Frank DeLeon – Page 2 – Blog and Thoughts

Texas – Part Two

Texas – Part Two

Austin

After a comfortable three-day drive we arrived at my parents’ home in Houston. Just after I’d returned to Okinawa in October of 1965, they had rented a small two-bedroom home on the southeast side not far from the city’s center, in an area which was quite a step up from where they’d previously rented. Sandwiched south of Old Spanish Trail, north of Griggs Road, and west of the Gulf Freeway (I45S), the area was populated by mostly working-class white, black, and Hispanic families. Though not yet affected by the soon-to-come “white-flight” from what would later be known as “inner city homes”, the neighborhood was still clean and prosperous; even supporting a cutting-edge shopping mall named “Palm Center” just a few blocks east of their home. Anchored by a Montgomery Wards and a Foleys Department Store, it featured restaurants, sports shops, a couple of electronic stores, and even a moderately-sized furniture and appliance store.

A year or so after moving in, their landlord offered to sell them the house on a “rent-to-buy” basis—crediting their monthly rental payments in full to the asking price. Based on what the house was listed for, if they kept up their monthly rent payments they would own it outright in just under twelve years. This was the only viable way my parents could ever afford to buy a home, given their poor credit history and a lack of cash for any down payment, so they naturally and literally jumped on the deal.

Just a few years later, spurred by an explosion of land development and commercial expansion to the southwest and north of the city, the more affluent and mostly white families began to move out of the neighborhood at an alarming rate. Home values plummeted as the once tidy and meticulously kept up 1940s and 1950 era homes began to pile up as unsold properties and foreclosures, or were flipped and became unkempt cheap rentals. Not long after, the random and irregular pop-pop of 38 Special revolvers (dubbed by the news media as ‘Saturday night specials) and the occasional rat-a-tat-tat staccato of semi-automatic gunfire was quickly followed by the high-pitched sound of police and ambulance sirens. The southeast neighborhood’s humid night air was now pierced regularly by these unwelcome sounds and replaced the melodic echoes of kids joyfully playing in the streets and the nostalgic calls of their mothers calling them home for supper.

As the years marched on, Palm Center slowly but with increasing regularity, began to be plagued by petty break-ins, smash and grabs, assaults, rolling gun battles in the parking lot, and with a severely dwindling customer base, finally succumbed to the inevitable, as store after store closed its doors forever. The once prosperous mall became the neighborhood pariah and was eventually razed and turned into a parking lot.

A general consumer malaise brought on by the increasingly violent street crime, coupled with the lagging local economy began to choke off the smaller retail shops along Griggs Road; each closure almost at once replaced by iron-barred liquor stores, sleazy sex shops, small no-name convenience stores selling cigarettes and brown-bagged bottles of 40-ounce malt liquor, and dark, noisy, 24/7 walk-in bars.

The remaining white families, and Hispanics who could afford to, put their neatly-kept homes up for sale, and more often than not sold them at a loss—some to so-called ‘management firms’ who scooped up blocks of homes without even bothering to rehab the dwellings before renting or leasing them on a cash-only basis with no credit or background checks. Most of those homes became drug and whore houses, windows and doors barred and dead-bolted—their driveways frequented by garishly-decorated pimpmobiles blaring unintelligible rap music from their always open car windows.

Soon my parents, now bearing the dubious distinction of being the only non-black residents who lived within a ten-block radius, ceased going outdoors at any time of the day. My mother began to keep a daily sentry-like watch from one of her front windows, looking for possible intruders and waiting for my father to come home from work. After a while, they were forced to install a heavy steel chain across the entrance to their driveway to keep the more adventurous drug dealers and prostitutes from pulling in off the street and conducting their business in my parents’ front yard while still in their cars. Every day, when leaving or arriving, my parents would have to unhook the chain from one of the concrete-encased steel posts and re-attach it once the car was clear.

My dad, having always carried a loaded gun and several rifles and shotguns in his car, added several more guns and rifles to his arsenal and kept the additional weaponry perched just inside the front door—right under the “Jesus Guards This Home” placard. Still professing to have been saved in the blood of Jesus and baptized in the Holy Spirit, he regularly vowed to whoever would listen, that he would have no problem in ‘blowing the BeJesus out of the first nigger who dared put one black foot on his porch’.

When I chided him about his seemingly unchristian-like opinion of black people (and for that matter, any other minority) he replied tersely, “Yes, I know they’re also God’s children, but if they’re looking to go meet Jesus a little early I’ll be happy to send them on their way.”

When Kaz and I drove in that late January of 1968, the neighborhood had not yet completely deteriorated, and it was still safe to sit outside in the evening and chat and drink iced tea in the shade of the aluminum carport. Having never seen her in the flesh, my parents were both instantly taken by Kaz–her beauty and intelligence on full display during our short visit. What particularly intrigued my mother was that with Kaz’s jet black hair, olive complexion, and large almond-shaped dark brown eyes, she thought she could easily pass for being, at least in part, Hispanic. Several times during our stay my mom privately commented to me how “Mexican” Kaz looked, and how she just couldn’t believe that she was a “Jap”.

Because we needed to travel back to Austin to look for housing prior to my checking into the base, we only stayed in Houston for about three days—and for a change, this particular stay was enjoyable. We weren’t forced to go to church; indeed my folks didn’t mention it once, and my mother pretty much stayed on her best behavior. When we drove off, our goodbyes were heartfelt and sincere. As we got back on the road heading west to Austin, Kaz wondered aloud why I had previously strongly cautioned her to ignore whatever negative comments my mother may make.

“She was very nice. I like her, and I like your father too.” She said. “You’re so lucky to have such loving and caring parents.”

Uh-huh.

***

We got to Austin later that day and found a decent motel close to the base where we paid for a week’s stay. We had a nice dinner and settled in to scour the want-ads in the local paper to map out a plan in our search for housing. I needed to check into the base the following day and planned to use what was called “housing leave” to search for suitable living accommodations.

The next day, after checking in at the base, I was given up to ten days to locate housing and was referred to a bulletin board in one of the administrative building’s hallways where many apartments and homes—both rentals and for purchase—were posted. I was in the process of writing down a couple of addresses and phone numbers when a sergeant walked up and introduced himself.

“Just checking in?” he asked.

“Yes, just got in from Okinawa.”

“What outfit you going to?”

“The 727th Tactical Control Squadron.”

“Ah…you’ll be working out of one of the large buildings adjacent to Runway 36. Nice view of the airplanes landing and taking off, but it’s really noisy. Who’s your boss? You know yet?”

“Umm…I think it’s Master Sergeant Kent.”

“Oh yeah, nice guy…you’ll like him. You know, if you’re looking for a nice place to live there’s a brand-new apartment complex not too far from here that just came open. It’s called ‘The Reinli Arms’, and it offers a discount for military families. A couple of my friends checked them out and came away pretty impressed. It’s not too far from the base and there’s a new shopping mall just across the street.”

He gave me the address of the complex, which coincidentally was located on Reinli Street, and the manager’s number. I thanked him and promised I’d check it out.

The next day Kaz and I decided to make The Reinli Arms our first stop, and luckily it ended up being our last. It was much nicer than we expected, so we rented a brand-new two-bedroom apartment on the ground floor. And because each building in the complex was built around a large Olympic-size swimming pool, we had poolside access just outside our front door.

Since we had decided to leave our furniture in my Okinawan hooch, (at least nothing that I cared enough about to have shipped) the following day we made a trip to a furniture store which happened to be in that shopping mall across the street from the complex. A week later the furniture was delivered and I reported to my squadron to begin my duties for the last eleven months of my Air Force career.

***

After checking into my squadron, which was indeed in one of three very large buildings very near to one of the base’s runways, I was introduced to my commanding officer and my immediate supervisor. MSgt. Kent was a quiet and mild-mannered soul, who had been born and raised in Seattle, Washington.

After the introductions, he asked me to sit in his little office and offered me some coffee. He asked if I smoked and I told him I didn’t.

“You don’t mind if I light up, do you?” he asked, politely.

“Of course not. Please do.”

After taking a couple of deep drags off his unfiltered Camel, he began by asking me if I was all settled in and in permanent housing. I told him about our new apartment and having seen them before he agreed that they were very nice. We chatted casually for a few more minutes and then he suggested that we go out and meet the rest of the guys in our group, and in particular, the crew that I would be supervising.

After meeting my crew and being introduced around to the other crew chiefs we returned to his office to discuss what my specific duties were going to be. As it turned out, all this squadron did on a regular basis was train on setting up and dismantling huge tents which would be used to house radars, radio equipment, electrical generators and various types of crypto decoding apparatus. All this equipment, as had been explained to me by that sergeant on Okinawa, would, in the event of war, be parachuted onto a forward position in a battleground environment, and our crews would be responsible for their recovery, set-up, and operation.

Because we were in the middle of Texas, and not some far-flung battleground, all this equipment was housed in the big buildings we occupied; when in training mode, they were trucked out to a desolate training area north and east of Austin to be set up, run, then dismantled and trucked back to the large metal buildings.

