Akio Konoshima

"Stupid Haole, Stupid Gook"

I fixed my eyes on those of the major as the man shouted at me. The major's face was flush; his gray eyes angry.

"Damn you soldier; you're on guard duty. Where was your salute? You're not here to talk to old women on the sidewalk."

The major was thin, not very tall, only two or three inches taller than me. I continued to look directly at the man. The son-of-a- bitch. I was trying to help an old woman.

"Well?" the major said.

"Yes, sir," I replied and saluted.

The major returned the salute, then turned on his heels and walked to his jeep.

His driver, in the blue and gray uniform of Japanese civilians hired by the Occupation, gave a sharp salute, which the major snappily returned

The old woman, who had been the cause of the scene and had watched it all, moved meekly toward me as the major's jeep left. She bowed, her weather-worn face expressing concern, and said, "Gomen nasal, " then quickly scurried off.

"Shimpai-nai - not to worry," I said, but she was out of earshot. Hell, I didn't even get a chance to finish answering her question.

I had been standing at my guard post at the main entrance to the NYK Building, headquarters of the Allied Translators and Interpreters Service (ATIS) in downtown Tokyo, watching the people going by - groups of students in black uniforms, couples strolling, and an occasional family group. They were either going to or coming from the nearby outer gate to the Imperial Palace grounds. Their occasional fleeting glances betrayed their curiosity at seeing a Japanese face in an American Army uniform. Only the small children with family groups were open, some even pointing while being restrained by their mothers.

When I first saw the old woman approaching, I could see that she was lost. She had walked away from the corner about 10 yards, then walked back to read the street sign, then back again. Her baggy workpants - "mompei" - were clean but faded; her canvas shoes worn; her blouse a dull blue with polka dots. A piece of cotton cloth was tied, bonnet fashion, over her head. She carried a reed mat under her left arm; a brown paper-wrapped bundle in her right hand. Maybe a farm woman in a strange part of the city on her way home after having sold her produce.

As she had shuffled up to me, she bowed and asked the direction to Tokyo Station.

"Sochira. Ni buraku gurai," I said, pointing in the direction of the station, which, though only two blocks away, could not be seen because of trees and tall buildings.

"Eh?" the woman responded, not having heard, so I had moved down three steps to the sidewalk to tell her where the side entrance used by the Japanese was - the main gates were reserved for Occupation personnel - when the major appeared.

After getting off of guard duty the next morning, I went up to the eighth floor. Enlisted personnel was billeted, ate and worked in the same NYK Building. I thought I'd eat and take a quick shower before going to the publications section where I proofread prisoner-of-war reports from the fighting in Korea and did occasional typing.

A couple of GIs were in front of me in the chow line. I didn't know them, wasn't paying attention to them when one of the GIs ended his sentence with "...those stupid gooks."

I looked up, caught the man's eyes. The man, brown-haired and blue-eyed, seemed a bit embarrassed, turned his head slightly, then continued talking, but in a lower voice. "Stupid gooks" like "stupid haoles" was my silent reaction.

"Hey, Jo, why don't you go upstairs and put on a fresh shirt?" Sergeant Barr, the NCO in charge of the GI's in the publications section, asked before I even reached my desk..

"Why?" I asked.

"You're going before the NCO board."

"Me? What for?"

"I put you in for a promotion, dummy," Garr said. "We want to make better use of you."

"Oh Christ...," I said, then stopped. I hadn't asked for a promotion, didn't particularly want one. Garr, an Army career man, would not be able to understand that. He had good intentions, though, so I said, "Okay," then left to put on a clean shirt.

I stiffened the moment I walked into the room where the NCO board met. There sat the thin major - like a judge in court - flanked by two captains, the three behind a heavy oak desk. The American flag stood to his right, the dark blue colors of the 302' Military Intelligence Co. on the left.

I looked the major in the face as I saluted. The Major showed no recognition - maybe he wanted to be objective, not remember the GI he had bawled out the evening before, but more likely he could not recognize one Asian GI from another.

"How long do you intend to stay in the Army?" the Major asked as he opened the questioning. I read the man's nameplate over a row of campaign ribbons on his chest --"Kellog." The two captains pretended to show interest in what was expected to be routine. Give the right answers and I'd get the promotion.

