When under the most trying conditions, the Americans never lost their sense of fun.  On the staff of a prison hospital in Germany, where a number of captured American soldiers were being treated, a German sergeant became quite friendly with the prisoners under his care.  One day he told them that he had been ordered to active service on the front.  He felt convinced that he would be captured by the English, and asked the Americans if they would not, give him some sort of testimonial which he could show if he were taken prisoner, so that he would not be ill-treated.

The Americans were much amused at this idea, and concocted a note of introduction, written in English.  The German sergeant knew no English and could not understand his testimonial, but he tucked it in his pocket, well satisfied.

In due time, he was sent to the front and was captured by “the ladies from hell,” as the Germans called the Scotch kilties.  He at once presented his introduction, and his captors laughed heartily when they read: 

“This is L——.  He is not a bad sort of chap.  Don’t shoot him; torture him slowly to death.”

The amazing part of the “show,” however, was the American doughboy.  Never was there a more cheerful, laughing, good-natured set of boys in the world; never a more homesick, lonely, and complaining set.  But good nature predominated, and the smile was always upper-most, even when the moment looked the blackest, the privations were worst, and the longing for home the deepest.

Bok had been talking to a boy who lived near his own home, who was on his way to the front and “over the top” in the Argonne mess.  Three days afterward, at a hospital base where a hospital train was just discharging its load of wounded, Bok walked among the boys as they lay on their stretchers on the railroad platform waiting for bearers to carry them into the huts.  As he approached one stretcher, a cheery voice called, “Hello, Mr. Bok.  Here I am again.”

It was the boy he had left just seventy-two hours before hearty and well.

“Well, my boy, you weren’t in it long, were you?”

“No, sir,” answered the boy; “Fritzie sure got me first thing.  Hadn’t gone a hundred yards over the top.  Got a cigarette?” (the invariable question).

Bok handed a cigarette to the boy, who then said:  “Mind sticking it in my mouth?” Bok did so and then offered him a light; the boy continued, all with his wonderful smile:  “If you don’t mind, would you just light it?  You see, Fritzie kept both of my hooks as souvenirs.”

With both arms amputated, the boy could still jest and smile!

It was the same boy who on his hospital cot the next day said:  “Don’t you think you could do something for the chap next to me, there on my left?  He’s really suffering:  cried like hell all last night.  It would be a God-send if you could get Doc to do something.”

A promise was given that the surgeon should be seen at once, but the boy was asked:  “How about you?”