It was mind-numbing, tedious, and boring work—and thankfully the training trips were only scheduled about once a month. Of course, I had to learn to drive what was called a “six-by”—one of about a dozen large trucks assigned to our squadron. On training days, we hauled out all the equipment and loaded them onto the trucks. Then we drove about ninety minutes to a training site in the country north of Austin, unloaded the trucks and set up the equipment. We were timed and graded on the length of time it took us to unload and set up the equipment, and how long it took us to get everything up and running. Once everything was running satisfactorily and we could communicate successfully with our home base back at Bergstrom, we had to tear everything back down and reload it back on the trucks. Then, the long drive back to the base.

Those days normally stretched out to well over fourteen hours, and by the time we got back to the base everyone was completely exhausted. Worse, since I was now a non-commissioned officer, I was expected to maintain the morale and well-being of my crew, in addition to knowing exactly how each phase of the equipment set-up was supposed to evolve. Since I hated the work as much, or maybe even more than the lowest ranking member of my crew, it was extremely difficult for me to maintain a professional demeanor throughout the entire process.

When we were not training out in the field, our normal nine-hour days were spent performing ridiculously inane duties in and around the buildings. But mostly we were on break.

This is how a typical duty day was divided up:

Roll call at 7 AM
Break for 45 minutes
Roll call, then inspection of uniforms and personal appearance
Break for 45 minutes
Roll call, then have the crews split up and “police-up the area” around the buildings (pick up trash, cigarette butts, etc. This would usually last anywhere from 30 to 40 minutes
Break for 45 minutes
Roll call, then go to lunch for two hours
Roll call, then study and refresh crews on equipment set-up procedures
Break for 45 minutes
Roll call, then break-down, clean, and inspect personal weapons (carbine rifles and pistols)
Break for 45 minutes
Roll call and dismiss for the day

For the first month, or so, I thought this schedule was pretty neat until I figured out that I was putting more miles on my car from the multiple trips I was taking to and from the base snack bar and coffee shop daily than I was from actually driving to and from work. We lived about six miles from the base, making for a twelve-mile round trip, and it was about a three-mile round trip from our building to the snack bar. Multiply our breaks by the total number of miles we were putting to and from the snack bar, and it came to over fifteen miles a day. Further, after the breaks and lunches we took, I found I was spending about three dollars a day for junk food and coffee.

No one wanted to remain in the huge steel buildings during our breaks—they were hot and stuffy and smelled of grease and fuel from the dozen or so six-by trucks, parked inside. Although there was a makeshift break room with a large coffee pot inside, it was small and furnished with old ripped vinyl chairs and sofas. The small TV mounted high on the wall barely had any reception on a good day; every time an aircraft took off or landed—which was frequently, the picture twisted and turned to snow, and the sound went out. So not having much of a choice, we all escaped to the base snack bar when our breaks came around.

After a couple of months, Kaz and I decided that I was spending too much time and money at the snack bar, so she suggested packing me a lunch, with plenty of snacks to consume during my many breaks. I explained that I hated hanging around the buildings, especially when everyone was gone, so she suggested that I take a book to read during the breaks. I told her that that wouldn’t work either because for some reason our squadron had a rule that stated reading, other than Air Force training manuals, was never allowed during duty time. So I finally said I’d think of something—maybe even walk around outside for exercise when it wasn’t raining.

One day during one of our morning breaks, I went outside to the back of the main building and sat down in the grass facing the north-south runway. It seemed to be a particularly busy air traffic day, the base’s squadron of F4 Phantoms were conducting numerous touch-and-go landings, with a few other aircraft types, either landing or taking off, spaced intermittently between the high-performance fighter jets.

I was mystified when I began to see a few very small single-engine airplanes also begin to fly around the airport’s traffic pattern. Compared to the combat jets and the other military aircraft, these little propeller planes seemed to be completely out of place—seemingly zipping onto and off of the huge runways—in between the larger and faster planes.

They didn’t seem to have any military markings aside from their tail numbers, so I naturally assumed they were some type of civilian aircraft. But what were they doing here? This was a military base—home to combat interceptors and some B-52 bombers. Austin Mueller Airport was Austin’s civilian airport, and it was only located about twenty miles to the northeast. So I wondered what these little civilian-looking airplanes were doing flying in and around a busy and very large military airport.

“You mean those little white Cherokee 140’s?” Sergeant Kent responded after I’d asked him about the little planes when he’d returned from his break.

“Yeah, I guess that’s what they are,” I said. “They’re tiny compared to the F-4s and C-135s flying in the pattern.”

“That they are. Sure, they belong to the Aero Club that we have here at Bergstrom.”

“Aero Club?”

“Yep. I think they’ve got three or four of those Cherokees—a couple of two-seaters and maybe one or two larger four-seaters.”

“What do they do? The Aero Club, I mean.”

“Well, they teach people how to fly, mostly.”

“Does it cost money to join?”

“I’m sure it does, but I have no idea how much. You interested?”

“Well…I’m not sure. I guess it would depend on how expensive it is to join and how much they charge for lessons.”

“There’s only one way to find out. Why don’t you call them? I got their number around here somewhere…” He pulled open the main drawer to his large metal desk and started rummaging around. “A couple of years ago one of the guys here at the squadron joined up, and before I knew it he’d earned his pilot’s license. He got discharged and I think he went on to get his commercial and instructor’s license. Last I heard he’d gotten a job teaching out of Mueller Field (Austin’s civilian airport). I think he was trying to build up his hours to apply to the airlines for a job. Ah…here it is.”

“Really? You can do all that at this Aero Club?” I asked as he handed me an index card with some names and phone numbers.

“Well, I guess you can do just about anything you put your mind to if have the right amount of money.

“Yes, true. OK, thanks. I’ll call them a little later on.” I glanced at the card and slipped it into my fatigue shirt’s front pocket. With that, I decided that on my next break, after I called the Aero Club, I would spend my time watching the planes do touch-and-goes.

When I called them a few minutes later, I spoke to a captain who explained to me that it would be better if I just came down to their office where one of the flight instructors would be happy to explain all the details surrounding their membership fees and flying lesson programs. I gave him my name and told him I’d probably drop by later on during my lunch break.

During my next break, I went back out and sat down to watch the planes in the flight pattern. The military jets had all but disappeared and now just two little white low-winged propeller-driven planes were buzzing around the pattern. I studied their landings a little closer and noticed that, whereupon the military jets were steady on their approaches and sure footed on their landings, these little planes were unsteady as they approached the runway, and when they touched down they seemed extremely tentative—sometimes bouncing two or three times before finally settling on the runway. Then they would power back up, at times leaping haphazardly back into the air with wings wagging back and forth, seemingly on the verge of stalling out.

I decided that these must be students in training.

Frankie Makes a Career Decision

While I wasn’t very satisfied with my new job at Bergstrom, I was extremely pleased with the life that Kaz and I were now living. She was an absolute joy to be around—always perky and full of energy, funny (sometimes without meaning to be), and very loving. Every day while on the way home from work, I would look forward to walking into our apartment, knowing that it would always be immaculate and that she would genuinely be happy to have me home.

While she was very good at preparing traditional Japanese dishes, she was also trying very hard to be a good American wife by learning to how to cook American cuisine—but, not without a few miscues.

One day I came home to find her bustling around the kitchen, cleaning off the counters, while something smelling very delicious was frying on the stove.

“I’m cooking a Southern meal for you today,” she stated flatly. “You go change out of uniform and when you come out dinner will be ready.”

“What are you’re cooking?”

“Never mind! You go clean up and I will serve you when you come out.”

She seemed a little nervous, so I thought maybe I should just do what she said. After a quick shower, I changed into some jeans and a T-shirt and went back out to the dining room. To my complete surprise, at the center of the table was a large bowl filled to the brim with several gorgeous-looking pieces of golden-brown breaded Southern fried chicken. Another bowl was topped with creamy smooth mashed potatoes—brimming with freshly melted butter—and a smaller bowl was filled with peas mixed with baby onions. To top off the meal, a basket of what appeared to be homemade biscuits sat next to the chicken—light wisps of steam drifting up, their aroma combining with those of the fried chicken.

“Wow! This looks and smells wonderful!” I reached over and gave her a kiss.

“Well, I was going to make biscuits (she pronounced the word as, ‘bis-quits’) from the beginning (from scratch), but recipe too hard. So I just bought at the store…frozen.”

“That’s fine. You did a great job.”

“I hope you like. I don’t think I know what I’m doing. But if it not good, I also have apple pie in the oven.”

“It sure looks like you did just fine.” And with that, I sat down and reached for a big juicy breast.

“Oh…I forgot. I also make tea…uh…American style tea. I think lady at store call it sweet tea. I tasted it but don’t like it. It has sugar and too sweet!”

I chuckled because I knew that Okinawans took their tea unflavored, and I’d often heard them complain that Americans like to put too many things in their tea.

“Yes, Kaz. That’s why they call it ‘sweet tea’.” I said, smiling.

“Well, I don’t understand. But I hope you like.”

I piled a nice serving of mashed potatoes and peas on my plate and reached for a piping hot biscuit. Kaz seemed very intent on watching my reaction and I was eager to please. I grabbed the breast with both hands and took a large bite. It was a bit tough and a little stringy.

I backed off, taking a chunk of the breast into my mouth, and looked at what remained. The flesh just under the nicely fried breading was almost raw. As I began to chew the meat I tasted what I thought was blood, and I spit the whole bit out.

