Then there was the correspondent who pulled out a grenade, drew out the pin, and still holding it by the handle so it wouldn't explode, held it up high, and asked those in the bar around him, "What kind of a grenade do you think this is?" Before anyone could say a thing, he pulled open a window and tossed the grenade outside. Everyone in the bar, including the prankster, hit the floor. Al Cullison, who is the authority for this story, says the grenade fell on a narrow sidewalk between the Press Club and the Soviet billet next door. There was a mild explosion, and a lot of smoke. The thrower got up off the floor and announced, "It was a concussion grenade." Luckily, no one was walking outside at that hour of the night. But the Club's Russian neighbors were quite upset about it, and lodged a strenuous protest with the Club officials.
Bob Vermillion, the jaunty front man for many of the stories they tell about the Unipressers, jumped with the paratroopers during the Munsan operation, broke a leg, and came back to Tokyo with his leg in a cast. Earnie, Rud, and others in the UP bureau made the proper clucking sounds, and offered to get him a hotel. "No," said Bob, "I'll take care of myself." He disappeared for about a month, phoning in from time to time to reassure Earnie.
When he finally turned up, he had shucked his cast, and everyone remarked on how great he looked. Two days later, a well-dressed Japanese lady showed up with a card introducing her as being from "Miyoshi" and presented a whopping bill that made even Vermillion turn pale. She got paid. But it seems that Bob was entertaining quite a few fellow correspondents at his "hotel" which he thought was a "cheap Japanese ryokan." Bob learned the hard way that even a foreign correspondent has to pay for a good time.
Bob Miller, UPI's bon vivant nonpareil, tells a story about Vermillion that sums it up neatly. It seems Vermillion had had more than a few sips of the cup that cheers in the Press Club bar, and, upon making his exit from the Club, began looking for a cab. The night was dark. Bob spotted a black car parked on the street, with a driver sitting at the wheel. He opened the back door, sat down, and told the driver, "Miyoshi's." A voice from the other end of the back seat asked, "What's Miyoshi's?" Bob was apologetic. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize this car was occupied. I'll get out." "That's all right. What's Miyoshi's?" Replied Bob, "Just the best cat house in town." "What are we waiting for? Let's go. Driver! Miyoshi's. Incidentally, I'm Errol Flynn."
Flynn, who happened to be in Tokyo making a film, took such a fancy to Miyoshi's that his whole film crew moved into its hospitable surroundings for the remainder of their stay in Tokyo.
Miyoshi's is no more, another casualty of Tokyo's constant rebuilding binge. So what was it like? It used to be in an Eastside Tokyo house, according to Al Cullison. It had a big party room with tatami-mat floor, where the girls poured drinks for the guests and made them feel like they were the world's greatest gift to womankind. When you made your exit from this party room, your girl took you across a Japanese garden with a pond and a tiny bridge to a nest of smaller rooms where she would see that her guest was properly bathed, helped into a fresh, cleanly starched yukata, and bedded down in a comfortable futon. And if you had happened to have a broken leg, she'd make such a fuss over you, you'd hope it would never heal. If, after her treatment, you felt, "Now, here's someone who appreciates me," you were only being human. Many of our Korean War heroes learned at Miyoshi's about the mysterious Orient.
There's something about an outstanding photographer that gives him a sensitivity and perception that's the envy of many a newswriter. Carl Mydans is one such photographer. So is David Duncan.
On the front flap of his book More Than Meets the Eye, Carl discusses this photographic third eye that good lensmen seem to possess. He says, "The restless force behind all photographers is an urge to communicate what they see. Much of what they see is in their photographs, often, as well, a good deal of what they feel. But there is always something left over, some spoken word or warmth of sun or smell of death that stays on unrecorded after the picture has been made and printed. These 'extras' of sensation and experience are what make so many photographers tireless storytellers. Not only are they men who think in images; they are subjective about what they see. Unlike the passive spectator, they become involved emotionally as well as physically, in what they report."
He adds, with the undeniable punch of truth, "No camera that was ever late for an assault was ever 'filled in' later by comrades in journalism or survivors of the action. The camera must always be there. And behind it, there must always be a man's eye, and a soul."
When Duncan covered the Japanese surrender aboard the U.S.S. Missouri, he had time to grieve for the humiliation of an enemy, Mamoru Shigemitsu, who had lost a leg to a would-be assassin's bomb in 1932. Shigemitsu, Duncan reports in his photo-book Yankee Nomad, "had a terrible, humiliating, and probably painful time" trying to climb the ship's stair-ladder to the main deck, and then get from there over to the table where he was to sign the surrender document. "No one went forward to help him," David said.
Incidentally, Duncan is the photographer who made the 35 mm Nikon the camera of choice for news photographers all over the world, replacing the heavy, cumbersome Speed Graphic. According to Ian Mutsu, who left UP to start up his own newsreel company about that time, Duncan had heard good reports about the 35 mm produced by Canon. When he arrived in Japan, he became friendly with Jun Miki, the idol of Japanese cameramen. Miki tried to set up a visit to the Canon plant but was rebuffed. Miki then arranged a visit to the Nikon plant, where Duncan was welcomed with open arms, presented with a camera, and a variety of lenses and other accessories, which he tried out in Korea. He was so impressed that on his return, he publicized the Nikon everywhere he went. From that point on, the rest is history.
The gravity of the situation in Korea and elsewhere had brought home to the American people the need for a stronger Japan. Tokyo had already received indications that the peace treaty would be concluded sooner than expected. President Truman had taken the first step in April 1950 by appointing John Foster Dulles peace treaty advisor to the State Department. Dulles made two quick trips to Tokyo in early 1951 to discuss with Prime Minister Yoshida the peace pact and a mutual security agreement. After drawing up drafts based on these talks, Washington sent out copies of the peace draft together with invitations to fifty nations to participate in a peace conference to open in San Francisco on September 4.
During a report explaining these two treaties to the Diet session in August, Yoshida also revealed that he had requested the U.S. security forces to stay after the peace treaty to guarantee Japan's security. On September 8, the peace treaty to officially end World War II for Japan was signed in San Francisco by forty-eight Allied nations and Japan. The Soviet Union, Poland, and Czechoslovakia refused to sign. India, which did not attend the conference, later signed a separate peace treaty with Japan as did Nationalist China. Immediately after the adjournment of the peace conference, the United States and Japan met separately to sign a bilateral mutual security pact providing a U.S. security umbrella for Japan, with U.S. troops to remain in Japan and use its facilities.
