After a somewhat interrupted night am reclining dressed and washed, digesting, I hope, the one small slice of dry toast which composed breakfast, amongst a dozen other diggers all afflicted with the same complaint, in the low ceiling, whitewashed compartment of an old mill with a large stream flowing beside it. Humorous orderly here mimics the medical officer. His piece de resistance is “Sergeant, All these men are suffering from Dia-HO-Ea.”
Walk March 