“Good God Kaz! This chicken is still raw!”

“Raw? No, it not raw! Look, see how brown it is.”

“Kaz! Look at the meat!” And with that, I took my knife and cut through the breast revealing a nice pink tint to the flesh which was still a little runny, with a touch of bloody underlay where it met the bone. “Look, see? It’s raw! How long did you cook this for?”

“I don’t remember, but the recipe said to cook until ‘golden brown’. It’s golden brown, isn’t it?”

Well, I couldn’t argue with that. It was definitely golden brown…on the outside…but cool and raw on the inside. It was immediately apparent to me that she’d heated up the oil to a high temperature and when she placed the breaded chicken into the pan the intensely hot oil almost immediately browned the exterior of the chicken.

I started to say something else, but before I could get the words out Kaz bolted from the table—a wet choking sound escaping from her throat. I looked up to see her eyes instantly fill with tears, but before I could even move she’d run full speed out of the dining room and into the bedroom—slamming and locking the door.

I sat there for a few minutes feeling like a real heel. Finally, I got up and walked over to the locked bedroom door.

“Kaz…open the door.” I could hear muffled sobs coming from the darkened room. “Kaz, it’s OK. We can re-heat the oil and fry the chicken until it’s done. It’s no problem.”

No answer.

“Kaz, listen to me. You did a great job with the potatoes and the peas. And even the biscuits are good. You just made a little mistake with the chicken…but we can fix that. Come on, open the door and talk to me.”

“Go away…you hate me!” She said—the words coming in short gasps between soft sobs.

“No, I don’t hate you. How can I hate you? You tried your best.”

After a while, I gave up and went back to the table deciding to let her have her moment. I heated up the oil again to a lower temperature than she probably had and slid the chicken back in. I let it cook for about twenty minutes. When I finally got it out it the crust was noticeably darker and hard, but all the pieces were cooked through. Well as I remember, the wings were a little bit annihilated, pretty crispy all the way through, but for the most part, everything was edible.

I went back and sweet-talked Kaz out of the bedroom telling her everything was fine. She was bitterly disappointed because she wanted so much for her first fried chicken dinner to be a success, but I had to admire her for her courage in tackling such a large, and fairly complicated meal. The evening turned out not to be a total loss, so after we had some pie we cleaned the kitchen and I asked to her sit down with me as I had something serious to discuss.

We talked about our plans for the rest of the year; in short, we had none—so I told her about the aero club at the base. She was a bit apprehensive about my being interested in flying but I told her I would get all the details and we’d discuss it thoroughly before reaching any decision.

***

The next day I waited until my two-hour lunch came up—having spent my morning breaks watching the little planes taking off and landing—and driving my little sports car followed the directions I had received to the aero club.

It was in a building right off the main tarmac leading to the two north/south runways. It didn’t look anything like I’d imagined: pilots with weather-beaten faces in distressed leather jackets and combat boots, standing around a coffee pot smoking cigarettes and talking pilot talk. Instead, it looked pretty much like any office would look.

A waist-high wooden counter with a colorful logo featuring a small yellow airplane affixed to the front separated the main entrance area from three or four unoccupied desks. On the counter, there were several clipboards with wooden pencils hanging off them attached with twine.

A middle-aged man was at the end of the counter talking on the telephone, and as I entered through the squeaky door he motioned me to wait until he finished his conversation. I took a chair near a window and looked out onto the tarmac. There were two small airplanes parked there, but they really didn’t look that small when seen from this distance.

“Hey there…” The man said, after hanging up the phone. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, I came in to inquire about your aero club?”

“What is it you’re wanting to know?” He asked, waving me over to a small table near the rear exit door.

“Oh, I don’t know. Just some general information I guess.”

“Well, Sergeant DeLeón…that right?” He asked, pushing his glasses down his nose and peering over them to look at the name tag on my shirt.

“Yes sir, that’s right.”

“You wanna learn to fly, or just curious about our little outfit here?”

“Oh…I don’t know about flying. I guess I was just curious. I mean…I guess I’d like some information about flying too.”

He made a giant effort to pull himself out of the chair. “Uh! OK, let me get you some information. Got a pamphlet right over here. Tells you just about everything you’d ever want to know about our little club here.”

“OK, thanks.”

“Oh, and I’m Joe Stafford! Colonel Stafford when I’m in uniform, but just Joe when I’m hanging around here.” He extended a hairy blond and tattooed arm and shook my hand enthusiastically. “Lemme get you that pamphlet.”

He returned with a small booklet in his hand and sat noisily down. “Shit, need to get me some exercise. Been spending too much time in the cockpit. Here ya go! I’ll let you look that over. Let me know if you have any questions.”

I leafed through the little booklet. It was general in nature: giving the history of the club, the types of aircraft that was in its inventory, and things of that sort. I was not satisfied.

“What I’d really like to know is what it would cost to take flying lessons,” I asked, as I got up from the table and walked over to the counter. The colonel was looking intently at a sheet of teletype paper.

“OK, so you’d like to maybe take some lessons?”

“That depends on how expensive it is, I guess.”

“Got a five-dollar bill?”

“Five dollars?”

“Sure. I’ve got an instructor just taxiing in, and I’m sure he’d love to take you up and give you a familiarization flight. What ‘d ya think?”

“Uh…I’m on my lunch break right now.”

“OK, how much time do you have? We can take you up and back down in about 30 minutes. A couple of times around the pattern should do it.”

“Oh, I thought it would take a lot more time.”

“Nope, thirty minutes…or an hour, if you’ve got that—and it’ll cost you five bucks. After that, if you don’t like it you can just walk away. If you do like it, though…we can talk about getting you into a flight training program. How about it?”

For no reason, I suddenly had to pee. “Well, if you’re sure it’s only gonna be five dollars, I guess I could go up.”

“OK! Lemme go out and talk to Marshall and see if he’s up to taking you up. Be right back.”

He went out the door that led out onto the tarmac. I walked over to the window and saw an Air Force officer in a rumpled gray flying suit talking to someone I assumed was his student. He had a clipboard and kept pointing to the airplane and the sky. The student was shaking his head in agreement and had his arms crossed over his chest.

Colonel Stafford crossed over behind the officer whom I assumed was “Marshall” and said something to him while he pointed toward the window I was standing behind. Feeling like I was spying a little I turned and sat back down at the table.

A few minutes later, all three men walked into the office. I stood up anticipating an introduction.

“So OK, just remember that once you increase the angle of attack and reduce power you should be looking for that burble to begin. Once that starts, you need to stay ahead of the airplane and begin thinking of your recovery technique, OK?” Marshall told the student, who I noticed was sweating profusely.

“Yeah sure. I’ll be sure to do that next time,” the student said, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. Marshall and the student walked over to the counter and began to fill out some forms. Finally, Marshall flipped through a small notebook and made a few entries.

“OK, I’ll see you in a couple of days.” Marshall told the student as he shook his hand and ushered him toward the door.

In anticipation of his returning back and talking to me, I got up and waited nervously. I glanced at my watch and saw that I still had a little more than an hour before my lunch break was up.

Marshall and the colonel said a few words to each other, then he turned and walked toward me.

“Marshall Norgaard’s the name. And you are?” He held his hand out for a shake.

“Frank. Frank DeLeón. Glad to meet you.” I took his hand and we had a friendly handshake.

“Joe tells me you’d like a little fam flight. Is that right?”

“Yes sir. At least I think I do.”

“OK, well I’m a little ragged after that last flight but I think we can fit you in. You ready?”

“Oh, you mean now?”

“Sure! You got time, Frank?”

“Yes, I got a little over an hour, sir.”

“Great! And don’t call me sir. It’s Marshall unless we’re both in uniform and not at the aero club. Come on, let’s go!”

We walked over to the counter where I was asked to sign some forms and hand over my five dollars. Before I knew what was going on, we were out on the tarmac and Marshall was showing me how to do a pre-flight inspection. He explained that the aircraft I was looking at, a white and gold Piper Cherokee 140, was a low-wing four-passenger model. It was powered by a Lycoming 140-horsepower engine and was rated for instrument flight (IFR), but we would be conducting our flight under visual flight rules—or VFR.

I was surprised when he asked me to help him pull the aircraft up to a pair of gas pumps to top off the tanks, and we did this by pulling on a shaft which had been attached to the nose gear. Although I thought the aircraft was not particularly large, I found that it was surprisingly light.

After filling the tanks, we hand-towed the aircraft back to the center of the tarmac to continue our pre-flight inspection. This aircraft had only one access door to the flight deck, and that was a door on the right side just over the wing. Marshall stepped up on the wing, opened the door and invited me in. I entered the aircraft and was shocked to realize that by my going in first, I had to take the pilot’s seat on the left side of the aircraft.

“Go ahead and take a seat,” Marshall said. “I’ll be in control of the flight from the right side here.”

Both seats had identical flight controls—yoke and rudders—but the instrument panel on the left side had at least four times the number of gauges that were located on the right side. I sat down and found the seat to be snug and a bit hard—certainly not as comfortable as my Toyota’s bucket seats. The windshield looked extremely small, and I could barely see over the nose of the plane.

