The cootie isn't at all fastidious. He will bite the British
aristocrat as soon as anybody else. He finds his way into all
branches of the service, and I have even seen a dignified colonel
wiggle his shoulders anxiously.

Some of the cootie stories have become classical, like this one
which was told from the North Sea to the Swiss border. It might
have happened at that.

A soldier was going over the top when one of his cootie friends bit
him on the calf. The soldier reached down and captured the biter.
Just as he stooped, a shell whizzed over where his head would have
been if he had not gone after the cootie. Holding the captive
between thumb and finger, he said:

"Old feller, I cawn't give yer the Victoria Cross--but I can put
yer back."

And he did.

The worst thing about the cootie is that there is no remedy for
him. The shirt hunt is the only effective way for the soldier to
get rid of his bosom friends. The various dopes and patent
preparations guaranteed as "good for cooties" are just that. They
give 'em an appetite.




CHAPTER V