The Post was just bombed. No deaths. one injured. We could see six bombers going into the clouds. We have had «o many alarms we have cut meals to a minimum, eating Filipino chow with the servants and like it. It is rice with a mixture of vegetables and meat. garlic or onion. For sweet we have candy from a large bag full, which I bought after the first raid. Housekeeping is simple—each uses a dish and a fork. We eat down in the garage near the shelter entrance as it is too tiring to run up and down. I think we will like simplicity even after peace comes. There are twenty using our shelter now—12 Filipinos, four Americans, two British and two French.
The Blacks’ baby is beginning to talk and calls the shelter “Auntie Pete’s Black Hole,” so we have named it that, like a night club back in the States.
Rice is now rationed. Business is disorganized, the mines shutting down. The military, civilians and Red Cross seem to be coordinating though none of them were too good for three days. Twelve alarms yesterday, only four
today. I brought the last two bolts of material home and sent a dozen cut gowns to Balatoc mine residents to be sewed. At the Red Cross room I gathered all the Christmas bags together. There are fifty filled, forty empty and ready for gifts.
Session Road is a different place, few people on the street, only army cars, trucks and gasoline wagons. All the Chinese stores have boards over plate-glass windows. They are only open half the time. Still no mail, no newspapers from Manila. Carl brought a several days’ old Bulletin which we devoured. It listed Filipinos killed in Pasay and American homes burned. We are a headquarters. People drop in to see the shelter, give and take news.