I glanced at the cluster of instruments in front of me and found them extremely confusing. And even though the weather that day was bright, cool, and sunny, I found myself beginning to sweat—probably more from nervousness than the heat building in the small cockpit. Marshall settled into his seat and pulled on his seatbelt, prompting me to do the same.

“OK,” he said. “It’ll cool off a bit once we start up the engine. I’ll walk you through what we’re supposed to be doing. You OK?”

“Yeah,” I said, not really sure that I was.

From the side of his door, he pulled out a laminated sheet with a beaded chain attached. “This is the checklist. I’m gonna go through this so we can get the engine started.”

For the next couple of minutes, he read items off the checklist and pushed buttons, spun dials, and turned knobs. “OK, see the key there by your right knee?”

“Yes.”

“Turn it to the right when I tell you to.” He pushed a lever with a red knob and pulled another with a black knob. “OK, turn it!” The propeller spun slowly clockwise, and when the engine caught, the whole plane shuddered and shook. He reached down and pulled back the red knobbed lever then the black-knobbed one, and the engine smoothed out. The plane was still shuddering a bit but not as bad as it did at first. I noticed that some, but not all, of the gauges had suddenly come to life.

He pulled a small microphone from its holder near the bottom of the dash and requested clearance from the tower to taxi out from the tarmac. The tower responded, but with the sound of the engine and the quality of the audio, I didn’t understand anything that was said.

The next thing I knew I heard a thud and the airplane lurched forward.

“Feel with your feet and you’ll find a couple of pedals down there. That’s the rudder and nose gear control. Push down on the left rudder when you’re on the ground and the plane will turn right; push down on the right rudder, and the plane will turn left. Give it a try.”

I pushed down with my right foot and the plane began to make a sharp right turn. “Whoa, gently!” he said. “Now to get it out of the turn, push gently down on the left rudder.” I did as he instructed and the plane began to come back to the left. “Now, as soon as you’re going in the direction you want to go push down on the other rudder pedal to stabilize your turn. Now head in that direction.” He pointed out the windshield and I began to push on the pedals. We zig-zagged our way across the tarmac in the direction of the active runway. I was already getting dizzy.

After what he called a “run-up”, and twisting a few dials, he asked me if I was ready to go.

“Sure,” I said, not really believing that I was. He pushed the red balled lever all the way into the dash and the engine spun up—the noise inside the cockpit increasing, but the vibrations easing off.

“As we start our takeoff roll, you’re gonna see the airplane begin to drift left of that white runway centerline. Push the right foot gently on the right rudder pedal to bring it back. Not too much or you’ll make the plane go to too much to the right. Got it?”

I began to push and the plane magically drifted back to the right.

“Don’t ease up on the rudder or the plane will go back to the left.”

“OK.”

“Put your hands on the yoke (steering wheel) like this.” He was now almost yelling.

“OK.” We were now accelerating pretty fast down the runway.

“Now pull back on the yoke gently and the plane will all but leap off the runway!”

I eased back with both hands and before I knew it we were leaving terra firma!

“See how easy that was? Now neutralize the rudders so we don’t fly sideways!”

I did what he asked and the plane’s nose straightened up to a full forward position.

“See that lever between the seats? Depress the button and push it down. That’ll retract the flaps so we can increase our forward speed and climb at a better rate.”

I did as he asked, and as soon as the lever was pushed down onto the floor, I sensed the airplane change attitude and the speed increase.

“Now, pull back gently on the yoke and rotate the lever above your head counter-clockwise until you notice that there’s no more downward pressure on the yoke. That’ll mean you’ve established a positive rate climb!”

Within a few minutes, we were climbing smoothly—the engine purring contentedly as we pulled away from the base’s giant runway.

“Now that wasn’t too hard, was it?” he asked.

“No, but I was just following along with what you were doing.”

“No, you weren’t.”

I looked over and he was sitting there with his arms crossed over his chest. His feet were also nowhere close to the rudders.

“See?” he said, with a big toothy grin. “You’re flying this baby all by yourself!”

My hands tightened on the yoke hoping we wouldn’t suddenly stop flying.

“Hey! Easy. You’re doing fine—and you know what? You’re a natural. Now let’s get out of the pattern and go do some turns.”

We flew for almost an hour, making several climbs and descents, some turns—a couple a bit steeper than I cared for—and finally headed back to the airport for a touch and go, then a final landing. During the whole flight, Captain Norgaard explained the purpose of each instrument on the dashboard and by the time we re-entered the pattern on final approach I was starting to feel pretty comfortable.

After we landed, we returned to the aero club’s office to debrief and discuss whether or not I was going to join the club. I told Marshall that I’d first have to discuss my joining the club and signing up for the Private Pilot training course with my wife before making any decision. He agreed, thanked me for taking the flight and told me he’d be looking forward to being my flight instructor.

After arriving back at our building, I spent the last couple of breaks of the day sitting outside watching the little Cherokees take off and land, and daydreaming of someday becoming a pilot.

***

“I’ve got some news to tell you about today!” I said to Kaz, as we sat down to have dinner.

“Oh? What happened at work?”

“Well, it wasn’t so much what happened at work, but more like what happened during lunch.” It was hard for me to contain my excitement.

“Lunch? What happened at lunch? They have something special to eat in the cafeteria?”

I chuckled because what the cafeteria served for lunch on a daily basis was one of our usual topics of conversation. “No…in fact, I don’t have a clue what they served for lunch today. No…it was a little more exciting than that. In fact, I didn’t even have lunch today.”

“OK, so you gonna tell me?”

“I went flying.”

“Huh?? Flying? How can you go flying? What you mean, flying?”

“Well, I went to what is called the ‘Bergstrom Aero Club’ and I was taken up in a little airplane. I flew for almost an hour.”

“Huh?? I don’t understand. What is ‘Aero Club’?”

I explained to her what I understood about the aero club that I’d visited that day, and that I was thinking about maybe joining the club to learn how to fly.

“You want to learn to fly? Why?” she asked quizzically.

“Well,” I started haltingly. “I think that maybe I’d like to become an airline pilot someday. I’ve always loved airplanes and have often dreamed of flying, but until now I’d never really understood how one goes about doing that.”

“Oh. Isn’t it going to be expensive? We don’t have too much money, you know.”

“No, we don’t. But I figure if maybe I can get a part-time job for the next year, we’ll be able to afford what it would cost to learn how to fly. The dues at the aero club are very cheap, and according to the colonel who runs the club, I’ll be able to earn a pilot’s license for less than five hundred dollars.”

“That’s still a lot of money,” Kaz said, wrinkling her brow and pooching out her lips. “But maybe if you get good part-time job…”

“We’ll see,” I told her, not knowing where I could get a part-time job.

A few days later I paid a visit to the aero club to get all the details I would need to enable us to make a decision on whether I could start my flying lessons anytime soon. Although not particularly expensive, the cost of taking two to three lessons a week easily exceeded my monthly Air Force salary.

So in the end, Kaz and I decided that before we did more planning for any proposed flying lessons, some part-time work would have to be sought out.

To be continued…

Texas – Part One

Texas – Part One

Late 1967-December 1968

Disciplines

After my teaching gig at the middle school, I continued to take my karate lessons. I had finally graduated from the cement buckets, and Sensei introduced me to the next series of katas. Finally, I thought, I’m able to do something other than grunt my way around ten eighty-foot round trips carrying cement-filled buckets. Thankfully, I had finally learned how to walk correctly.

The next kata was basically the same as the first, except now I was taught to hold my arms in front of me, hands formed in half-fists, and with each step rotate each arm in a half-moon rotation—then back to the start position with the next step. This was intended to block blows coming from the left, then coming from the right. Instead of spending the entire session carrying buckets, I was at least doing something else with another part of my body.

I also finally learned what those wooden posts, really two by fours, covered in heavy canvas were for. After an hour and a half of the kata I was told to stand in front of one of those and punch them as hard as I could, using the karate punch technique—straight from the shoulder hitting the board with knuckles only. Standing in kata position, knees slightly bent, left foot forward, body angled slightly left, and both arms up in a defensive position, I took my first punch at the canvas-wrapped board—making sure my punch ended on the other side of the board. Rotating my body to the left as I closed my right fist, I threw my left arm up, defending my head from a right cross, and flung my right arm—followed by my shoulder and hip. In mid punch I pushed my right leg and foot forward—putting my right side’s full momentum into the punch. When my knuckles met the board I mistakenly thought it would give a bit. It did not. And the pain, as I followed through with the punch, traveled all the way up my arm.

At the end of the punch, I withdrew my right side, as sensei had instructed, and re-assumed my starting position. I thought I was gonna cry.

“YOSH—JOTO DEREONSAN!” Sensei bellowed behind my right ear, praising me for my form and my fearless attack on that wily board. And then he instructed me to repeat the exercise nine more times. He said this practice would create callouses on my knuckles and make me unafraid to hit something solid. I was sure my knuckles would be mashed to a bloody pulp by the time I finished.

***

On one sunny Saturday morning I arrived at the dojo with all the other students from classes Sensei taught for the semi-annual belt competition. This competition was held for all the competing belts to advance to the next level. All the white belts, easily outnumbering all the other belts, sat at one end of the dojo, while the browns and blacks sat at the other. Sensei brought out what I could only describe as a Hollywood-type “Director’s Chair”; and placed it against the wall at the center of the dojo, and sat on it Buddha-like.

