An Okinawan Affair

by Herb Blanchard

  FOUR

  It was after they had left the main gate of Kadena AFB and turned south on Highway #1 that Brad began to realize how awed by Okinawa he had already become.

  "Car Pawn? You can pawn your car?"

  He turned to look back at the fragile appearing wooden structure with the huge, fancifully painted CAR PAWN sign and saw the whole front of the little building was small paned windows with steel accordion style grates pulled fully open on each side. The shelves behind the windows were stacked full of radios, stereo speakers, cameras and musical instruments of all sorts. Just like their stateside counterparts, the Okinawan money lenders would loan you money on almost anything. This particular pawn shop had an additional sideline. Besides loaning you money on your car, or taking your new stereo speakers in hock, a hand painted sign, leaning against the building proclaimed : "SOOVINEARS". Brad presumed it meant they sold souvenirs. Hanging under the building's long Japanese eaves were the dried, stuffed and varnished corpses of numerous sea turtles and spiny lobsters. The white rice paper tags tied to each body swaying gently in the light breeze told the price.

  "Sure. And you can still drive it. Akabu does it all the time. Every payday he has to get his Olds out of pawn."

  Brad wasn't ready for what was coming, and he knew it. But he had to ask and was more than half curious to hear the answer. "What or who, is Ak-Akabpu?"

  "Akabu is Ronnie Jessup. Akabu is Okinawan for red. Ron has red hair and all the nesans call him Akabu. It's also slang for a girl's period."

  "So how do they pawn their cars and still keep them?"

  "Just like a stateside car loan, only the interest rate is higher and it's short term. Pay up or they repossess your car."

  "Just like that? Come and take it?"

  "Remember, they have the title. The car really belongs to them. Pawn it and you give up the title."

  They came to a busy intersection with stateside type traffic lights, and had to stop for the red. There was a lot of military traffic turning east, up the hill.

  "That's Sukiran on the left. The High Commissioner has his palace on top of the hill. The Army runs this island. It's a military dictatorship."

  Brad looked across the cab of the pickup and caught Perkins’ eye. He just nodded and shrugged before turning his eyes back to the road as the light changed.

  "The Army's airborne units and green beanies are part way the hill."

  Highway #1 was a four lane highway. Two lanes ran north and two ran south. There was a spastic left turn lane down the center. Spastic in that now it's there and then it's not there.

  The traffic seemed really heavy but Larry was relaxed and working his way through the mishmash of vehicles. There were four lanes of full-sized American cars mixed with small Japanese taxis, huge dump trucks, tractor and trailer rigs, fuel tankers, small three wheel trucks and two wheel motorcycles. There was an occasional bicycle playing suicide tag with the traffic on the wide red dirt shoulder. There were military rigs and civilian vehicles all mixed together, fender to tailgate, creating a turbulent iron river. There were constant surges in the already tempestuous flow when a driver would shoot into the maelstrom from either shoulder of the highway like a huge boulder crashing into a rushing river. This would create a wild cloud of reddish brown dust which obstructed every driver’s forward vision at the vehicle's point of entry into the wild current of the multi-colored steel stream. Any driver, on either shoulder, who wanted access to any lane, declared his intention by aiming his vehicle at any minute gap between vehicles, real or imagined, and jamming his throttle to the floorboards. Another surge was created and maybe this time luck would prevail; there would be no screech of protesting tires on the oily pavement followed by the resounding scream of tearing metal body parts merging into the disorder of a wreck.

  Every vehicle was traveling well in excess of the 40 MPH speed limit. Obviously doing the speed limit would be suicidal. No one appeared to be going less than 45. Perkins was staying in the left lane, and never let the speedometer drop much below 50 MPH. Even then he was barely staying up with the flow of traffic.

  "God! I thought the Hollywood Freeway was bad. Is it always like this?"

  "This traffic isn't bad. Wait for another hour. Or until five o'clock tonight. Trying to cross without a light, even at the crosswalks, is impossible. People get sukoshi cabs just to cross Highway #1."

