Fireflies Read Online Free PDF Page A

interested in the big stories. He understands the political angles. But he also wants to be entertained. He likes to see how the big stories affect the little man.”
    â€œHuman interest, you might say?”
    â€œExactly,” Dutch said, pointing at me. “You’ve got it right there.”
    â€œFine. That suits me fine.”
    â€œBut in addition to that,” he said, picking up his pen, and waving it at me, “we’ve got to produce stories that the Japs’ll understand. So that they’ll see what we’re doing here. What we’re trying to build. We’ve got a duty to do that too.”
    I had a mental image of the devastation I’d seen on the long ride in from Yokohama that morning. Dutch noticed my expression and gave a sheepish smile.
    â€œWell, heck, of course, we had to take a wrecking ball to the place first. Only stands to reason. But the next trick is to build something up. A peace-loving, democratic country.”
    â€œâ€˜The Switzerland of Asia’?” I suggested, quoting MacArthur.
    â€œThat’s right,” he said, pointing at me again. He stood up, gesticulating in the manner of a Roman senator. “Elected representatives. Votes for women. A free press. Yes, it’s a fine experiment we’ve got going here, Lynch.”
    He turned to a filing cabinet against the wall. I glanced down at the typed article on his desk. A bureaucratic report, I saw, something about land reform. Big swathes of blue pencil had been drawn through it, initials and letters circled in the margin. Further down, blocks of text had been struck through with black ink.
    â€œThe crucible of change, Lynch,” Dutch was saying, as he rummaged about in a file. “It’s our privilege to have front-row seats.” He turned, smiling, and handed me a small square of paper: “Don’t lose it.”
    My press pass. The scrawled signature of the supreme commander himself graced the back. I was impressed.
    Dutch held out his hand. “Welcome to Stars and Stripes , Lynch. I think you’re going to fit right in with this bunch of nuts. A man like you could really make a name for himself here.”
    â€œThanks, Dutch,” I said, shaking his hand. “I’ll see what I can do.”
    ~ ~ ~
    I’d been billeted to the old Continental Hotel, not far from the red brick ruins of Tokyo Station. When I arrived I was astonished and delighted to find that I’d been given a small room of my own. For the first time in years, I wouldn’t be bunking down with a dozen other men, surrounded by unceasing locker-room jaw about pin-ups and football and the Brass. The carpet was worn down almost to the board, and an ancient black ribbon of flypaper hung from the ceiling. I unpacked my kit and set up my handful of books on the chipped table by the window.
    The view outside was uninspiring. A gravel road bisected by a streetcar line; a row of ruined buildings on the other side. I poured myself a drink, and as the alcohol began to glow in my stomach, I sat on my cot and picked away the epaulettes from my jackets, along with the insignia of 3rd Recon Squadron. I patiently sewed my woven Stars and Stripes badge in its place.
    A clang came from the road and I glanced out. A streetcar was crawling valiantly along the track, so dilapidated that I felt like applauding in sympathy. The windows were cracked, the sides all dented. Expressionless passengers squeezed up against each other on the deck, spilling precariously over the guardrails.
    ~ ~ ~
    It didn’t take me long to find a “human interest” piece. The following week, while out exploring the neighbourhood down by the banks of the river, I discovered an old man living under a jerry-rigged tarpaulin strung between two poles. He was naked but for shorts and an old raincoat, and he held a bamboo fishing rod, the float bobbing out in the river. I took Eugene and a Japanese-American translator named