Judge — February 23, 1918 — page 11: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

XUM Private Begg’s Obsession By J. A. WaLpRON Illustration by Lawrence Fettows RIVATE SILAS BEGG was the wonder of his fellow tommies on the western front where the British and French lines joined. He was a great favorite, too, for back in London hehad beena second-rate pugilist. Alord,ora stockbroker, or even an actor has no chance for popu- larity in the trenches witha person of fistic ability, Private Begg’s valor in the field was as notable as his grouchiness in the trenches, although he never denied a tommy who wanted him to put up his hands for instruction. Begg invited this for practice. As for real fighting, he was the first over the top and a leader in a charge. He fought with an ardor hardly explained on the score of patriotism, or even of hatred of the Boches as a mass. And his impulse in action was contagious. “Why are you such a devil when fighting is at hand?” his sergeant asked him. “Is it a habit acquired in the ring?” “Cripes, no!” replied Begg. “Hi’m not goin’ fer to deny Hi likes the game, but Hi listed to find one boche. Hi’ve been lookin’ fer’im two years now, an’ blimme ’f Hi don’t find ’im yet!” Very early one morning a raid was organized. The tommies rushed a German trench with slight loss, and their bombs made havoc. Prisoners were sent back to the pens, and the victors were consoli- dating their winning when a liaison officer came up. Standing on the brink of the trench, he warned that a counter-attack might be made, although the British artillery was throwing a barrage that would discourage an immediate attempt. “What do you find down there?” he asked a sergeant. “A bunch of sick boches, a little food made in Ger- many, a few synthetic cigars, and a pile of junk,” was the reply. “Junk?” “Yes. A hundred weight or so of iron crosses! The sergeant laughed. “And there’s something a bit irregular about Private Begg.” “The pugilist? I hope he isn’t hurt.” No. But he’s captured a boche and claims him as private property.” “Why wasn’t the prisoner taken back with the others?” “He was senseless. “Wounded?” “No. When Begg entered the trench he yelled, ‘E’s mine!’ dropped his gun, made for a big boche, knocked him down, and was sitting on him when I came up.” “Quite irregular,” said the officer. “See to it.” Thought to be dead.” And he turned back toward the line. ~ Zita 's Conceerion or Wuat ascites Arter Georce Cut Down tHat Cuerry LITLLOW/e “He warned that @ counter-attack might be made, Ere the British artillery was throwing a barrage that would discourage an immediate attempt” The sergeant climbed down. Begg was still sitting on his prisoner, who was weeping. This emotional function added to the unsightliness of his face, which had been jellied by Begg’s blows. And Begg was assail- ing him verbally. His vituperation was strangely pic- turesque, but not nice even for the ears of men in trenches, where manners are naturally somewhat relaxed. “Cripes!: What a rummy duffer!” said Begg, modi- fying his verbalism as he saw the sergeant. “If Hilet yer hup wull yer take another sleepin’ punch, ’er this?” Begg brandished a wicked trench Knife Sourred by a gesture from the sergeant that even a pugilist who had passed through two years of military discipline could not misinterpret Begg rose, grumbling, and the boche struggled to his feet. “Do you know that you are liable toarrest?” the sergeant asked. “Fer killin’ a bunch of boches an’ lammin’ this one? Nah, then!” “But you are, Begg. I should hate to do it, but there are regulations, you know.” “Do it as soon as yer likes, then. Remember eucmere! \. Tree comicbooks.com t \