 Soldiers of the press! Today's war correspondents perform their tasks under battle conditions. Many of them have suffered searing disabling wounds in performance of their duty. Among the many soldiers of the press who comprise the staff of the United Press, there are others who have been called upon for yet another kind of bravery to remain at their posts in hostile and war-threatened capitals at the risk and frequently at the sacrifice of their freedom. Such a man is the correspondent whose story we bring you now. Robert T. Belair, manager of the former United Press Bureau in Tokyo. The story I have to tell is not pretty. It's a story of inhumanity, of brutality, a story of what happened to those Americans who fell into Japanese hands when Premier Tocho and the Japanese military clique plunged their country into war with the United States. I know the facts all too well because I was one of that American group in Tokyo. After nearly six years on a variety of assignments in the Far East, the United Press had sent me to Japan early in 1941 as manager of its Tokyo Bureau. It was an uneasy and unpleasant assignment from the first. Police paid frequent visits to the United Press Bureau. Censorship became progressively more strict and hampering. One day in early November, a Japanese plainclothesman spent the entire day reading every item I had written. As he shuffled through my papers, he would turn to me at intervals and say, I'm very sorry for you. I'm very, very sorry for you. The next indication I had that I was in for serious trouble of some sort came several weeks later. A knock at the door of my apartment aroused me from a sound sleep. I snapped on a light and slipped into my robe. Glanced at my watch. It was nearly midnight. I shuffled to the door in my slippers and released a latch. It was pitch black outside and a cold wind was blowing. A woman's figure suddenly emerged from the shadows. I recognized her as one of my Japanese neighbors. And may I please come in? Well, certainly do come in. You surprise me. I've been asleep. Yes, but I have important word for you. You Americans have been my friend. Now you in danger. For safety you must burn all papers. You do not want to fall into hands of police. Well, why? I don't understand. Well, what's the matter? What's going on? Do you think the war is about to start? So sorry. I can only warn you. You'll soon be arrested. Please burn papers, as I say. It will save you much trouble later. I will, by all means. And I'm deeply grateful to you for your warning. But look, you shouldn't have done it. You risked imprisonment by coming here like this, didn't you? Yes, I did. And for that reason I must go quickly home without being seen. But I am honored to do you small service. Recently you did me great kindness. Goodbye and best luck. Sayonara. Demarigato. Sayonara. I stood there for a moment trying to remember what great kindness she had meant. Then it came back to me suddenly. Two weeks earlier I had given her, the wife of a former Japanese cabinet officer, a bit of cloth, a package of needles and two papers of pins. In gratitude for those small gifts, she had risked imprisonment all worse to bring me her warning. Small items loom large in a country that has been at war for six years. Well, I took her warning and sorted my papers carefully, both at home and at the office. It's impossible to say how much future grief and abuse that saved me. And I was not long learning the grave implications of what I'd been told. You remember the circumstances. A Japanese peace mission was in Washington discussing possible terms of settlement of differences between Japan and the United States. The American colony in Tokyo was extremely apprehensive. We knew that the situation was critical. I'd worked late the night of December 7th. At about 5.15 a.m. my house phone rang. Hello? Who? Oh, Dome. Yes, this is Bel Air of United Press. What? No. Yeah. I have it all. Japanese planes have attacked Pearl Harbor. War is to be declared at 11 a.m. Yeah. Yeah, I'm sorry to hear it too. Thanks. Thanks for calling. There was nothing I could do except get ready for the inevitable police. They came at 6 a.m. I was caught off to a concentration camp near Tokyo in which I was to spend six of the most miserable months of my life. The camp was a former girls' school between Tokyo and Yokohama. For two months, we were held in Communicado, permitted to see or talk to no one from the outside. Thirteen of us were packed into one small dismal room. We complained that disease was spreading because of the unsanitary and overcrowded conditions. Once, one of the correspondents told the Stanford University-educated doctor that there were too many men in the room. To this, he replied, Well, why don't you then put the skirts on some of them? Once a week, we were offered a bath. All thirteen of us, in the same water previously used by thirty police and several greasy cooks. We had no medical attention, no heat during Tokyo's freezing winter. And food? Let me tell you about the food we received in that Japanese prison camp. Our lunch was typical. We were given greenish whale meat, or rotted fish heads boiled with alfalfa. Our Japanese keepers in that internment camp employed all manner of mental torment in an attempt to break our morale. Once I was called into the main office. Your name, please. I'm Robert Belair. You asked how we brought him? Yes, you write for United Press? Yes. As you see these, this letter from your wife. Oh, swell. And these pictures, your children? Oh, hell, I'm very glad. I think you cannot have them. See, I tell them up. Oh, please. Please, let me have the pieces. Let me put them back together, please. Keep away! You get nothing. Go! Out! That will give you some idea of the treatment American internees receive from the Japanese. Now, Japanese internees in the United States were living in luxury in white sulfur springs. But many fared much worse than I. There was a water treatment for those our captors tried to make confess to spying. Do