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January 22nd, 1942

Getting cooler now, thank Heaven! Food still terrible to me, although there’s lots of the others eating it. This kid Stevens, our orderly, would eat anything, I believe; he gets his own and then eats mine. I haven’t eaten a square meal since getting on board. I’ve lost a lot of weight and my leg is loose in the cast. The bones (femur) broke apart again and my foot is lying over on its side. It can’t be helped; but it sure hurts.

Passanante is going through the agonies again and they won’t give him any opiates, and if I could get my hands on Colonel Carroll, I think I’d strangle him. He refuses to help Pass’ out with morphine or codine; says he won’t be responsible to himself for helping anyone get the habit. I sure called him all the names I could think of, and he wouldn’t come through the doorway. Why don’t they relieve Pass’? He’ll go nuts with that pain.