Lloyd Ivie during the Great Kanto Earthquake

(actual transcription, page 2-3)

Daughter Ruth and Loyd Ivie, 1923

When the Earth Begins to Tremble.

. . . continued

When daylight came our train was already parked on a siding three miles out of Omiya. Any sleep we might have gotten during the night was purely coincidental. We were cramped, and aisle standers dozed into our laps. From a trainman inspecting the wheels we learned that it would be another hour at least before the northbound came along, so we climbed out in turn to stretch our legs and get a breath of air. Hicken happened to climb on top of some freight cars on an adjacent siding and discovered a splotch of blood on the coach immediately behind ours. Apparently during the night some luckless top-rider had failed to duck a tunnel.

At last the the train crawled to Omiya and passengers filed out into an open yard between lines of glistening bayonets. The army WAS there. We had nothing to do but stand in line until mid-afternoon and inch along toward the credential officer's table. Our hopes hit low ebb as we watched applicant after applicant turned back in spite of his official papers.

"Credentials, please"-- the voice was routine. I laid down my name card bearing the Tokyo address and narrated briefly our effort to secure a paper of some sort. THen he asked, "Why must you go to Tokyo?"

"Our residence-- other teachers. Their kinfolk in America will be frantic. It is my duty to find out and inform them."

"Advance!" he ordered-- just like that! It took our breath away.

During our long stretch in line we had piled up enough argument to last the day out, and here we were beyond the dread barrier without using a single remonstration. By the time we had supressed a desire to throw our hats into the air and shout we were in the midst of another scramble for riding space. Under army control there were no tickets to buy. Sentries stood everywhere. Our job was to obey orders and go.

At Tabata we transferred again-- the home stretch. We boarded the suburban "Earthquake Special"-- a wheezy donkey engine running the fast electric tracks and pulling its limit of empty coal cars in which everyone stood up-- if they could squeeze in. As it spluttered grimy smoke into our faces I overheard comment between two gentlemen in silk kimono. "Now," one remarked, "Japan is no different than China." He must have had in mind the most disasterous earthquake on record-- in Kansu province in 1920 which took 200,000 lives. Tokyo stands second at 99,331; though the official police report at the time read "250,000 casualties". Many, of course, were burn-wounded or injured by falling objects. Both figures could be true; the quake had hit one of the most densely populated centers on earth.

Finally-- home! A bath and a bed! It didn't matter that our supper was a ration of brown rice, not that a plate of fish oil with a rag for a wick gave us light. After nearly a week we could undress and sleep; for our faithful house-servant, Taniuchi, had had presence of mind while the house was threatening collapse to douse the fire in the kitchen stove. Even a disconnected stovepipe could have poured flame out to burn everything up. He risked his life and then ran to the aid of his wife and child in the adjoining servants' quarters.

Next morning our witty colleague, Esplin, filled in some of the blanks. He was upstairs writing a letter at 11:57 a.m. when the shock hit. He dove for the door; it wasn't there! When he found the stairs amid ripping and puffing wall plaster-- (the ceilings were wood)-- he missed the bannister in two out of three grabs! One look from the portico stopped him short. It was raining tile outside and he had forgotten his umberella! He who hesitates is lost; a picture of some educational leaders fell from the wall and bopped him on the head. "First time the big stick ever topped this ball", was his dry comment. A next door neighbor's wife was in the process of giving birth.

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