"I'm getting out as soon as I can, Sir," I replied.

Silence.

"You getting married, Corporal?" the Major then asked.

"No. Sir."

The Major frowned. The two captains now showed some real interest. "Why'd you join the Army?" the Major then asked.

"I was about to be drafted, Sir."

More silence.

"Why are you before us anyway?" the major then asked.

"I didn't ask to be, Sir," I replied.

"I don't like your attitude, Soldier," the Major said. The two captains along side nodded in agreement. Then the major, cocking his head like a teacher talking to an erring student, said, "Nisei soldiers - a lot of them in this very unit - have a brilliant history with the U.S. Anny. Why can't you..."

"Sorry, Sir," I said.

"Dismissed," the Major said.

"Yes, Sir," I said, and thought: stupid haole - stupid gook.

By evening, I had forgotten about the Major and the Major's displeasure. I sat in the lobby of the Old Kaijo Hotel, which housed American civilian female personnel, mainly stenographers, typists and other clerical workers, waiting for Lani. I hoped she might have some word on whether I could get out of the typing and proofreading job I was stuck with.

Lani -- long, wavy jet black hair; brown eyes, brown skin, a flat Polynesian nose - was half Japanese, a quarter Portuguese, and an eighth each Hawaiian and haole.

"Got some good news for you," she said as she sat beside me. "You know the sample writing you did -- Major likes your stuff. Said you seem to know something about China. He said the section puts out propaganda stuff, but that psy-war needs writers who at least know a little about Mao, Chou, Liu Shao-chi, the `Long March,' Yenan, that sort of stuff."

"Did some reading on China," I said.

"Major was wondering: your files show you worked on a newspaper, how come they have you proofreading and typing?"

"Hell, I'm in the Army."

"Anyway, the Major said it was a big waste; that we could use you." "Swell," I said. "What happens next?"

She explained: a reorganization was underway. Psy-war was being shifted from G-2 (Intelligence) to G-3 (Personnel). While psy-war was part of G-2, no transfer was necessary, only a simple note from my boss would have gotten me into the psy-war writing unit. With the reorganization, however, I would have to initiate the move, put in for a transfer.

"It ought to be a simple thing," she said. "You know, the copy of your file that you gave me. I used that to fill out the forms that you need. Here, all you have to do is sign them."

"Thanks," I said. "But how'd you know about the forms?"

"Didn't I tell you? Major wear a lot of hats. He's on the NCO board as well - you know, where they control transfers and pro..."

"NCO board?" I interrupted. "What's the major's name?"

"Kellog, Major Rolland Kellog. Thought everyone knew who he was."

"Guess I know him, in a way," I said.

"I know some GIs don't like him," she said. "But I think he's okay. You'll like him."

"You crazy, man?" Tets asked.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"This shit about Korea. Somebody said you're volunteering to go over."

"Who said that?"

"That wahine, the one in the psy-war section. What's her name? Lani?"

"She tell you?"

"No. But another wahine in the same office, the one from Maui, said Lani was typing out some transfer papers for you."

"Oh, that. That's nothing," I said. "Been trying to get into the writing unit at psywar, that's all. Lani typed out the forms for me, but I haven't signed anything."

"Hey, be careful man," Tets said. "You know the rules - ask for a transfer and they ship you to Korea. They'll ship us over pretty soon anyway. Why you want to push things?"

"Yeah, but..."

"No `buts.' Hey, we go drink," Tets said. "Forget the Army. Relax. Be happy. You don't like being in Japan or something?"

"Shit. You know that's not it."

With that, I, on my bunk in my underwear, got up, picked up my towel, put on my zori to head for the shower room. Tets, already dressed in his khakis, grabbed his hat and headed for the door.

"Sei and I, we're going to the usual place in Shinbashi," Tets said. "Join us there. We'll drink some beer; get those crazy ideas out of your head."

As I showered, I thought. Crazy idea, maybe. But being in Japan? Of course, I liked it. I had arrived in the country a year earlier aboard the troopship, the "General Pope." At the Army docks in Oakland, the troops were already on board when we heard the news of Korea; originally they said it would be only the Air Force, but before long President Truman's decision to send U.S. ground troops as well was reported by the ship's mimeographed news sheet. That meant most of the 1,500 or so GIs on board would be sent straight to Korea. I was one of the lucky few who went to their assigned destination at GHQ.

