Fire Flowers by Ben Byrne

austere.
    Eugene was sulking. “I’m sure glad you made me come, Harold. What a splendid view!” From the balustrade at the top of the castle, we could see far into the distance. A burned hamlet huddled beneath us, muddy fields stretching for miles around.
    â€œOkay, Eugene. Give me a break.”
    Back at the gymnasium where we were billeted, we ate a dull dinner of fried spam. Hartley joined us later and invited us to a bar. I refused, intent on getting my head down. Eugene’s interest was piqued. I heard him stumble back several hours later, stinking of cheap scent and whisky.
    Â 
    The next day was cold and Eugene was surly. Halfway home, outside Kyoto, the train halted. After much confused lumbering, it shunted into a siding, where it stayed for over an hour. Finally, the door opened, and a large man whom I recognized clambered aboard. Thickset, big tortoiseshell glasses, a few strands of brown hair scraped over his head, he raised a meaty hand when he saw us. At that moment, the train began to creak backward. He heaved his kit bag up onto the rack, his face brightening as he noticed our green press patches.
    â€œWell, now. The fine men of the
Stars and Stripes
. Always a pleasure.” He held out a thick palm.
    His accent had a European inflection, I thought. German? Yiddish?
    â€œMark Ward,” he said. “
Chicago Sun-Times
.”
    â€œHal Lynch,” I said, shaking his hand.
    I remembered where I’d seen him now. At a press conference in the council chamber of the Diet a few weeks earlier, he’d been haranguing the incumbent prime minister with a vigour the man clearly found unfamiliar and disconcerting.
    Eugene shook his hand sullenly. I suspected he was resentful of the men from the “official” papers and the agencies. The
Stars and Stripes
, Japan itself, seemed something of a pet project for him, one he disliked having to share with others. The train started to clang along the rails, and Ward winced as he eased himself onto the seat opposite.
    â€œLord save us,” he said.
    â€œNot quite a first-class Pullman,” I ventured.
    â€œBe grateful for small mercies, young man,” he replied, jerking his thumb toward the crammed Japanese carriages. He twisted his head until his neck cracked, then let out a groan of satisfaction.
    â€œInteresting assignment?”
    â€œHimeji Castle.”
    He raised his eyebrows in question.
    â€œSet of touristic sketches. About the historic places of Japan. Kinds of places the ordinary GI might like to visit.” A polite nod.
    â€œCastles and such. Famous beauty spots.”
    Ward squinted as the temple roofs and tall cedars of Kyoto skittered past outside.
    â€œWell. I guess they may as well take a peek at what’s left.”
    I noticed with embarrassment that Eugene was studiously ignoring the man. I speculated on the possible reasons for the train’s tardiness and Ward gave a sheepish grin.
    â€œI’m the culprit, I’m afraid,” he said. “I was interviewing a major here, local head of procurement, about certain contracts he’s just awarded to a local nightclub owner.”
    A cigar emerged from the side pocket of his kit bag, and he flicked a silver lighter at its tip.
    â€œWell, we just couldn’t stop talking and so the interview ran over. The major’s secretary was kind enough to telephone the stationmaster, who said he’d hold the train until I got there.”
    Eugene snorted. “Gee, I hope it was worth it.” He hoisted his boots onto Ward’s seat and buried his face in a two-month-old edition of
Popular Science
.
    â€œDon’t worry about Eugene, Mr. Ward,” I said. “He likes to keep abreast of his ignorance.”
    Eugene yawned deliberately, and went off to lie down in another part of the carriage. As the train rolled slowly eastward, Ward puffed at his cigar in the contented manner of a commercial traveller. He seemed to have