The sick get here, drink the water that kills, then get in the shrubs and die unrecognized and unidentified. Our island is not large; it is near Sardinia, and it's all rocks. Some say Turkish prisoners were here years ago, building wide stonewalls. Our camp is in the middle of the island. On one end of the island, there is a camp called Real. Ours is called Streti, and then there is Tamborina.
January 11
There are more and more sick and dead every day. Doctors examine us every morning. Everyone must put their pants down and show their shirts. People deny they're sick because otherwise they would be separated immediately. The doctors are our countrymen, but they have no medicine. They promise us all the time that they will cook meals for us, but they keep feeding us from cans. To our surprise we got a loaf of bread each instead of biscuits today. I liked it so much!
January 13
Feldwebel Salomon is in charge of the newly established hospital. I've moved along with him to be a cook. We make coffee, but it's difficult to get any water. I fetch it at midnight! The Croats started bargaining with it. They walk among the sick, selling water for biscuits and robbing them. We set up night watches. We got thirty cans of food for the sick; the wind tore down our tent, and someone stole the cans. I have good times. There is enough coffee and bread. But disease is rising still, and more and more men die day by day.
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