you ever hear how the water treatment works? I'll tell you. First your arms and legs are bound together with your knees under your chin. Then you're suspended by a rope, head down. Then your jailers begin pouring buckets of water over your head. You would pours up your nose, you can't breathe. Eventually you lose consciousness. And that's just the beginning. Next you're slapped back to consciousness or possibly beaten back to your senses with a rubber hose. And then you're given an opportunity to confess things of which you're not guilty. If you refuse, the treatment begins all over again. Some of our group were forced to kneel Japanese fashion on iron bars for hour after hour until muscles ache beyond endurance and the flesh on their legs broke open. These things happen to people like J.B. Paul of the China Weekly Review and Otto Delicius of the New York Times and others. At least one newspaper correspondent and turned by the Japanese never will walk again as a result of such treatment and several will limp for the rest of their lives. All of us were frequently threatened with execution by firing squads. The only bright moment of our internment came April 18th when Jimmy Doolittle and his fellow flyers skimmed over Tokyo's rooftops and dropped the first bombs, but certainly not the last ever to fall on Japanese soil. We heard the explosions and from our barred windows could see the planes and the smoke of burning buildings rising in the wake. That day all of us took new hope. At long last, on May 30th, we learned that arrangements had been completed for our return home in exchange for our internees held in America. We were called before Inspector Kikuchi of the Metropolitan Police. He greeted us with a first smile any of us had seen on his face during our six months in jail. I have just learned from Japanese Home Office, but in spite of war, Japanese newspaper correspondents in the United States are being well treated. The Home Office now is trying to think of some way to be nice to you. We waited two days. Then we were invited to what was probably one of the strangest parties ever given any group of newspaper men. We were escorted to the famous Sano Hotel. We were greeted by ten young Japanese who spoke excellent English. They informed us that they represented the Pacific War Relief Council. For 30 minutes, we were shown newsreels of Japanese war successes while Japanese seated beside us interpreted the insulting titles on the screen. Next, we were given the best meal any of us had seen since long before the war began. And midway through the luncheon, one of the young Japanese arose to speak. You are extremely fortunate in being permitted to leave for home within a fortnight. Others must stay behind. If each of you write an article on Japan and the kind treatment you have received, we can raise 4,000 yen from the English language newspapers in Japanese-occupied areas. We will use these funds to aid your fellow countrymen. Japan's kind treatment of us. I arose and thanked the chairman on behalf of the Americans present for the opportunity of aiding our fellow countrymen. I said that after our own experiences we were eager to do everything possible to improve a lot of others in our position. But I explained that none of us could write for anyone except our respective employers and added that I was sure we would be willing to contribute to raise the fund of 4,000 yen. At that, we were all told to go up to private rooms. Smilingly, our Japanese host said, we would have an opportunity to take hot private baths. Suspecting what was coming, we declined. Then we were ordered to take those baths. The chairman and another member of the Japanese committee accompanied to my door. They opened the door. My work was cut out for me. A typewriter was in the center of the room. Here are a typewriter in paper. You write the story for us, no? This is for your own good. Some Japanese officials do not favor repatriation of your American newspaper men. They are afraid you will write anti-Japanese propaganda when you get home. Well, what do you want me to write about? I have it here, this slip of paper. The home office wants you to write on the topic, China should cooperate with Japan. But I refuse. Then you will never leave Japan. You will never leave this room. I took you and you do write for me. You will write now? You will write now? When I regained consciousness, I tapped out a few lines, making them sound as much like Japanese propaganda as possible. Japanese cliches no American would think of using. The august virtue of his imperial majesty, co-prosperity sphere. When the chairman returned, he beamed. The short article must have sounded to him exactly like one of Tojo's speeches. And that's what I wanted. I knew no one would ever mistake that type for the sentiments or willing expression of any American. Two weeks later, we were permitted to sail for home. A long, tortuous journey by way of Lorenco Marcus and the Rio de Janeiro. Finally, on the morning of August 26, we sighted the skyline of New York, dimly visible through the mists of the harbor. A group of merinole priests and nuns aboard had formed a choir. As we moved slowly toward out pier, they sang America. Suddenly, the Statue of Liberty loomed up through the fog, a lump tightened in my throat. Tears welled up in my eyes. I was home. Home from my United Press assignment to Tokyo. Robert Belair is but one of many correspondents of the United Press who have faced hardship and danger to cover their assignments, to gather and write the facts, the truth which every American expects in his news. On every news front in every news center, such men are on the job, reporting the news accurately, completely and speedily. We will return soon with another of these programs, dramatizing the experiences of these soldiers of the press. Listen. And meanwhile, look for United Press news in your favorite newspaper. Listen for it on the radio. It is your guarantee of the world's best coverage of the world's biggest news.