The Lost Samurai

It was a cold, misty night that saw me heading south-west on the old A303 – a winding road with hardly any stretches of dual-carriageway.  I owned an ERF tractor unit back then, which had a gearbox that kept me busy and, thankfully, wide awake.  As I rounded a sharp and tightly wooded bend, peering into the gloom for the road ahead, I saw a figure standing directly in my path.  It seemed a strange shape at first, with bulging shoulders and knees, and wearing some kind of helmet.  The shape waved and without hesitation, I stopped. 

I saw a motorcycle lying on the grass verge and climbed down from the cab.  The shape approached and when it was no more than a few feet from me, suddenly stopped and bowed, its head dropping sharply, chin on chest.  Somewhat startled, I stepped back, but no sooner had I done so, the shape straightened and held out its right hand.

“I am Tsuyoshi,” It said, removing the crash helmet.  “People call me Yoshi.”

“Hello Yoshi,” I said, shaking the hand.  “TW.  What happened?”

Yoshi was a young man of about twenty years.  He was short, well, compared to me anyway, but powerfully built – that was obvious despite all his padded motorcycle gear.

“I am at the university in Exeter, I got lost in the fog and fell from my motorcycle”, Yoshi explained.  “Now my motorcycle is broken”.

He was right, the machine was too badly damaged to ride, so I told Yoshi that I was headed for Exeter and that he could travel with me, if he so wished.  He accepted my offer gratefully.

We hid the motorcycle amongst the trees, in order to protect it from local cannibals, I told Yoshi, and were soon on our way.  Yoshi looked around the inside of my cab, nodding with apparent approval. 

“You have very good truck”, He said.

“It’s a bit old and unsophisticated but it’ll do ‘till I can afford a better one”, I told him.

“Sophisticated is not always good”, Yoshi said earnestly, turning in his seat to face me, “Although it is important to learn and understand all the secrets of your chosen path, the best way will always be simplicity over superficial effect.”

I smiled. “Thank God”, I said. “ERF and Foden will be around forever”.

Yoshi turned back toward the windscreen and stared into the mist.

Yoshi appeared a very serious person; his facial expression was unsmiling and fixed with a look of continual enquiry.  I was about to ask what he was studying at Exeter: was he a trainee magistrate perhaps, or even a trainee Judge?  Maybe he was going to work behind the counter at a HGV test station.  But Yoshi volunteered the information, unprompted: he was to be an engineer.  Did he come from a family line of engineers?  Apparently he did but more significantly, or so it was to Yoshi, his forefathers were bushi.

“What’s bushi? I said.

“Bushi means warrior”, Yoshi straightened in his seat as he spoke, as if the family bushis might be watching.

“Like Samurai”? I asked.

“Yes, like Samurai” He replied.

“And why is this important to you, Yoshi”? I enquired, anticipating an unthinking fascination with butchery, death and all the forms of human suffering normally found on late night TV and at serious road accidents.

“Honour”, he said, “Loyalty and morality”.

I pondered this for a short while.  Honour, maybe; loyalty, almost certainly; but morality?  Yoshi had obviously seen my puzzled look. 

“The way of the Samurai is a philosophy for all life, not just for fighting, TW.  Morality in good deed; done not for appreciation but for the goodness of the deed itself, like you have done for me, tonight.

I must have still looked a little confused because Yoshi went on.

“They were law abiding and accepted those who had what they did not, and were compassionate to those who did not have what they had.”

“Not every one’s like that, I said.  Have a look at the size of the padlock I’ve got on my diesel cap”.

“But are you like that”? Yoshi asked.

“Yes, of course, I like to do things the right way.  Mind you”, I grinned, “I never was much good with padlocks”.

“And you have honour, TW?”  This was a question.

“I don’t know if I know, if you know what I mean”, I said.

“What are you carrying in your trailer”? Yoshi had once again turned towards me.

“Bog rolls.”  Now it was his turn to look confused.  “Toilet tissue”, I explained, “About twenty thousand of the bloody things”.

