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Sorry, this is not a new book review, but a section from an old book:
It seems that there have not been any VHS or DVD releases of the (2) related movies. (They are now owned by Turner, and I put in my request with Turner that they be released). I also sent this passage to the folks at CMP who are just now getting a new Degreaser:

From the Book: See Here, Private Hargrove by Marion Hargrove 1942

“ It seems to me that when the manufacturer prepares to pack a box of Army rifles, his cruel streak comes out at its worst. From the look of the rifles, he has his three-year-old daughter prepare a compound of molasses, pitch, and used motor oil- the gooier the better. He slings each gun into the resulting mess, sloshes it around for awhile, and then lays it neatly into the box. What happens to the yardbird who has to unpack and clean the guns shouldn’t happen to my worst enemy.

You use a swab about the size of a tablecloth to wipe the grease from the rifle. When you’re halfway through the first rifle, you have to use the gun to wipe the grease from the cloth. When you’ve finished, you need a large coal shovel to wipe the grease off yourself.

There is nothing so conducive to itching as the inability to scratch. Just when the molasses-pitch-axle grease mixture covers your hands to the point where you can’t see the outlines of the fingers, that left nostril starts tingling. At first it only it itches only a little and you decide to suffer it. So you don’t wipe your hands on the seat of your trousers. Instead you pick up another rifle and your hand sinks to the elbow in the goo which wraps it. That is the stage where your nose gets peevish and impatient and decides to itch in earnest.

Finally, you decide to give in. You wipe your hands-an operation which takes a good three or four minutes for satisfactory results. You lift your hand to scratch your nose, only to find that your nose isn’t itching any more.

You shrug philosophically and go back to work. As soon as you pick up another rifle and get your hands hopelessly stickied, the whole routine starts all over again. You grit your teeth and determine not to worry about nose itches. The nose insists. Finally, after a Spartan struggle with your inner self, you slowly lay the rifle down, pounce at your nose with both hands-grease and all- and curse with unexpected vigor. The cursing makes you feel so much better that you continue to shout your billingsgate until the nice supply sergeant puts his head around the corner and heaves an old shoe at you.”

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