Veteran
July 1946 Tokyo, Japan
The jeep, which was covered in a thin blanket of dust, screeched to a halt in front of the dilapidated wooden shack that was the humble home of Sakamoto Michiko. Bruno Cavallo was sitting in the back of the jeep and wearing his Army standard issue summer uniform. It consisted of a khaki shirt and trousers combo but, despite this, he was already bathed in sweat. It was only 9 a.m. Tokyo summers could be brutal.
“Grazie a Dio,” he thought to himself. “Thanks be to God that I can wear this stupid thing with an open collar.”
He reluctantly donned the beige tie.
The young corporal struggled to hoist his legs out of the jeep. After some physical effort, his thick Army boots hit the dirt road with a thud. There were not many paved roads in Tokyo during the occupation. Most had been destroyed by the American bombings. His beige Army hat had fallen off, so he rushed to put it on his head.
“Oh, not again! I can’t be last again!” he thought to himself.
He sighed. Indeed, once again, his legs were the last to land. There were three Americans in the jeep, but my father was the shortest and he was always scurrying about to try to keep up with the taller men.
“Move your ass, Cavallo!” the commanding officer bellowed. He was a tall, burly Texan with the stereotypical Southern drawl. “Tarnation, you’re slower than an armadillo, I swear! The armadillo gets run over where I’m from!”
My father despised the belittling comments, as well as the accompanying drawl, but he also had learned not to react. He winced every time the officer made a racist comment about the Japanese, but only when he was behind the officer so he couldn’t see my father’s facial expression. He didn’t want to be accused of being disrespectful toward a superior officer, so he had to swallow his bitterness and indignation. Cavallo understood this prejudice because many Americans still thought negatively of Italians. He’d been called dago or wop, derogatory terms for Italians, more times than he cared to count.
He also hated how the Texan bragged about his usage of his Army-issued condoms that he received in the military packages. All soldiers had these provided to them. Cavallo pitied the officer’s bride Betty back in Brownsville who was most likely clueless about this issue. Most wives and girlfriends were.
In response to the officer, Cavallo merely said, “Yes, sir,” as he quickly gathered his yellow, legal-sized notebook, black pen, and blue Japanese dictionary. Many of the pages of the dictionary were practically disintegrating since the book had been used daily for nearly two straight years– ever since the Army Japanese training classes at the University of Pennsylvania. Cavallo felt that the book had practically become an extension of his arm. He was so nervous that he dropped his pen.
“OK then,” the Texan said. “I’m going to take a piss since you’re taking so long, Cavallo!”
What he may have lacked in height my father more than made up for in brain power. He took a deep breath because he would be the only one of the three who would be speaking Japanese while they were in the home. His only weapons were his notepad and the Army pen. He quickly took a swig of water as well.
The other enlisted man, and the driver of the jeep, was Abe Solomon, a tall, thin, Jewish man from Brooklyn. Solomon rolled his blue eyes and shook his head as he watched my father struggle to prepare himself. He removed his cap briefly and ran his fingers through his light brown hair. The hairline was slightly receding. He and my father hailed from the same area of the country, but the two men couldn’t have been more different. The height was the most obvious contrast between the two, but Solomon also was several years older than my father and he had already gotten married. He had a little girl back home who was about to start preschool.
“Sumimasen. Gommennasai,” my father muttered, apologizing.
“For Christ’s sake!” Solomon said in exasperation. “Don’t speak Japanese to me!”
“I’m practicing!” my father responded. “Do YOU want to do this interview, Abe?”
Solomon just shook his head a bit.
While he couldn’t comment on anything uttered by the Texan, he felt free to speak his mind to Solomon. They were the same rank. The commanding officer had stepped out of view to urinate since my father was still preparing himself. Even though the two corporals disagreed about religion, they had managed to have some civil discussions about Judaism and Christianity when they were in the barracks.
The commanding officer had finished relieving himself and was walking briskly back toward my father and Solomon. Solomon practically shoved my father as they walked toward the shack of Sakamoto.
My father was always the first to speak. He had hesitantly entered the home and two other men had followed soon after.
“Anata wa Sakamoto-san desu ka?” Are you Mrs. Sakamoto?
My father addressed the petite, young woman who was dressed in a blue hapi coat. She wore tabi on her feet, which were originally white. However, they were now practically brown from the dust and dirt. She nodded in response to my father’s question, and he couldn’t help but notice that she had been crying.
(Nakimasu, to cry, my father thought to himself. Ever the perfectionist, he had to recall the Japanese word.)
A small boy slowly emerged from behind his mother. He couldn’t have been more than three or four. He poked his head out on the left side of the small woman and clung to her hip. The youngster wore a look of utter terror on his face.
(Oh God no! Naze – why, Lord?! Why do I have to be the one to talk in front of this boy about his father’s death?! Why wasn’t this in the Army notes?! He had a child! Isn’t there anyone at home who can take the child aside?)
Only this last sentence was translated by my father for the other Americans, but Mrs. Sakamoto sighed and explained: Iie futari desu. It was only the two of them. The boy looked as if he would never leave his mother’s side. Mother and son were wrapped together in a blanket of agony and despair because a U.S. Army jeep had run over Sakamoto Makoto, the father and husband. Now, Bruno Cavallo had the horrible task of getting the woman to sign documents and agree not to sue Uncle Sam.
He pursued the ghastly paperwork at hand, but at that moment, he decided he would do his two years of Army service and then use the G.I. bill to further his education. After that, he wanted nothing to do with the U.S. military ever again.
Emily Viglielmo is a trained journalist who has written for The Los Angeles Times, Newsday, and the former Honolulu Advertiser.