  "A what?"

  "Sukoshi cab. Like that one in front of us. The little yellow and orange Datsun.

  "Sukoshi means small. Small girl, small dick. All are sukoshi

  "That pink one just hayakuing . . . "

  "Hiakcooing? What in hell is that?"

  Brad figured out very quickly that the GIs were adding their own twist to the pronunciation and usage of Okinawan and Japanese words.

  "Hurry up, go fast! Hayaku! . . . hayakuing into the right lane, is an independent. They own their own cab and all of them are painted pink, so take a pink one whenever you can. They're proud and independent, so they won't overcharge you or take the long way around. And if you get a house on the beach, don't let any cab driver, except an independent, know where it is. The drivers are either stealie boys themselves, or they'll sell your address to a stealie boy. American houses are fair game on the beach."

  "Do a lot of guys live on the beach? Will they let us?"

  "A few do. Some have a steady shack job. A couple guys do it part time. They might have a nesan to stay with three or four nights a week for the price of a couple nights of drinking. Some guys just keep changing nesans every month or so. As long as you don't get caught off limits or come in late for work no one cares.

  "But don't try to get in the Naha Air Base gate after midnight. The zoomies have a 2400 hour curfew and bed check. They keep trying to nail us for it. But we don't have one. It drives the Air Force Base Commander crazy. Our Old Man lets us come and go as we please."

  "So what happens if the APs catch you?"

  "Don't get caught! Call the motor pool from the Naha Army Barracks gate and our dispatcher will send the duty mechanic and wrecker out to pick you up. The Air Force can't bother you in a Navy vehicle. Like I said, don't try to come in the Air Base gate after 2400. Don't go near the gate. The Air Police and the Okinawan guards won't pay any attention to you at the Army gate, they could care less about what goes on over there.

  "I'll show you the gates when we get to Naha."

  "How about the Army guards?"

  "They're Okinawan, work for the Army. They won't bother you. In fact, they let us use their phone."

  "You still didn't answer my first question. What happens if the Air Police catch you? Will they write us up, or hold us until the Navy picks us up?"

  "They'll write you up and send you to the barracks. On the next working day the Division Chief will get the chit. After he chews out Charlie Lawton, the motor pool chief, for not controlling his troops, he'll give the chit to Lawton. Then the Chief will chew you out and take your liberty card away. But he'll give it back to you at 1600 when we get off work."

  "That's all? Just an ass chewing and lose your liberty card for 8 hours when your suppose to be working anyway?"

  "You got it. Lawton's ass chewing goes something like this. 'Now you guys know you aren't supposed to be coming in the gate after midnight: so stay in bed with your girl friend if you can't get in the gate before the coach turns into a pumpkin. Damn, I'm tired of listening to Chief Lambert tell me what an idiot I am.'

  A real bunch of hard asses about breaking Air Force rules around here, Brad.

  Welcome to Naha Air Facility. That's the main gate in front of us. The gate on the right is the Army gate."

  FIVE

  Although Brad had been anxious to check out the Okinawan night life, he was sure it had been a smart move to stay on base for a couple of nights. A guided tour of the Noumanoui bar area was in the offering by Mike Branch, but a long night of bar
hopping and heavy drinking, after a long day of travel, followed by the grueling task of checking aboard NAF Naha, he had no doubt in his jet lagged mind that his body would not have survived the tour.

  Now his first weekend on Okinawa and free time was in sight though his mind was still thrashing about the last of a full day of Okinawa orientation and history classes. An Okinawan born translator was the most interesting as he shared his knowledge and life experiences telling about the arrival of the Japanese military in the 1930s and later the American's invasion of the island.

  As Japan's war in Asia progressed, Okinawa became more of a garrison island for Japanese troops. By 1943 as the tide of the war was slowly turning against the Japanese military and it became obvious that the Japanese main islands were in jeopardy of being invaded, islands like Okinawa witnessed a major build-up of forces ready to make a last ditch stand to protect the home islands. The Japanese 32nd Army began a massive build-up on the island and in February 1944 martial law was declared.

