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Updated: May 24, 2025
And then: "Better go back to Hamerika and 'elp Wilson write 'is blinkin' notes." Well, I was mad enough to poke that sergeant in the eye. But I didn't. I retired gracefully and with dignity. At the door another sergeant hailed me, whispering behind his hand, "Hi sye, mytie. Come around in the mornin'. Hi'll get ye in." And so it happened.
We had heard this old ghost story too often to believe a word of it. Our place had been designated where we were to get into extended formation, and our general direction was clear. We filed out of the trench at eight-thirty, and as we passed the other platoons, we had been to the rear, they tossed us the familiar farewell hail, "The best o' luck, mytie."
The fresh underthings had been boiled and sterilized, but the immortal cootie had come through unscathed and in all its vigor. Corporal Wells raised a pathetic wail: "Blimme eyes, mytie! I got more'n two 'undred now an' this supposed to be a bloomin' clean shirt! Why, the blinkin' thing's as lousy as a cookoo now, an me just a-gittin' rid o' the bloomin' chats on me old un.
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