The dojo had been decorated with banners, all written in Japanese, which were strung to the walls and hung from the ceiling. In one corner there was a small table on which some black and white pictures in wooden frames were placed. As I walked by, heading to the area where I was to be seated, I saw that most of the pictures were of a much younger—and definitely thinner Sensei—performing katas and competing in various belt competitions. One photo had caught him in mid-air, a good six feet off the ground, delivering a devastating flying leg kick to an opponent’s head. The still shot showed sensei’s body in perfect form, right down the position of his hands and fingers. His opponent had tried to arm-block the kick—but his forearm had arrived just a nanosecond after Sensei’s stubby foot had found the side of his head. His face was frozen in a pain-filled grimace.

We had been taught, and indeed Sensei had always strongly stressed, that the end of every offensive move was but the beginning of a defensive one; and the photo had captured the very essence of his philosophy. I imagined, after having delivered the vicious kick to his opponent’s head, Sensei landing soundlessly on the floor in full defensive mode—fully prepared to repel a counter attack. Although I wondered how one could mount any kind of offensive attack after having taken such a brutal kick to the head.

To qualify for the competition for my brown belt I had been required to learn and execute flawlessly ten different katas—each one increasingly more complex than the previous one. Before the sparring started, each class did a specific set of katas to show the sensei that not only had our minds memorized each move, but also that each individual muscle involved in the particular kata had been trained, and had retained the memory of its specific job. I was relieved when I found out that for this competition we would be required to execute one of the simpler ones. While the katas for white belts were simple and lasted about a minute each, the browns’ and the black belts’ katas were sequentially complex; consisting of spins, leaps and lightning fast arm and leg movements, taking up most of the dojo’s floor. Prior to performing my kata I thankfully noticed that all the cement buckets were gone.

At the end of the kata exhibition the sparring sessions began. Unlike the American Karate exhibitions, the students here competed against one other within their own belt classes. We had been paired off by drawing colored beans out of a basket, and one didn’t know who his sparring opponent was going to be until Sensei called out a color. So for example, if he called out “aka” (red), the two white belt students with the red beans sparred with each other in competition for a brown belt. I had drawn a blue bean (ao), and as I sat waiting my turn I wondered who I’d drawn as my sparring opponent. Since this was going to be a “full-touch” sparring session, I was a little unsettled and hoped I didn’t get beat up too badly.

The purpose of the sparring wasn’t to see who could pound the other into putty, but how perfectly each offensive/defensive move was executed. To my relief, we were told that regardless of the outcome, if both students performed satisfactorily they would both be awarded a brown belt.

The call, “AO!” came right after the third set of sparring opponent’s competition had been brought to a halt by Sensei’s deep and booming voice yelling “YOSH!—which translated into something like, “OK, you guys did okeydokey!”. Both white belts immediately stopped, turned to face Sensei and bowed deeply.

I stood up tentatively and bowed deeply to Sensei. As I straightened up I saw who I’d drawn as an opponent. He was a short but solidly built Okinawan boy, probably seventeen years of age—and he and I had never hit it off. Whenever I had drawn this guy as a partner during our “no-touch’ practice sparring sessions, he had always managed to land a few heavy ‘unintentional’ blows. Although always rebuked by Sensei, he would glare at me angrily as we returned to our seating area. As much as I wanted to pay him back, I knew that this could not be the time nor would it be the place. I vowed to keep my temper restrained and my discipline intact.

We walked to the center of the dojo where a very large wrestling mat had been spread. We faced, then bowed deeply to each other. Sensei yelled “HAI”, and the sparring match began. We assumed our fighting crouch and started circling one another—looking for an opening. Knowing this guy like I did, I assumed he would try to land the first blow so I prepared myself for what I knew would be his favorite opening: a straightforward kick to my midsection. I guessed right.

With an ear-splitting yell he launched his forward kick. I leaned back, transferring my body weight to my right leg, and with a sweeping under-handed forearm half-moon, sidestepped his kick pushing his left leg off to my left side. His momentum, along with my forearm’s sideward energy, caused him to pivot clumsily to his right exposing his left ribcage and kidney. Quickly shifting my balance to my left leg which was still in the forward position, I spun to my left, bringing up my right leg and delivering a solid swinging side kick to the area between his ribs and his left hip. The blow from the side of my foot was stronger than I realized and after connecting solidly with a dull slapping sound he crumpled to the floor clutching his side and yelling, “Itai, itai, itai!” (Hurt, hurt, hurt…).

I retreated and took up my basic defense position, never taking my eyes off my writhing opponent. A few seconds went by and I finally heard Sensei yell, “YOSH!” It was over.

Taking a step back I brought my feet together, put my hands to my side, and waited for him to get up. Still holding his side he got up and slowly turned to face me. I bowed deeply.

Even though he lost the match, the little Okinawan and I were both awarded our brown belts. He had launched a good attack in which his form was excellent, and I had blocked and retaliated with a successful attack of my own. Even though I had penetrated his defense, we were each judged on style and form.

After the white belts finished their competition for brown belts, the browns began their competition for black belts. But what was truly interesting for me was when the three black belts who had been in quiet attendance were called up for their competition. Two of the three blacks paired off, and I wondered why, since they were already black belts. I later learned that they were competing for a higher degree of black belt. These higher degrees, once attained, were displayed as subtle white markings on their otherwise solid black belts. I had always wondered why Sensei’s otherwise black belt had a solid white stripe running along the center. He had attained the highest level there was.

Once the two solid black belt competitors had finished their sparring and Sensei had grunted out his “Yosh” for them, the one remaining black belt rose and walked to the center of the mat. It was then I noticed that his belt had small, interlinked, white diamond insignias along its length. And what further surprised me was that he was going to compete with Sensei himself. Apparently, his present rank was below Sensei’s and now he was going for an equal rank.

While I thought the forgoing black belt competition was intriguing to watch, what was to come would forever remain in my memory and would further enhance my feelings of awe and respect for Sensei and for the discipline he’d instilled in me.

As the candidate and Sensei squared off at the center of the mat, the level of anticipation and excitement grew in the little dojo. Everyone’s eyes were glued to the two combatants as they approached and bowed deeply to each other. Sensei’s opponent was a good five inches taller than Sensei, much younger and rock solid—a streak of gray shimmering in his otherwise jet black hair. Next to him Sensei seemed older, balder, and even shorter and rounder than normal.

Without a sound, they began to slowly circle one another—each one in the starting position: crouched, left foot leading, arms out and bent at mid-level with half-closed fists positioned even with their eyes. It suddenly seemed that the little dojo’s space had magically grown and all the sound had been sucked out of the little wooden building.

The candidate made the first move: a lightning fast right fist thrust to Sensei’s chest that was easily swatted away. Sensei’s body seemed to float as he backed away from his foe and set himself up for his planned counter-offensive move.

In a flash, Sensei was in the air—at least five feet high—both legs in blurred motion as he literally flew in the direction of the younger opponent who frantically used upper half-moon blocks to swat away the attack. As Sensei landed soundlessly on the mat he was instantly back in a floor-level crouch. As his opponent attempted to make a hasty flying kick attack, Sensei spun on his axis—legs flying at almost floor level, and took both legs out from under the other man. As he fell clumsily on his back, Sensei was instantly on top of him, one knee locked under the other man’s throat, his clenched fist hovering menacingly over his nose.

It was checkmate. Had the younger man attempted an escape move Sensei would’ve sent his fist into the man’s face shattering his nose.

For what seemed an eternity neither man moved. Finally, Sensei’s body relaxed and in a quiet voice said, “Yosh!”

He removed his fist from the man’s face, backed off, and helped him to his feet.

The dojo burst into applause, and I was dumbfounded at what I had just seen. Throughout my training I had seen Sensei demonstrate flying kicks, but during these demonstrations, his support leg had never left the floor nor had he ever moved this fast. I had grown to believe that he was just too heavy and old to make those kinds of moves. What I saw that day was almost magical.

Both men now approached and stood facing each other—the candidate bowing deeply to Sensei. Sensei also bowed and reached out to shake the other man’s hand. They both walked over to where Sensei had been sitting and he reached under his chair retrieving a black belt with a white stripe down the middle—exactly like his own. Cradling it in both hands and bowing, he held it out to his younger opponent.

I will never forget the feeling of awe and sheer pride that I felt that morning for the little round sensei and his modest dojo. After the competition, he approached me and in halting and broken English congratulated me and expressed his pride at my performance. He told me that I had forever changed his perception of Americans and that he would never forget Fruranku Seenatura Dereonsan.

***

For the rest of my time at the dojo my brown belt opponent never spoke to me again and always tried to avoid becoming my partner whenever we were paired off for no-touch sparring. Because I was now married and was determined to spend as much time as possible with my new wife, I attended class less and less, and finally decided to drop out of my karate classes. Because of my lack of training, I was never able to complete the training required for my black belt. A few weeks after winning my brown belt I stopped attending the dojo altogether.