  The massive increase in troop numbers put a sever strain on the island's resources. Water, always in short supply, became a major problem especially in the south and central parts of the island. Though an agricultural society, where more than one half of the population were farmers, the island grown crops could not meet the increasing demands. A further demand was made on agricultural productivity when the military took control of the sugar cane crop to be shipped to the home islands and turned into alcohol for military fuel. At least one quarter of the island's arable land was soon used to grow sugar cane. In an effort to relieve the shortages, 80,000 Okinawa civilians were sent to the Japanese island of Kyushu were they were put to work manufacturing materials for the 'war effort'. During the same period time, 60,000 Okinawans, mostly the elderly and children were moved to the north end of Okinawa where many hid and lived in caves. A few were lucky enough to have relatives living in the north who could take them into their homes. The mass conscription of Okinawan civilians also started in the early summer of 1944 with 20,000 males being conscripted into the Home Guard primarily as laborers to construct military fortifications. The Japanese Army, dissatisfied with the progress of their construction projects, shortly thereafter started to conscript females for construction work and completed their disruption of Okinawa's tightly knit family society of stay home mothers and farmer fathers. A society where the majority of families worked together at home. Almost all of the Okinawan males between the ages of 18 and 45 were "mobilized for combat" in some type of related jobs.

  Two things happened during the next few months that would have profound effects, one extremely good and one which is hard to figure exactly what would have been the result if it had not happened. The Japanese 32nd Army started to confiscate the Okinawans food stuffs and crops. Though very mellow and non-militant, the Okinawans can never be thought of as stupid or lazy. As the confiscation hit high gear the Okinawans started to hide food and harvested crops in caves that were known only to the local residents. In September of 1944 US submarine attacks on the shipping into Okinawa hit a new high and the beginning of massive US air strikes prompted many Mainland Japanese who had been brought to the island as government administrators for numerous towns and villages, to return to their home islands. With them went many Okinawans who were loyal to Japan and the Japanese military. Since these Okinawans had connections with the Japanese 32nd Army it was not difficult for them to gain permission to leave also.

  Liberty call was at 1630 on NAF Naha. The weekend started on Friday afternoon when about a dozen Seabees piled aboard the base bus in front of the motor pool and headed for the barracks. After a fast shower, shave and supper in the chow hall, 1830 found three of them sharing a cab and heading for Noumanoui.

  Stateside, Noumanoui would be called the red-light district. On Okinawa it was the Naha bar district where the military attempted to isolate the GIs from the rest of Okinawa. The food, booze and women were all there and comparatively cheap. A meal of chicken fried rice and an Orion beer would take less than two American dollars. A night of heavy drinking and girl chasing would take less than twenty dollars and sometimes a smart GI could make do with ten dollars if he had a steady girl friend.

  Mike Branch was riding shotgun as the nightly guide. The second Seabee in the back seat with Brad was Third Class Construction Mechanic Tom O’Brien. O'Brien was a fair complexioned, redheaded beanpole, with a face full of freckles. True to his name, O'Brien was pure Irish and from the East Coast. He said he would ride to town with them, but then he was going to the Clover Bar. The Clover was the Seabee bar in Noumanoui where several of the Bees, including Tom O'Brien, had steady or fairly regular girl friends.

  Side by side Mike and Brad strolled casually along one of the few paved roads in the Noumanoui bar district. Brad's head swiveled from side to side like a tourist as he took in all the sights and goings-on, which were new to him. The smells from the foot wide benjo ditches running along both sides of the street were annoying, but not revolting. It was a sweetish mix of soapy water and kitchen waste. It was called gray water in the States. The precast concrete lids, although broken in places, missing in others, and with gaps where side branches of the ditches joined the main flow of gray waters, helped keep the odor down. Brad stepped across the ditch on the left side of the street and barely missed stepping between two of the cover pieces where somebody had pulled them apart almost directly in front of the front step to the Harbor Lights Bar.

