comrades, and our lady friend went across and warned him that he would only get French coffee there, not English tea.
"That's all right, miss" quoth he. "No tea, thank you. Since we came over here I'm quite enfranchised."

Which naturally leads on to the true tale of the scrublady in a certain ward of the 3rd L.G.H. She had informed a member of our staff that she had a son in France.
"Which part of France?" he asked.
"Well sir, I don't rightly know what part; but the name of the place is Dug-Out."

Here is a contribution from a 3rd L.G.H. patient who hails from the North of England.
Two Lancashire lads went to the recruiting office together, and one received a card marked 'A,' while the other's card was marked 'B.' They consulted together as to the difference, and one said at last:
"Ah sees wot it is, Bill. 'A' stands for artillery, and they're putting me with t' guns."
"Aye," replied the second, "but wot does 'B' mean?"
His pal was puzzled for a moment, and then an idea struck him. "Why, it means bayonet work, of course."
No.2's face fell. "Here," he said, "give it me back quick. Ah'm tekkin' it back and gettin' it swopped for a 'C.' Happen they'll put me in th' canteens then.

Here is a story from one of our Gallipoli Anzacs:
"One lad was mortally wounded, and he signed for a pencil to write with. It was given him. We supposed that he wished to make his will or send some message home. But he simply wrote, 'Are we downhearted?' Then he feebly shook his head, smiled, and closed his eyes for the last time.

He was in a position none too well protected, and the Germans had got the range of the trench with considerable exactitude. Several casualties had occurred close by, but Tommy, in the middle of it all, was snatching time to start his pipe - under difficulties. He struck a light, then waited, sniffing, for the sulphur to finish fizzing.
"These 'ere French matches," he groused, " 'll be the death of me!"