As I look back at my life, I realize that those months I spent with Sensei at his humble karate dojo instilled in me what I had sorely lacked in my character. Since I’d left home in 1960 I had led a very confused and undisciplined life. It had taken me almost seven years, a broken marriage, countless errors in judgment, and a couple of reassignments thousands of miles apart to finally gain the maturity and inner strength to understand what I needed to do to get my life in order. My training with Sensei had helped me develop a quiet but strong sense of discipline; his lessons on tactics had instilled in me the ability to understand that success in any endeavor depended not only on how cleverly you attacked a problem but also how well you defended yourself if your attack failed.

Consistently plagued with an intense lack of self-esteem since childhood, Sensei’s training helped teach me how to assess problems by using circular strategic thinking rather than trying to attack difficult situations head-on. I also learned that regardless of the complexity and/or size of the problem, I could solve it by first assessing what it was I needed to solve it. Then after formulating a plan, I executed it by pressing forward carefully using patience, determination, and dogged persistence. And lastly, I learned that even when I failed, the positive lessons learned by attempting a seemingly impossible task far outweighed the negative outcomes resulting from the loss. In short, you learn by trying even if you fail in the attempt.

For the first time in my life I felt strong, confident and intensely sure of myself—but most of all I saw who I had become and what I could achieve with my newly-developed inner strength. Suddenly, nothing seemed impossible; my only regret was that I had wasted so many years floundering in self-pity, living only for the day, and letting outside forces negatively affect my life. With my newfound self-reliance, I was eager to face the world and welcome new challenges.

As I entered this new chapter I felt more self-assured than I ever had in my entire life. And more importantly, I truly believed that, given the opportunity, I could successfully complete any endeavor on which I chose to embark.

It was then that I came to the decision that staying in the Air Force could no longer be an option for me. The regimented, political, and extremely dogmatic lifestyle emblematic of military life which I once enjoyed no longer appealed to me; rather, I now craved an environment which would challenge me in new and different ways. Although at this time I had no idea how to get “from here to there”, I understood that I had a little over a year to look for and locate that unknown. Little did I know that Texas, the place where all of this had begun, would end up providing me with not only new and exciting opportunities, but would help put me on a new career path—one from which I would not stray for many years to come.

New Beginnings

One afternoon, a few weeks before Kaz and I were married, we’d been out visiting Shuri Castle—an ancient palace populated by the Ryukyu Kingdom between 1429 and 1879. Largely destroyed during World War II, several walls and most of the lush green palace grounds remained. On the way back to Naha, I noticed that the temperature gauge on my car was rising dangerously high and the engine was beginning to sound strained. I knew I had a small radiator leak but thought I had it under control. Kaz knew where a little Okinawan car repair shop was, so I made a beeline to its location.

After the mechanic checked the car out, he told us that the radiator was shot. In fact, he doubted that I’d even be able to get back to my hooch after dropping Kaz off. When I asked if he could fix it, he replied the radiator was way beyond repair. I would have to have a new one installed.

After deciding that I may as well get a new radiator, the mechanic said that that was also out of the question. He explained that because it was not a Japanese car, there would probably not be any replacement radiators on the island. Further, even if I could find a new one, the water pump and all the hoses would also have to be replaced. He also mentioned that he’d found a leak in the automatic transmission, and given the overall condition of the car, that would probably also have to be replaced. I realized that the cost of all that repair work easily exceeded the entire worth of the car. Asking him for his opinion, he informed me that the car was junk and had pretty much seen its last day. Not seeing any other options, I left the car there and Kaz and I took a sukoshi cab back.

A few days later, after having taken base cabs to and from my work at the ADC, one of my friends suggested I should consider a new line of cars Toyota had just started selling on the island. The model was called the Toyota Sports 800. It was an aerodynamic-looking little two-seater sports car, made mostly of aluminum, weighed 1,279 lbs., and was powered by an 800cc, horizontally opposed two-cylinder air-cooled engine. It had black leatherette bucket seats and came in two colors: red with a removable black Targa lift-off roof panel, which was stowed in the trunk, and silver with the same removable black top. Best of all, it was priced at just over $1,000, and the Naha Air Base Credit Union would finance 100% of its cost. (See pic in Frank’s Blog).

After getting off work, I took a taxi down to Naha to see the car at the Toyota dealership—and it was love at first sight. A week later, after having secured a car loan at the Credit Union, I drove home a brand new little red Sports 800. Many years later I found out that Toyota had only manufactured 3,131 units of this particular car, and more amazingly, I had owned one of only 300 of these that were manufactured with the steering wheel on the left side.

Goodbye Okinawa

In October of 1967, Mika and I were married—twice: A traditional American wedding at the Air Force Chapel on the base with a military chaplain officiating, and on the following day, after entering our names into the Wedding Register at the City Hall in Naha, an Okinawan style reception was held at the Teahouse of the August Moon in downtown Okinawa. This is the same teahouse where the movie of the same name was filmed in 1956, starring Marlon Brando and Glenn Ford.

Mika (I was now regularly calling her Kaz), wore a beautiful white wedding dress and veil for the Chapel wedding, and a gorgeously ornate Japanese wedding kimono, complete with gold and silk threading, for the ceremony at the Teahouse. For the Japanese ceremony, her makeup and kimono—all traditional—took over 6 hours to complete.

I wore a dark suit for the ceremony at the air base, but was completely decked out in a formal “Morning Suit”, tails and all, for the Japanese ceremony. The American wedding was over in a matter of minutes; the pictures afterward taking more time than the whole ceremony itself. The Okinawan one was a whole different matter, the reception lasting deep into the Naha evening, many hours after Kaz and I had departed the festivities in the late afternoon.

We drove away from the tea house that afternoon in my little sports car and spent our honeymoon at a small but beautiful resort hotel located on the northern end of the island. For the first time in many years I was very much in love, and I felt extremely happy.

We settled down in my little hooch, and I continued to work at the ADC while Kaz worked the snack bar at my old barracks. I few weeks later I was notified that I was slated for reassignment stateside, and days later was surprised to discover that my next, and last, posting would be Bergstrom Air Force Base, in Austin, Texas. The location made perfect sense for the Air Force since I’d notified them earlier that I would not be seeking reenlistment at the end of my second tour of duty, but would be requesting full separation from the service. Since they typically paid travel mileage from the separation base to the enlistee’s home of record, Austin—being only a hundred and fifty miles from Houston—made perfect sense for them. At nine cents a mile, they would be paying me a paltry $65 in travel, housing and per diem funds—plus whatever I had accrued in paid vacation leave.

To top everything off, Bergstrom was a TAC base, (Tactical Air Command), and I soon learned that my duties, once I checked in, had less to do with tracking aircraft on radar for air defense while sitting in a nice dark room (what I’d been trained in for the past seven years), and more to do with the delivery, set-up and operations of forward air defense stations in wartime environments out in the battlefield. Specifically, all necessary equipment used for aircraft radar tracking was parachuted in by low flying cargo aircraft, like the C-130 Hercules, and our TAC teams (me), already on the ground just behind combat troops were tasked to find the equipment, set it up, make it operational.

This equipment consisted of huge tents, powerful generators, miles of heavy cabling, monstrous radar scopes, bays of communications equipment, and large wooden cases containing water and MREs (meals ready to eat). To say I was less than enthused to learn how to set up and operate all these apparatus would be a huge understatement.

I was now a staff sergeant so not only was I expected to be proficient in the actual set-up and operation, I was placed in charge of a crew of seven airmen who were to do the actual labor while I supervised and ensured that all was well. Lovely.

I learned all this information from another sergeant who had just arrived at the ADC in Naha from the very base I was going to. “I was excited when I learned I was leaving Bergstrom to come to Okinawa.” He told me one afternoon during a coffee break. “Although I hated to leave my family due to the lack of base housing here at Naha, I was more than willing to accept that small inconvenience just to get out of Bergstrom and leave that shitty job.” I was not looking forward to my assignment.

Kaz and I left Okinawa in January of 1968, and flew to Travis Air Force Base in Oakland, California after which we took a shuttle bus to San Francisco to pick up a PSA flight to Los Angeles. Once there, we commissioned a taxi to drive us to San Pedro, where we picked up our little sports car which we’d shipped from Okinawa a few weeks earlier. We then began the long drive to Texas, making a visit to my parents’ home in Houston before departing to Bergstrom AFB just outside of Austin, where I’d serve my last eleven months in the Air Force.

We drove for three days, but unlike my previous car trips, this one was actually pleasant. Although our car was very small, the seats were extremely comfortable and the ride surprisingly smooth. Despite the short wheelbase, the car seemed to absorb most of the rough patches of highway we occasionally came upon, and I was pleasantly surprised that the little two-cylinder engine was more than up to the challenge when crossing over mountains. It had a four-speed manual transmission and when going up steep grade I found that all I had to do was shift down into third gear to crest the grade. What was really phenomenal was that the car’s little 800cc engine averaged over sixty miles a gallon on regular gas. This made our trip very economical.

Because we were not in any particular hurry when we left California, we decided that we’d just drive casually, keeping the speedometer at a steady 65mph, and stop whenever we wanted to. This made the trip pleasant and stress-free. And again, unlike my previous trips, we stopped and spent the night at small hotels, motels, or motor inns we saw along the road at the end of the day.