  The Harbor Lights was a typical Okinawan bar. It took up the whole bottom floor of a two story poured concrete building about the size of a very small American house. Junko, the middle aged bar owner and her three children lived in the small two bedroom apartment on the second floor.

  Brad followed Mike into the bar. Stopped just inside the door to let his eyes adjust to the very dim interior lighting.

  The bar, running down the right side of the room with its top polished by uncountable swipes of bar rags, glistened in the dim indirect light. Strung along the ceiling over and behind the bar were strings of multi-colored miniature Christmas lights. Hanging here and there on the wires, emitting sporadic flashes of color as they drifted in unseen air currents, were bits of left over Christmas tinsel. On the opposite wall were four booths. All there was room for on that wall. Two more booths were jammed against the wall to the left of the entrance. Straight ahead was a shiny new jukebox with colored lights flashing and from its speakers Bobby Vinton was moaning over the verses of Roses are Red. The empty center of the room was the largest part of the room and was obviously a dance floor of minuscule portions, about the size of two chow hall tables pushed together.

  As Brad's vision improved he started to distinguish the differences in the various human forms scattered about the bar. Standing just by the bar and what appeared to be the back door was an older woman who when she spoke, the younger women sitting on the bars stools answered immediately and with the tone of deference the Japanese use when addressing a person of authority. Four or five GIs, one in Navy dress whites, were sitting in the booths with at least one girl hanging on to each of them. There were two scruffy middle aged men sitting on the end of the bar closest to the entrance.

  Merchant seamen. Brad decided when he passed behind them on his way to the far end of the bar where Mike was already talking to one of the bar girls.

  The young girl who had been standing at the far end of the bar approached Mike and Brad but before she could ask what would be their pleasure, Mike spoke up.

  "Brad this is Kimiko. Junko's eldest daughter and a terrific bartender."

  Kimiko looked like she was barely eighteen and a beauty in anybody's eye anywhere in the world. Her smile was naïve and had the open innocence of a child. Her dark almond shaped eyes showed her intelligence and quiet determination.

  Brad listened as she spoke English with very little accent and each syllable seemed to flow easily from her lips. In contrast to the bar gi
rls who wore butt tight 'dressy' clothes and heels, Kim wore a simple, light blue, school girlish, cotton blouse and snug, not tight, Wrangler jeans and soft leather oxfords.

  For the biggest share of the early evening Brad sat quietly at the bar with Mike and his girl. He slowly drank a couple of C/Cs with kori mizu while Mike was busily trying to fix himself up with the nesan. Obviously he had no intentions of sleeping by himself tonight.

  "Slow music. So we can dance." Kim said as she came out from behind the bar and turned him towards her with a gentle touch to his waist. "We can dance to this".

  Her shiny black hair was down to the middle of her back and was silky under his hand. Soon he slipped his fingers up under the silky waves. She smelled clean with a hint of perfume from her shampoo teasing his sense of smell. The warmth of her body and the firm feel of her small breasts against Brad’s chest made him realize how hungry he was for a woman's company. He let his right hand slowly caress her back and drew her a bit closer. Her back was smooth, there were no straps to hinder his caresses.

  Cool it you idiot. She's just a kid who wants more out of life than what she has. Brad’s mind was lazily drifting through his options as they held each other and slowly moved in time to the romantic sounds of Perry Como crooning Wanted.

  Get to know her. Find out what she wants besides a ticket to the States.

  "Kimiko-chan!" It wasn't exactly a shout, but it was firm and full of meaning. Even someone who didn't know would have no problem figuring out what Junko wanted.

  Kim lifted her head from his shoulder. "I must help my mother. Don't go away, Brad."

  Hand in hand they walked back to the end of the bar. Kim's right hip pressed against him with each step they took sending a resurgence of feelings coursing through him.