FOOLING THE FLEA.
You'll march in the flea parade and be glad of the chance after you've lived a week in an old French sheep shed.
"Say, I'll be glad to get back to the mosquitoes," said a young hand-grenadier from Dallas, Tex., as he dumped his "other clothes" in the flea-soup cauldron. "These babies chew you to death day and night. A mosquito's a night-rider only."
The line forms on the right of the cook-shack. The cooks build big fires out in the open and set out great kettles of water. When the water begins to boil the parade begins, each man dumping in his flea-infested clothing—uniform, socks, underwear, wristlets and blankets. The cooks keep the fires stoked up with wood and the garments boil for a solid hour.
Then the men form another line and collect their stuff. They wring out the clothes the best they can and then sit down to "pick 'em off."
"They're fast little devils most usually," said the Dallas man, "but the sudden shock from warm water to cold air makes them stiff, and you can catch 'em easy."
The A. E. F.'s living in sheep barns simply can't keep clear of the things. They're in the rafters, in the hay, and in the planks. Weekly boiling of clothing only gives a short relief.
Really they aren't fleas at all, but a form of sheep tick. But they don't distinguish between sheep and American soldiers.