Big and burly, Greg Davis could walk into our club wearing his customary boots, windbreaker, open-necked shirt and wide grin, and we would be transported to some dusty Central Asian dictatorship or clawing Cambodian jungle -- a remembrance that the Foreign Correspondents' Club of Japan started off as the correspondents' mess after World War II.
Greg was two weeks shy of his 55th birthday when, only weeks after being diagnosed with liver cancer, he died on May 4 at the Sanno Hospital in Tokyo.
Greg was the most likable lensman with whom a whole string of writers -- I am one -- went on the road together. Greg's courage, intelligence and commitment to news coverage made us believe our trade could have some lasting value after all -- and could even be worth dying for, if and when, on a battlefield or in a hospital, luck ran out.