The car had a very good heater but no air conditioning, so before I shipped the car from Okinawa I purchased a small four-inch rotating fan at an Okinawan auto parts store and installed it just behind and between the two passenger seats. I ran the power cord under the driver’s seat and up behind the instrument panel where I tapped a power source. With a little ON/OFF/ROTATE switch just under the fan blades, the fan kept us very comfortable throughout the trip.

Because I’d traveled this part of the country several times before, I sometimes grew weary of the landscape. But for Kaz, it was a wonder. Although while growing up she’d visited Japan several times, I don’t believe that she had seen this much land all at one time, so the changing scenery kept her constant attention. From congested, traffic-filled freeways in California, to rolling miles of beige sand, red boulders, and purple-hued mountains as far as the eye could see; dust-devils twisting and hopping along the parched desert earth; giant white anvil-topped thunderstorms bubbling up along the distant horizon; and, endless miles of white-striped black-topped ribbon-like highways, the scenery must’ve filled her mind with awe and wonder.

The sights, sounds, and smells that I’d somehow missed during those long treacherous road trips in the past, I was now experiencing to the fullest. I was older, my senses had matured, and I was at peace with myself. Further, I was now with someone who had come into my life at a time when I really needed some stability, and who was willing to leave her home and family and travel thousands of miles from everything she’d ever known—putting her absolute trust in me and my ability to make her happy. My heart swelled with pride and love, for as our little car ate up the miles, it was bringing us closer to what I truly believed was a bright and fruitful future.

On that long trip, I did a lot of thinking—mostly about the past—and I promised myself that I would work hard every day to make our dreams come true and avoid the pitfalls that had derailed my previous marriage. I replayed our courtship in my mind, beginning from our first meeting at the snack bar all the way to the evening when Kaz told me that I’d have to meet her parents and ask them for her hand in marriage.

I prepared myself for the worst, but everything ended up turning out OK. Well…there was that one little hitch, when her mother looked at me—her eyes filling with tears—and said loudly in English: “YOU STEAL MY DAUGHTER!!” I don’t think I said anything—I was so shocked. I thought she couldn’t speak English. By the time the sake was passed around and toasts were made, everyone at the table seemed to finally accept that my intentions were honest.

Now, on the way to Texas I didn’t know what I would be doing in a year, but whatever it was I was determined that I would be successful. What I didn’t know was that regardless of all our efforts to attain that success and happiness, someone very close to me would end up causing Kaz and me, irreparable harm.

To be continued…

Okinawa – Part Eight

Okinawa

Part Eight

October-December 1966

New Horizons

After my return to Naha I tried to get my life back in order, but as my dear friends began to leave—first, Nat and Smokey for home, then Ramie, Peewee, and finally Roomie to Vietnam—and the reality sunk in that I was no longer married, I began to find myself feeling more and more isolated and alone.

A few weeks later while at work, I overheard a couple of my coworkers discussing their upcoming participation in a karate competition. Although I had never been very interested in participating in sports activities—aside from playing a bit of basketball—their conversation piqued my interest, so I decided to ask a couple of questions.

They told me that they were part of a karate club, one of many such martial arts organizations on the base, and met almost daily in one of the numerous indoor sports facilities scattered throughout the many military bases on the island. They said that there were judo, jujitsu, karate, boxing, kendo, and various other contact sports clubs that one could join as a member of the military.

“It sure beats getting drunk and spending money on whores…” a tall, well-muscled black soldier from Florida said, grinning enthusiastically. I had to agree.

After thinking about this for a while I made the decision to seek more information concerning joining a karate class. I thought that since I had at least another eighteen months left on Okinawa, I should maybe try to improve myself instead of spending all my money drinking and prowling around in Naminoue.

After a few visits to some on-base classes to observe and ask about pricing, I began to have some serious misgivings about signing up for classes. First, it seemed that all the instructors were American and had earned their black belts attending the same club where they were now teaching. Sitting in on a class one day, I noticed that after the required warm-ups and form and movement drills, the instructors would pair off the students for what they called “dueling”. From what I could see, “dueling” was nothing more than one guy trying to kick the hell out of whoever he was paired up with. Lastly, the pairing usually consisted of one brown belt (more advanced), and a green or white belt (less advanced or novice), and the object of the exercise appeared to be to see just how many punches or kicks the less experienced student could absorb before staying on the floor and refusing to get up.

I decided that this maybe I should think this through a little more thoroughly.

A few days later I took a cab down to Naha City to have dinner at one of my favorite mom and pop Okinawan restaurants. The owner–a small, and jolly dark-skinned man named Ichiro, along with his equally tiny wife Kyoko, would always welcome me with the greatest show of joy and fanfare. Every time I’d enter their little restaurant, Kyoko would throw her hands in the air, flash her most winning semi-toothless smile and begin to jabber in non-stop Japanese. Although I’d picked up a few Japanese phrases and words since I’d been on the island, Kyoko’s (“…you call me Kyoko-san) rat-a-tat delivery always went way over my head. Except for my name, which they pronounced—Fu-rahng-ku, and a couple of words meaning “welcome” and “hurry”, everything else she said was always a mystery to me.

After seating me, she would always run into the kitchen, where Ichiro and one or two of their sons were cooking, and scream that “Furanku” was here! After a couple of minutes, he would come out, always wearing a ragged tank-top, greasy white apron over rolled-up khaki pants, and flip-flops, and offer me a beer (bee-ru). He would then chasten Kyoko to get my beer and to hurry up and take my order.

This particular evening, their normally packed restaurant was uncharacteristically empty. After the usual greeting and the ceremonial pouring of an ice-cold Kirin, Kyoko pulled up a chair and began to ask me about my trip home. Before I’d left to go to Reno I’d told them I was traveling back to the states to see my wife and kids—but not wanting to divulge the whole sad story, I intentionally left out the part about Sharon’s pregnancy. They each wanted to know as much as possible about my marital situation but I shied away and always tried to change the subject. This time Kyoko was insistent on hearing how my wife and kids were.

“Well,” I started tentatively, “me no have wife no more…” I said in Pidgin English, all the while making hand gestures which I hoped she’d interpret as two people going in different directions.

“Nani?” (What?) She exclaimed breathlessly. “Sodesuka?” (Is that so?)

“Hai…” (Yes) I said.

She pooched out her lower lip and grabbed my right hand with both of hers. Her face clouded up and she began making whimpering Japanese sounds and shaking her head. Slowly a big round tear rolled out of one of her eyes. She jumped up and ran into the kitchen jabbering and gesturing wildly. A few seconds later Ichiro walked unhurriedly out and sat on the chair Kyoko had just abandoned. I noticed that she was standing just inside of the kitchen door dabbing her eyes with a washcloth.

“Ah…Furanku…” Ichiro said sadly. “So, so, sorry…ne? (OK?)

“Daijobu desu” (That’s OK.) I answered nonchalantly, shrugging my shoulders.

He patted me on the back and headed back to the kitchen. After I’d finished my meal Ichiro came out and sat down with me at the table. He seemed really concerned and asked me several times what I was planning to do. I reassured him that I was fine, and to try to cheer things up I told him I was thinking about taking some karate classes but that I really didn’t like the ones on the base.

He immediately perked up and told me he had just the solution. A few blocks from his restaurant, in an area that I’d not yet visited, he knew of a karate dojo (school). The owner, he told me, was a frequent customer at the restaurant, and Ichiro was surprised that I hadn’t ever noticed him. He described the sensei (teacher) as short, round, and rock solid. I told him that when I was in his restaurant I was busy concentrating on his delicious food, not gawking at the people. Before I left, Ichiro gave me some verbal and hand-sign directions to the sensei’s karate dojo. He assured me that it would be easy to find.

A few days later I decided to take the plunge and start my search for the school. It took me over an hour to find, given that there were few street signs, and the many little shops and such in the area had their names written in Japanese. After asking several passing pedestrians directions to the “karate dojo”, I came to a small weathered gray wood-framed building whose signage included a small drawing of a figure appearing to be kicking a wall.

As was the custom, the door was completely open with only a pair of short dark curtains drawn across the door. I pulled the curtains apart and walked into a small ante-room whose floor was covered with about a dozen pairs of shoes, flip-flops, and getas (elevated wooden flip-flops). There was another door, again covered halfway with a pair of light gray curtains with a small set of stairs in front, leading up to an elevated room.

As I stood there for a few seconds, I could hear commands being shouted out followed by what sounded like stomping feet. I removed my shoes, walked up the three stairs in my stocking feet and parted the two curtains.

The room was larger than I thought—windowless with a low ceiling—and a smooth dark wooden floor. There were several poles about head-high wrapped in thick canvas along each wall. Between the poles, there were what appeared to be metal buckets filled with hardened cement.

In the center of the room, there was a group of six or eight barefooted Okinawan males—mostly boys, wearing loosely fitting thick white long-sleeved jackets with matching white floppy pants. Around their waists, each wore a long white canvas-looking belt, knotted in front in a rough and complicated looking knot. They were standing, legs akimbo, their arms raised in boxer fashion—except that their hands were open. And they were all staring at me.

At the front and facing the group was a man who I assumed was their instructor. Short, balding, as round as he was tall, he was very dark skinned and did not look like any kind of karate instructor. The sensei’s I’d spoken to on the base were all tall and lean, and not one of them looked to be older than thirty. This guy was pushing at least fifty and gave me the impression that he spent more time at the dinner table than at the dojo. His clothing was identical to the young boys except his belt was black; and like everyone else, he was also barefoot.

