Now, our employer, the Kambara Railroad Company, was a small private company that ran electric trains twice an hour through the plain of the Kambara district. It took just about one hour to go from Gosen, the one end, to Kamo, the other end. Most of the passengers were farmers and their wives and children, whose dialect was hard for me to understand, and boys and girls attending schools in Muramatsu. The landscape along the line was lovely, and, at this time of the year, the range of mountains at the far end of the golden rice fields was quite beautiful against the clear blue sky which the residents of this prefecture could not enjoy during the five long months of the snow-covered winter.
The head office of the company was on the second floor of the Muramatsu station. As one came up the stairs, the two rooms at the right were those for the president and the managing director, and the big room at the left was the office where several men and women were working. The president of the company was concurrently the mayor of the town -- Mr. Machida, about forty-seven, tall and rather good-looking. As Mr. Machida was busy with the affairs of the town, the actual business of the company was run by Mr. Kuno, the managing director. He was between fifty-five and sixty, rather short, liked to talk, especially about himself, and one could tell just by looking at him that he was fond of "sake". He gave one an impression of being a simple, self-centered and amorous man. He had small eyes that narrowed into mere lines when he smiled after one or two cups of "sake".
Mr. Kuno introduced us to the people in the office and the station. Then the first work given us to do was to make arm bends for the mayor, manager, and ourselves. "Interpreter" -- before we wrote it down with Japanese ink on a white piece of cloth we had to look it up in the dictionary to make sure the spelling was right. It was so long since we had used English -- four years!
The train that carried the first American soldiers ever seen in the history of the town was scheduled to arrive at Gosen at one o'clock in the afternoon. So, around noon Mr. Kuno took us to his home which was a big two-storied house just outside the grounds of the Gosen station. We went in from the backdoor across the tracks. The house was quite nice. There he lived with his wife, three daughters and a boy who I later learned was the son of the eldest daughter who was divorced from her husband. They were nice and hospitable and we were treated with rice-cakes with lots of sugar on them -- that showed how well-off the family was. We had not tasted sugar for ages!
When we came back to the station after a short while, there was a crowd of men and women and boys and girls gathered outside the station wicket. On the platform were the "big shots" of the town: the mayor, police chief, station master and some influential business men. They were nervous, too. We knew we were the object of the crowd's curious eyes and we were afraid that we might have forgotten English after four years of inactivity.
"Fifteen more minutes." The station master said looking at his watch...
"The train has just left the Ogarashi station," a man came out of the office and reported.
"Five more minutes....."
At last, around the corner it appeared puffing black smoke and gradually approaching.
With growing tension we waited. 100 meters, 50 meters, 10, 5........ Here it comes. The locomotive passed, and, bump, right in front of us stopped a box-car with its doors open, and out jumped three khaki-clad young men with blue eyes and blond hair.
We drew nearer to them in a silent semi-circle. There was an awkward silence. Someone -- newspaper man, probably -- poked at me from behind and asked me to inquire their name, rank, age, and who the commander was.
Feeling relieved, I said, "How do you do. Will you please tell us your name, rank, age, and who the commander is?"
With a look of surprise and delight the three young boys started to speak at the same time. "We are......" The one who appeared to be the oldest continued.
"I am Charles Johnson, corporal, twenty-five. These are Richard Grey, nineteen, and Allan Howard, eighteen. Both of them are Pfc."
"Who is the commander?"
"Colonel Frost."
"But, he isn't here with you, is he?"
"No. We've lost light of him at Sanjo," and the three chuckled. There must be some mystery.
"Then, which one of you is in charge?"
"I am supposed to be," Johnson replied.
I translated the conversation into Japanese. When the newspaper man asked me in Japanese, "Should it be spelled or ?" Mr. Johnson guessing right, pronounced his name clearly again, " ".
"This boy must be smart," I said to Miss Kato.
"When the interview was over, the circle loosened and the boys were free to talk to Miss Kato and me.
"Where did you learn your English?" was their first and unanimous query.
"Have you ever been in the States?"
"We learned our English in Tokyo."
"You speak very good English."
"This is the first time I heard good English spoken since we came to Japan," Grey said offering me a piece of chewing-gum.
"Is this Muramatsu?"
"No, it is the next station. We change here at Gosen."
While we were talking,
the youngest boy, Howard, began to pace up and down the platform
stretching his arms upward and then sideways. They were completely
at ease. No self-consciousness of being stared at by more than
a hundred people was seen in their attitude. No fear of being
among strangers who were their enemies but a month ago. No hatred,
no contempt, was found upon their faces. They were as natural
and unpretentious as they could be.
Suddenly, a man -- a Japanese -- popped out of the box-car. He was in wrinkled shirt and wore dirty "geta" (Japanese footgear). And he was eating something and had a piece of cookie in his hand. I felt uncomfortable and ashamed. I felt I saw a defeated nation in him. I learned that he was an interpreter from Yokohama. From now on, perhaps, this kind of man would act important -- these men with some knowledge of English but no pride in being Japanese. I was sad. For, though we were misled and defeated, I had not lost faith and hope in my fellow countrymen.
At the same time I wondered why it was that we feel it perfectly natural when we see an American eating something on the street, while we feel contemptuous toward a Japanese adult, be it man or woman, if we see him with his mouth full in the street. Why? Perhaps it is because we are not used to it, but this is a question I cannot solve as yet.
Meantime, the box-cars that were loaded with army stuff were switched over from the government railroad track to the Kambara line, and we all got into the train for Muramatsu.
The three boys' house, that is, the box-car, was pulled up to this end of the track No. 1 at the Muramatsu station and we went down to make a social call on them. The car was clean and tidy; three cots, a water container, some boxes, and shirts hanging on hangers. The ordinarily dirty box-car was transformed into a cozy little living room.
An electric light and heater were installed in the car and so the first day of the R.T.O. at the Muramatsu station began.
