JAF Diary 15 November 1939

Last night at the Point Cook bar, thick with smoke and banter, I got into it with Jack, a mate from the language course. Over beers—cold, crisp, hits like home—I bet him I could learn 3,000 kanji in a day. Just kanji, mind, the proper ones, like Chinese characters, none of that hiragana fluff. Jack smirked, offered a tenner, thinking I’d crash. Lit a smoke, told him, “You’re done, mate.” I’ve hustled before—swept Sydney’s tennis courts for pennies in the Depression—so a bet’s nothing new. Bar was loud, flyboys shouting, but I was already planning.

Today was a grind. Locked in my bunk, books everywhere, kanji staring me down like a puzzle from hell. Smoked a pack, fingers black with ink, head throbbing. French was child’s play at uni; kanji’s a beast, but I’m no mug. Sorbonne’s gone, but I’ve still got my edge. By evening, I marched to the bar, recited all 3,000 to Jack, stroke for stroke. 

His face—priceless. Handed over the tenner, bought me a beer. Blokes roared, and I grinned through my cigarette’s haze. Felt like Sydney, winning big. Dad—Andrew, tough old Irish bugger—would’ve raised a glass. I’ll be telling this one forever. 3,000 kanji, one day. Bloody smashed it.