When I walked out of the NYK Building it was still light outside as I headed for Tokyo Station where I would get on a local elevated train for Shinbashi. It had cooled some, and after my shower, my summer khakis felt comfortable. While showering, I had half sorted out my plans. I'd forget about trying to get into the psy-war unit. It would have been a good experience, but the Major... I doubted if the Major would want me anyway. Meanwhile, I'd continue to play soldier at ATIS - get my boots polished and stand guard duty when I had to; continue where I was assigned. I wasn't about to sign the transfer papers. Tets was right; why push things.

I was engulfed with my own thoughts as I approached Tokyo Station when I notice a group of GIs. Their skins were pale; their uniforms didn't quite fit - could have just come out of a hospital. One GI - blond, small - seemed with the group though he stood a little bit aside.

As I was walking by, he looked up. There was instant recognition; for me, almost a shock.

"Fancy meeting you here," the GI said. He seemed genuinely glad to see me, though his voice lacked resonance.

I remembered the face - the tiny nose, the pale blue eyes, the thin delicate cheek bones. It was the same kid, all right, the one at the replacement depot at Camp Stoneman, then on the troopship. But he was far too pale. The innocent curiosity, formerly the most noticeable thing about his face, was gone.

"Hey, you remember me, don't you?" the GI asked.

"God, of course. It was just the surprise of seeing you," I said. I couldn't recall the kid's name, but could remember him well. The kid was 17 going on 18 when they were at Camp Stoneman. A high school drop out; joined the Army because he had nothing else to do; his mother kept getting on his back.

"Buddy of mine, used to be stationed here before they shipped him to Korea. He's supposed to meet me here, show me some of his former hangouts," the kid said. "How about you? Haven't seen you since we got off the Pope in Yokohama. You stationed here?"

"Yeah, been stationed here all the time, just up the street."

"Lucky you," the kid said. He swallowed a bit; looked like he might throw up as his face turned red. A moment later, though, his face returned to normal. "Sorry," he said, "it's the first time they let us out of the hospital. Sometimes I still get a bit woozy. They said I'll be all right in a couple of weeks, though."

"Certainly hope so," I said. "Which unit were you with?"

"Seventh Cav," the kid said. "They put us on a train to Sasebo the same day we got off the Pope in Yokohama. They shipped us right over to Pusan."

I didn't know what to say. This was the kid who thought I was so smart because I worked crossword puzzles; the kid who kept coming to me aboard ship when we were getting the news about Korea on those mimeographed sheets; the kid who kept asking me, maybe a dozen times before the official announcement was made, "Do you think they'll ship us over?"

As I looked into his face, the kid sensed the question in my mind.

"Got it in the gut this time," he said. "Was in the leg the first time."

His voice indicated no emotion. As he shifted his feet and turned to watch a passing car, he look tired, not old, but drained of feeling. For a moment he gazed off at nothing, then looked back at me.

"You know," he said, "I don't care anymore. Couple of weeks and I'll be well again. They're going to ship me back to the Seventh Cav. I don't want to go. I'll go because they'll make me. But I don't care any more."

The lights of the city were just starting to come on as the local electric train pulled out of Tokyo Station - Yuraku-cho next, then Shinbashi, where I'd get off. In the distance I could see the red neon sign of the YMCA; the red, blue and green lights of the Daito Hotel, the name written in both Romaji and Kanji; the Dentsu Building, on whose roof blinking yellow and white lights formed a replica of world globe. Along the narrow, unpaved street next to the tracks, red paper lanterns were beginning to stand out in the growing darkness. A sake shop here, a noodle stand there, a pachinko parlor further down, stood amid shuttered houses, their wooden rain doors closed tightly for the night.

I had seen the sight countless times. My eyes, now, however, searched out the details - I wanted to fix the scene in my memory. I would not be seeing it many more times.

Come Monday, I would sign the transfer papers Lani had typed for me, take it to the company CO's office myself, give it to the company sergeant and not tell anyone else. When my orders came, I would simply tell Tets, Sei, Lani and the others that my number just came up; besides, I wasn't really volunteering.

"I don't care anymore," the kid had repeated. He didn't have to say it; I could see it in the kid's face, his eyes.