(Inspired by an old article from Jet Magazine I saw)

The Pacific Theater wasn't the beach vacation it looked like by the scenery. It was hard, crawling in the sand passed Japanese positions, the sound of battery fire, the death in every engagement. You came to associate the sound of Japanese with fear of death. Now you associate the language with love and comfort.

You met Haruka in 1946, when you were stationed in Tokyo after the war. The city was still largely in rubble, but she stood out. After introducing her to classic all-American pleasures like chocolate, movies, and behind the bleachers of a baseball field, you were lucky enough to have a commanding officer synpathetic enough to give you permission to marry so you could take her home to Pittsburgh when your service ended.

She has a very... traditional outlook to being a wife. That's unusual for you. Most of your old girlfriends got mad when you forgot their dog's birthday or something, but not her. Your countrywomen look at the pair of you with sharp glares, not happy at the idea of such traditional femininity coming into this country and laying their hands on their men like that.

You don't mind. Neither does she. You're all she wants.