The camp is riding on a wave of good news just now. People tell each other it will only be a few days now; that 72 hours from Saturday — which would make it Tuesday –the troops-will be here. We’ve lived through 48, 72, and 96-hour periods before and found ourselves in the same place. Cavite is on fire, according to rumor. From the third floor, a large fire is visible over that way. The camp is charged 3,000 pesos for each funeral here. Two Filipinos come in with an old two-wheeled pushcart and a coffin made of four boards tied together with a rope. The body is put into the box, sometimes with
feet hanging out and the cart goes out with a guard walking behind. No pomp or circumstance to funerals here. Our death rate is now about eight a day. The Commandant is said to be worried about all the deaths here. Three doctors were called to his office this morning. In imagination I often wander through Kamper’s ‘grocery store in Atlanta, looking at the lovely fresh fruits and vegetables and thinking of the good tub butter we used to buy there, and the meat counter, where so many kinds of meat are on display. Our bean ration has been cut again. The soup was thin last night, with very few beans. That was all we had.

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