January 15, 1942

The bedbugs in our native beds continued to fatten and multiply, and our nights became more sleepless and uncomfortable.

As soon as the insecticide squad was organized, we appealed to them. They went into immediate action with boiling water and chlorine solution. After that treatment, we slept alone in our beds.

In addition to the insecticide squad, we had suggestion, sanitation, recreation, supply, building, plumbing, electricity, vice, education, room direction, hospital, kitchen, and discipline committees. Our self-government was functioning smoothly. In fact, the present Commandant remarked that he was “amazed to see a group of Americans and other Allied nationals governing themselves so well.”

The Commandant had cause to admire our smoothly run camp when one considered that we were indeed a mixed group. Bankers, business executives, millionaires, doctors, lawyers, engineers, teachers, nurses, scientists, explorers, newspapermen, photographers, dancers, sword swallowers, clowns, contortionists, musicians, priests, preachers, and artists rubbed elbows with confidence men, gamblers, pickpockets, thieves, prostitutes, and pimps. There was even a murderer in our midst, according to the report given by one of our fellow members, who had spotted one of his roommates as the man “Wanted for Murder” in True Detective Magazine.

In addition to our varied professions, we had many nationalities and races represented — Americans, Britons, Poles, Czechs, Dutch, Germans, Russians, Hungarians, Arabs, Syrians, Assyrians, Egyptians, Chinese, Hindus, Hawaiians, Chamorians, Negroes, and mestizos (half-castes of various races and nationalities ).

Though we were not exactly happy, we were one big family, with everyone doing his best to keep the oil in the machinery of the camp humming. Above all, we leaned backwards to stay out of the Nips’ path, as we carried out their orders to the letter.

In a camp of this size there were many interesting personalities. One of them was Don Juan. He was short, dark, and handsome in a matador fashion, and he loved blondes. When his bold and roving eyes cast their fluoroscopic rays on a girl, he didn’t miss a trick.

Before the war he had been a successful businessman and had many friends, especially among the fair sex. Here in camp, with his good humor, Rabelaisian wit, and easy spending, he was surrounded by friends of both sexes. And here in camp, where money truly talks, he had no trouble in finding a good-looking blonde —r-r-r.. . I mean blondes.

I met him today in front of the Big House. Two eye-filling blonde beauties were on either side of him, clinging to his arm in a proprietary fashion. Either blonde would have caused a second look on Hollywood and Vine.

“How are you, D. J.P” I asked rather superfluously.

“Never better!” he answered with a wicked wink.

From all appearances, his little world hadn’t been too greatly disturbed. In fact, it had improved. Now he could pursue blondes as a full-time occupation.

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