JAF Diary, 12 March 1946

Stepped off the ship in Tokyo today, sent by External Affairs to help with the occupation work. After the war, after Kokoda, Point Cook, and all that, I never thought I’d see Japan. The harbour’s a mess—wrecked ships half-sunk, cranes creaking, Yanks everywhere with their clipboards. The city’s battered, whole streets bombed flat, wooden houses gone to ash. Yet it’s still alive. People move quick, heads down, carting bundles or pedalling bikes through the rubble. Air’s sharp with coal smoke and something like grilled fish. I’m just a bloke from Sydney, used to sweeping tennis courts for sixpence back in the Depression. This place feels like another world.

Checked into a billet near the Ginza, a sort of boarding house the Yanks fixed up for us. Streets are narrow, signs in kanji I can read, thanks to Point Cook. Shops are half-empty, but there’s tea stalls, old women pouring from iron pots, and kids darting about, laughing despite it all. Saw a temple, red gate still standing, surrounded by charred lots. It’s humbling—3,000 kanji got me here, and that Sorbonne scholarship I never used, but Tokyo’s bigger than any book. Locals nod politely, even to us Aussies. I’m meant to translate, maybe interrogate again, but it feels different now. 

No jungle, no rifles. Just a city trying to breathe.Smoked a cigarette by the Sumida River tonight, watching barges drift. Tokyo’s got a pulse, even after everything. I’m no big shot—graduating top in NSW was just hard yakka, same as learning Japanese. But standing here, I’m a bit awed. Dad—Andrew—came from Ireland with nothing, built our life in Sydney. He’d say keep steady, do your job. I will. But this place, broken and stubborn, makes me feel small. Got a cup of weak tea from a stall, no beer to be had. Bed now. Work starts tomorrow.