In the Naafi Club Writing Room.
Light cigarette to try and collect thoughts.
Read Punch to regain composure.
Where has composure gone? Don't know.
This is a lovely old town, with a beautiful Gothic Church and a flourishing Black Market.
The girls by day look pure and lovely, and a credit to their country. The VD rate here is 87% of those tested. Syphilis amounts to 82% of these.
I have seen a lot of little handcarts around. When parked, the shaft, vertical, looks like a miniature cross (the girls by day), but in use, is obviously merely a handle, an implement (the girls by night).
We drove over very bad, bumpy roads today; most roads are escorted by regiments of trees, plane, poplar, birch or coniferous. Saw bullock carts for the first time today.
They gave us supper of egg and chips followed by ice cream in the Officers' Mess last night, followed by beer, tea, whisky, Brandy, gin, rum, Apricot Brandy and Benedictine. I drank the last two only and a cup of tea and felt fine.
Eighty-seven per cent.
I've walked down Piccadilly at night while the Yanks were there, but this is worse. I walked back from the Naafi tonight. It was raining, but that doesn't seem to matter. They stand in shop doorways in dark side streets, talking, but not understanding words, only inflections, keeping one eye cocked for the police.
Many of the girls have pretty faces and good figures, but many more wear flashy clothes and are overly made-up. At night all are there on business. Eighty-seven per cent of them, and most of the rest suspect cases.
There's a poster in the cookhouse, with a picture of a girl and the words :
Don't get V.D.
For Her Sake.
OR DON'T YOU CARE?
It's a bad situation.