black boots

These days when I go into town, I look for the army girl. Aged about 22, he said she was. She was the one who lashed the females. "She loved it," he said. "She was relishing it." She beat one digger -- unlucky enough to be found with a tiny electronic diamond scale on her -- until she screamed. A policeman's wife from the nearby bivouacs sneaked into the cage later, to bring the victim water.

He says he's seen the army girl in town, near the Holiday Inn Hotel. It was on Friday, a day after he was released. "Must have been her day off," he says.

There are soldiers in camouflage dotted on the streets this Friday. In Spar I see an army woman. Under the black beret, her hair is freshly curled. Her trousers are tucked into black boots. She's browsing among the imported baby nappies and aqueous cream. She approaches me. "Excuse me, Madam," she says. I look at her face, my heart pounding. Early 20s, I'd guess. "You don't have change for 50 US, do you?" No, I don't.

Of course, it won't be her. I know that.

But what has to happen to a young girl to make her enjoy beating another woman?