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Exhibit C. It's truly criminal.

On one occasion, I spent the night with the Brigade Machine Gun Officer and the

Signal's Officer in one of the captured German dugouts. We tossed down for the night in the hopes

of getting some sleep, but it was not to be. We know sooner lay down than hordes of life

got up. So we went round to the Medical Officer, who was also in the dugout with his equipment,

and he gave us some ointment which he assured us would keep the little broods away.

We anointed ourselves all over with the stuff and again lay down in great hopes,

but it was not to be. Because instead of discouraging them, it seemed to act like a kind of

orderv and the little beggars went at their feast with renewed vigor. A full day's rest allowed

us to clean up a bit and to launch a full scale attack on Lice. I sat in a quiet corner of a barn

for two hours delapsing myself as best I could. We were all at it, for none of us escaped their

vile attentions. The things lay in the seams of trousers in a deep furrows of long thick woolly

pants and seemed impregnable in their deep entrenchments. A lighted candle applied where they

were thickest made them pop. After a session of this, my face would be covered with small blood

spots from extra big fellows which had popped too vigorously. Lice hunting was called chatting.

In parcels from home, it was usual to receive a tin of supposedly death-dealing powder or

pomade, but the lice thrived on the stuff. We had to sleep fully dressed. Of course,

this was very uncomfortable with the pressure of ammunition on one's chest-restricted breathing.

Furthermore, when a little warmth was obtained, the vermin used to get busy. And for some unexplained

...