A BUS RIDE, A TRAVELER, A LETTER

A BUS RIDE, A TRAVELER, A LETTER

For a Young man named Micky Fajima, and for the West Kentucky Men on Their Way to Induction




In September of 1967 I had been picked up in front of the Arcade Theater in Paducah, KY by the bus taking the future inductees into the U.S. Army to Fort Knox for the formalities.

Most of the bus was pretty subdued, deep in thought and contemplating every possible scenario that the future might deliver.  But, I admit I was ready for this new chapter in my life. The draft had ended my on and off studies at Paducah Junior College over portions of three years for good.  And I was O.K. with it.  I had been a political science major, and had had an interest with the situation in Vietnam.  I wasn't concerned as much with the merits of the war, but since we were there, instead the mounting casualties of American young men of my approximate age. I felt a calling to do my part alongside my future brothers in arms already engaged.  

I found myself sitting up front by the driver on our way to induction, and we struck up several conversations along the way. During one of the pauses in our chats, while looking out the window and coming alongside, my attention was drawn to a slender oriental young man, probably around my age if not younger, walking along the roadside with a backpack and extending his thumb.  I did not know his Asian home, or even if he was from Asia, but I was very aware that I would probably be in Asia in my very near future.

I swung around in my seat to watch him as we passed, and in spite of his obvious need and predicament, he smiled as we made eye contact.  And something made me relate instantly to what was going on with him.  He was on an adventure of his own.

I quickly asked the bus driver to stop the bus.  He gave me a quick and somewhat puzzled glance before braking our ride and pulling over to the right shoulder of the highway, and opened the doors for me. That he was willing to do so is a miracle in itself. I stepped into the doorway and swung my arm to signal the young man to hop aboard.  He eagerly complied, at a trot.

It was immediately apparent that he understood not one full sentence in English, which made his situation even more puzzling, yet admirable to me.  After several attempts to communicate to little advantage other than discerning his name was Micky, he finally pointed towards the front of the bus window and said “New York”.  I could see that he was pretty exhausted at whatever stage of his overall journey was at this point, and I surmised more than a little short of funds and nourishment.

I offered him some snack my mother had packed for me on the trip and he humbly, but eagerly accepted.  By this time, several other Paducah inductees had left their seats and gathered up front around us, curious to know more about him and what was going on. The other men grasped the situation immediately, and calls went out for candy bars, crackers, and snacks for him to carry on his journey to New York.  His pockets and backpacks filled quickly. We were all eager to help.

I had  a twenty dollar bill in my wallet, and I didn’t figure I would have much use for it over 8 weeks of boot camp.  No sooner had I  extended the twenty, when the cry for contributions went up and down the bus, and guys scrambled to pull out wallets and change.  All in all, we came up with a pretty tidy sum for our Asian adventurer.  There was  gratitude, a gentlemanly grace, and a respect shown for our offerings that has been unforgettable to me over the course of my years.

One of the guys had an idea to make a sign for him, that gave his destination as New York.  The paper obtained from an unknown source wasn't very large but "New York" was boldly printed with a black marker. It was agreed that it would be of substantial benefit after the bus arrived in Fort Knox, and he was on his own again to continue his “walk about”.

Before departing the bus, after handshakes all around, he brought out a pen and paper and signaled for me to write down my name and address.  I did as he asked and watched as he began his way back to the side of the highway, and arriving at a spot he felt was suitable, he held up the sign, “New York”, the Jackson Purchase boys had made for him.  

We all sat back down, the driver put the bus into gear, and we waited for our arrival at the Induction Center.  

A few weeks into basic training, I received a letter from his father, Toshio Fajima. I had given the younger Fajima my mailing address in McCracken County as I did not have one yet for where I would be for my training.  My father wrote the forwarding address for my Fort Knox duty station and re-posted it for my receipt.  

Though Micky did not have much grasp of our language, surprisingly, the letter from Toshio Fajima, his father, was quite well written in English.

I have kept the letter along with some memorabilia from the Vietnam War tucked away in an old chest.  I share it today for the first time, to remember the young man with so much courage and thirst to know the world he lived in, and to honor all the men on the bus that day from my adopted hometown that ignored their own fears and trepidations, to help out a fellow traveler in need.  This letter is as much for them, as for me:

“Dear Mr. Ragan,

In Kentucky you stood my daredevil son Micky in good stead when he was in need.  I greatly appreciate your kindness.  Thank you very much and he will never forget your kind service forever, too.  Please come to my house some day and you will be welcomed by our family.  He is now in New York and is to come home next month.  In returning home he shall write to you.  Good-bye for now.
Yours truly
Toshio Fajima

P.S. This is an old coin which was used 100 years ago.”  

In those, soft, quiet times when reflecting on my life, the image of Micky hitch-hiking his way around the globe comes to mind often.  What a great adventure he must have had, and what incredible memories.  And I selfishly hope, in his own quiet moments of reflection on his path through life,  that he has also thought of all of us--on our own great sojourn into life-- on that bus in West Kentucky a half century ago.




Keith W. Ragan

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