big brothers, all of whom might turn out to be experts in the art of judo. It establishes, by the last question, whether or not the objective is a legitimate military target in the first place.
Now you plunge boldly into Section 2.9, or Dating. "Tsukiatte kuremasen ka?" it says here, means "How about a date?" "Komban wa doo desu ka?" is a quick follow-up meaning "How about tonight?"—and "tonight," most prominent of all the English words on the page, leers out at the eager student in italics.
There are several other very handy questions under Dating, such as: "Would you like to go to the—with me?" (Fill in movies, concert, play, or baseball game.) When and where are also taken care of on this page, and if you are getting nowhere because your jeep is bogged down in a thick accent, just turn a page to Section 2.10.
"You're very pretty," it says. "You have pretty eyes, face, hair. You have a nice figure." (Actually the latter is given as sutairu, the Japanese borrowing for "style," but it is no time to quibble.)
This is all on Page 34. Facing it is the beginning of a chapter headed Finding Your Way Around. I regard this as tautological, redundant, and superfluous—or, at least, out of context. Hell, you're already there!
Please don't misunderstand me. I think the Japanese Phrase Book for the Occupation Forces was an excellent work, characteristic of the time and thought devoted today to the improvement and welfare of the man in uniform, and I am sure it did much to bolster his morale. But it has been of no especial value to me, as a late comer to the scene. By the time I arrived in the Far East, I had a white moustache, and the phrases of Section 2.9 would have produced only giggles if I employed them. Besides, most of the Japanese have learned some English.
Once or twice a week I sit on the tatami in a very humble Japanese home with Goto-san, Goto's okusan, and a varying number of cousins. I have never learned the names of all these; they are referred to as Oji Cousin, Kyobashi Cousin, Tokyo Cousin, and Small Cousin. There also are Richi-san, Shinjuku Aunt and Unc', and sometimes Other House Mama-san. To complicate matters, sometimes there are Next Door Pretty Soon Wife-san and Tu-rain Driver Husband.
We drink honorable tea or, sometimes, the excellent Japanese biiru; occasionally we have sashimi or sukiyaki. I am accorded a warm hospitality and a sincere respect by these average citizens of a country long famed for politeness. From the first they called me "Papa-san."
"Papa-san, Kyobashi Cousin no can Engrish. If can Engrish, Kyobashi Cousin many, many hoppee."
That is Richi-san speaking. She is easily the star pupil of what started out to be an informal class in conversational English.
"Now, wait," I say. "Let's run through that again. Say this after me: My Kyobashi Cousin cannot speak English. If he could speak English, he would be very happy."
"Ah, so! Papa-san, you 'ant co'hee?"
"Thank you, yes, I'll have coffee. You don't use sugar in your coffee, do you, Yoshi-san?"
"Yiss, sank you," says Yoshi-san, who is Goto's oku-san.
I pass her the sugar, and everybody laughs politely. What Yoshi-san has just told me is yes, she does not use sugar in her coffee.
I have come out here to teach them, hoping, in return, to learn Japanese. But they are too many for me, and their need is greater. English perhaps would help them to get better jobs.
"Papa-san, 'hat you 'ant to do?"
"Well, let's sing. What would you like to sing?"
"'Botans anda Reebones,' Papa-san."
"'Botans and Reebones'? I never heard of it."
"Watsamatta you, Papa-san? 'Botans and Reebones'!"
There is a hassle at the language barrier until Richi-san hums a few bars. What they want is "Buttons and Bows." Seems that Boba Hopa made a big hit over here. We progress from that to:
I was danshing
With my darring,
To the Tennesshee Wartz,
When an old friendo I hoppen to shee—
which is still almost ichiban on the Ginza Hit Parade, and then we start in on:
You are my shunshine,
My onry shunshine,
You make me hoppee
When su-kies are brue;
You'll never know, dear,
How muchee I rove you—
"Stop!" I exclaim. "Not 'how muchee I rove you!' How much I love you—ullove—you! Try it again." "Ah, so, Papa-san!"
You'll never know, dear,
How muchee I rove you,
Prease don't take
My shunshine away....
"Now, let's talk. Richi-san. what did you do today?"
"Today, Papa-san? Today morning, I'm Ginza go, some'sing buy. Come back room behore hive o'crock."
Papa-san sighs, smiling at the charming accent. They are all like children, and, indeed, most of them are very young. They are eager to learn, and as smart as whips. But Papa-san is untrained in the arts of teaching. It is very difficult to explain about pronouns and tenses and genders.
"Gomen nasai," Papa-san says, to parade his knowledge of Japanese. "Excuse me. Chotto matte—just a moment."
"Eckascuse me—just a moment," they say, and those who are wearing Western clothes rise as Papa-san leaves the room for a minute. It is not polite to rise when one is wearing a kimono.
When Papa-san comes back, Goto-san is very apologetic.
"Verree sorree, Papa-san!" he says. "Toiret no good. Toiret rong time after."
He has just learned this from Richi-san. He is speaking disparagingly of the plumbing, but it is difficult to understand just what "long time after" means—until the phrase is applied literally. It is a long time after such plumbing was in general use—that is, the toilet is old-fashioned. Goto-san and Watanabe-san and Kyo-bashi Cousin are all facing the same housing problems with a few million other Japanese. Tokyo, third largest city in the world and growing amazingly, is more than three hundred thousand family-units short.
Papa-san leaves after a while and drives back to his billet, trying to remember to keep on the left side of the street, dodging a million trusting pedestrians and a few hundred thousand erratic bicycles. The signs everywhere show that other Japanese are having their troubles with this strange English language, in which there are too many "L" sounds and the sentence construction is all backwards. The signs say: NEEDIEWARK; UPHOSTRY FOR AUTO; YOUR VERY DRUG STORE; PRAY SAFETY TRAFIC; ROOM FOR TO LENT; PLACE FOR EXECUTION OF PUBLIC WORK—the latter at the edge of a street excavation—FILM DEVEROPED; DO NOT RING THIS BELL FOR NOTHING; JEWERY. Hundreds of others, including street signs that can lead you to the corner of First and First, or O Avenue and O Avenue. The latter, however, are our own; the Japanese name districts, but not streets, except in rare instances, and the streets, for some completely unknown reason, just run into themselves ...
Sure, I am learning Japanese-after a fashion. I can look at Mount Fuji and exclaim, "Maa, nante kirei desu koto!" or, "Oh, how beautiful!" I can snarl, "Chisai kaibutsu!" when youngsters put their loving and sticky hands all over the car, because that means "Little monsters!" But I got those out of the Conversation Dictionary, and I fear they are somewhat stilted. At least, I haven't heard any of my Japanese friends using the same phrases.
Besides, I can't go around always with the Conversation Dictionary in my hand and my reading glasses on my nose, even when I Ginza go.
I know that sukoshi, pronounced s'koshi, means "a little," and that takusan, pronounced tak'san means "a lot"; and I would not be surprised if these words find their way into English