“And they are to go to Exeter?”

“Yes, by six tomorrow morning”, I replied.

“And if they do not arrive?”

“Then, well I don’t know.  I don’t get paid, or maybe I get paid less, I’m not sure.”

“No, TW, you do not know, because your sense of duty tells you that they will be there, and on time.  That is honour; you do not even contemplate them actually not getting there.”

I sat to attention, mocking his words. “Yoshi”, I said, “If I fail, Budleigh Salterton will not be able to wipe its arse for a week”.

Yoshi turned back to face the windscreen, and once again stared into the mist ahead.

We continued in silence for a while, Yoshi occasionally glancing sideways at me, watching as I worked the gearbox up and down through the ranges.  Even with such a light load the Rolls Royce engine struggled on the steeper inclines.   When we started into Blackdown Hills and the long climb out of Somerset, we were reduced to jogging pace. I saw that Yoshi was tensed and leaning forward in his seat, as if willing on a mighty horse.   I glanced down and realised my posture was the same.

“She works hard”, Yoshi said.  I didn’t get the chance to reply, for no sooner had he said it, she stopped working hard.

The engine lost power and began to falter and vibrate; we lost speed quickly.  I brought us to a halt, as close to the verge as I could. 

“Bollocks”, I said, and scrambled down from the cab.

 “What must we do”? Yoshi asked, as he climbed down to join me.

“Do?  There’s nothing we can do.  We’ll have to wait it out ‘till morning when I’ll hitch a lift to a phone box and call someone out.”

“But what of your ‘bog roll’, what will be said if you don’t arrive with them in the morning?"  Yoshi looked genuinely concerned.

“Oh, they’ll probably tear me of a strip”, I joked, although I couldn’t raise a smile.

“But you must get there, TW, you cannot be defeated by this engine.”

“What do you suggest, that we get our armour on, our swords out and charge it”?  I was annoyed and knew my sarcasm must have sounded rude.

“Yes, TW.  I do.”  Yoshi was staring me straight in the face. “You have your armour, your swords; the things you need to win this battle”.

I looked at him bemused.  “Yoshi, this is a broken-down ERF, not a marauding Mongol.”

“TW, you have tools, I rested my feet on their box all the way.  You mend truck.”

“I probably couldn’t, Yoshi, It sounds like it’ll need some new fuel piping.  She’s sucking air, I’ve had it before”, I said.

“But you must try, it is the only way”. Yoshi now had two enemies: a marauding ERF and my lack of spirit.  “The outcome will be what the outcome will be; it is not for us to be concerned.  But we fight to win”.

With a sigh I resigned myself to a night of dirty hands, and clothes that would eventually reek of diesel.  With Yoshi’s help I managed to get the cab tilted and with the engine chugging, I cracked open each injector feed union in turn and bled them.  When we had a reasonably smooth tick over, we lowered the cab, scrambled back up, and with fingers crossed, pulled away.  Our initial assault was a success, but the enemy soon regrouped for a counterattack.

We continued through Blackdown and crossed the Devon border after a steady downhill run.  When we hit the hill on the other side, our problem returned and once again I pulled in to the side to repeat the process of bleeding the injectors.  On and on we went, repeating the procedure every five miles or so, until we reached Exeter in the early hours, both of us grimy and exhausted.  I had decided to go straight to the warehouse I was to deliver to, and from where, Yoshi said, he could walk across the city to the university campus.  Shortly after we arrived, Yoshi climbed down from the cab for the last time and stood back from the open passenger door. I said goodbye and thanked him for his help.  

“No, thank you for stopping, TW, you did not have to”, Yoshi said.  “I suppose you will now have to wait until someone comes to fix truck.”

“No”, I told him, “I’ll have to make a more permanent repair myself; I’ve got to be in Honiton by midday, to reload”.

Yoshi bowed, his head dropped sharply, chin on chest.  “Bushi”, he said.