I stood tentatively by the door, my stocking toes nervously twitching on the smoothly worn wooden floor. The old man looked up at me quickly and cocked his head curiously. In a flash, he whipped his attention back to his charges and yelled at the top of his lungs:

“HAI!!”

The boys instantly snapped to attention, slapping their hands down to their sides and arching their backs ramrod straight.

“HAI SENSEI!!” They all yelled in unison and then bowed to the instructor slowly from the waist up. They held their bow until the instructor gave an almost imperceptible nod. Then they straightened up, held attention for a second, and relaxed. Slowly they began to disperse in small groups—all but ignoring me.

I was so caught up in the group’s finely synchronized motions that I didn’t even notice that the instructor had walked up to me. I looked slightly to my left, and there he was, not a foot away—staring up at me, his face twisted in a slightly annoyed scowl.

“OH! Hello…” I said, confused. “I mean…kon’nichiwa…” (good afternoon). And I executed a sloppy little bow.

He continued to stare, and finally, let out a disgruntled sounding grunt.

“Sumimasen…” (excuse me) I stuttered. “Etto…” (uh..) Not knowing the Japanese words, I reverted to English. “I’d like to take karate lessons, please—onegai shimasu…” I pronounced the word: “kah’rah-tee”.

“Nani?” (What?) He grunted. “Karate?” He pronounced the word: “Kah-dah-teh”.

“Hai,” I said. “Onegai shimasu.” (please), and I did another little bow.

He shook his head, and I couldn’t tell if he was saying no or just trying to clear his thoughts.

“Karate?” He repeated.

“Hai.” I repeated.

“Hmmm.” Now that I understood: he was considering my request. Then, in a burst of low-toned guttural Japanese he asked, “Anata wa nihongo o waka ri imasu ka?” (Do you speak Japanese?)

“Uh…” I said, trying to absorb his question while struggling to put together a response.

“Sukoshi…” (a little), I managed to mumble.

“Sodesu ka?” (Is that so?). He asked, doubtfully, crossing his arms.

“Hai, sukoshi…” I put my index finger over my thumb in the international gesture for “a little”.

He turned quickly and motioned for me to follow him. He led me through a small door in the front corner of the room which opened into a small and cluttered office. As I followed I couldn’t help but notice that he walked in a powerful and silent manner. He was more or less gliding soundlessly across the floor.

He slid in behind a mini-desk, muddled with papers and small booklets—all surrounding a small twin burner propane stove on which an iron pot seemed to be boiling. He pointed at a tiny folding chair, and I sat down gingerly.

“Doshite?” (Why?) He asked, leaning back on an old and very creaky metal office chair.

“Uh…doshite?” I asked back…not really knowing an answer to his question. My mind was racing to come up with some intelligent reason for my wanting to take karate from a man who spoke no English, at an Okinawan dojo in the middle of Naha City, with a group of young Okinawan men who didn’t seem to take a shine to me when I first walked in. So, I just repeated the word:

“Doshite…shiranai.” (Why? I don’t know.) “Boku wa manabitai…” (I want to learn).

“Sodesu ka?” He asked softly. “Dakara, anata wa manabitai desu ka?” (So, you want to learn?)

“Hai.”

He cleared his throat and reached over to the boiling kettle. He poured some steaming water into a small ceramic cup and placed the kettle back onto the burner. He stirred the water, which had now turned a light grayish-green, with a tiny silver spoon, causing some fine threads of steam to curl around his round and well calloused knuckles. Leaning back in his chair he blew gently into the cup and fixed his stone black eyes on me. “Sodesu ka, ne? Anata no namae wa nan desu ka?” (What is your name?)

“Frank…I mean, Furanku.”

“Ahh…Furankushinatora no yo ni? (Like Frank Sinatra, right?)

“Uh, no…Frank DeLeón.”

“Dai jobu.” (That’s fine.) He said, almost under his breath. His eyes locked on mine and he brought the steaming cup to his lips taking a precautionary sip. Satisfied that the tea was the right temperature he took a second and louder sip—more like a slurp.

He put the cup down on top of some pamphlets and said, “OK, Furanku-san…you first American karate boy this dojo!”

And that was it. For the next thirty minutes, he did his best, in chopped English, hand gestures, and some Japanese, to convey to me how often he expected me to attend classes: (six days a week—two hour sessions); how much it would cost me, (five dollars a month); and what the different levels of karate he taught were, (white belt-novice; brown belt-apprentice; black belt-master).

In so many words he explained that he didn’t believe in the American way of teaching karate: “Karate is martial art. Americans teach “martial”, I teach “art”. Karate is for peace not war. Karate is 99% defense, and 1% offense. Americans use karate 99% for offense, and 1% for defense. Sensei no teach like that. Waka ri masu?” (Understand?)

Before I left, with my promise to return in two days with the first month’s tuition and an extra three dollars for the white uniform, called a “ghee”, he penciled my name onto a large paper calendar. I was his dojo’s latest white belt novice and his first American student. Only much later when I had learned to read some Hiragana characters, did I realize that the name he’d written on the calendar read, “Sinatra”.

***

My introduction to Sensei’s karate program presented me with an extremely steep learning curve. While I had considered my military physical training program as the toughest thing I’d ever done to date, this went way beyond the pale.

First and foremost, I was taught that the whole of karate was comprised of hundreds (if not thousands) of katas (forms of movement). A kata was described as a type of “dance”, whose series of physical movements, involved arms, legs, feet, and even the head. Each kata was designed to teach a particular defensive and/or offensive move, meant to neutralize and respond to an attack. And, each kata—the first being extremely simple—got progressively more complex. Once the first ten katas were memorized and practiced until executed flawlessly, the student should instinctively be able to repel, block, and counter foot, knee, toe and heel kicks; elbow and fist thrusts; and spinning and flying arm and leg attacks.

The first kata I was taught was the simplest and most basic: walking forward. Since katas are a series of arm, leg, and body movements—executed while moving forward, backward, or sideways, one had to first train the body the correct way to navigate perfectly forward and backward. Therefore, it stands to reason that walking forward successfully while in a defensive stance should be the goal of the first kata.

To accomplish this, Sensei had a novel and rather torturous method of teaching this. Once the student was standing in the correct position: legs slightly apart, knees bent, left foot about six inches in front of the right, and body facing forward, he would bring two of the cement-filled buckets to each student. We were instructed to bend down, waist straight—the bend made with knees only—and pick up a bucket with each hand. Straightening the knees slightly would raise the buckets off the floor, after which we would commence a slow walk forward—but not the normal way one would walk.

Walking, or moving forward, was accomplished by first lifting the right foot about a quarter inch or less off the floor, but instead of stepping straight ahead the kata required us to swing the right leg in an inside arc and quietly plant the foot down. If executed correctly, the right foot ended up about six inches ahead of the left—with no sound when the foot left the floor nor when it planted back down. The next step was taken by the left foot—again a quarter inch off the floor, arching inside towards the right ankle—finally ending up six inches in front of the right foot. Each foot move was to be completed consecutively with no break in rhythm, and no shuffling sound whatsoever.

The forward moves were all made while carrying the buckets, each weighing about ten pounds, in each hand, body rigid from the waist up, and facing forward. At the end of each step the student would yell (grunt), “HAI”! The distance to be traveled was the length of the dojo, which was about forty feet. Students were not allowed to drop or release the buckets at any time, and once the kata began, the movement would be continuous until reaching the opposite wall. Once there, a body pivot to the right was executed—causing one to turn and face in the opposite direction. The kata would then re-commence and end at the original starting point.

At first, I thought that walking forty feet would be mere child’s play, but given the weight of the buckets, and the intense concentration required to force body, legs, and feet to move in perfect coordination to prevent loss of balance, and to try to move soundlessly, proved to be excruciating. Add to this the pressure of having Sensei in front, behind and on either side of me yelling and physically correcting each movement proved extremely stressful. On my first pass, I found myself almost completely exhausted and covered in sweat. Happy to finally put the buckets down I was devastated to learn that when back at the starting point I would be required to do another pivot and complete nine more round-trips before being allowed to put the buckets down and take a break.

***

After a couple of weeks, besides thinking I was never ever going to get over being sore all over, I began to think about my finances. The trips to the dojo every day after work were taking a toll. From my barracks, I would have to take to take a base taxi to the main gate, then an Okinawan taxi to the dojo. Once my training session was over, two more taxi rides back to the base and my barracks. I decided what I needed to do was to buy a cheap car.

I prowled the bulletin boards at the Air Defense Center, the Base Exchange, and the chow hall. Because being a serviceman meant being transferred out every couple of years, there was never a shortage of autos for sale. The problem was trying to find one that matched my budget: Cheap.

To my surprise, I saw a new listing go up on the bulletin board at my barracks. According to the information on the 3X5 index card written in red, an Army private who was being transferred out to Vietnam was selling his 1957 Plymouth/Dodge.

“A little rough on the inside and out, but runs good. Must Sell! Gotta Go NOW!! First $50.00, gets it!!”

Even though $50 would take over half my paycheck I thought if the car was still available I would go ahead and buy it. With the constant daily drain in taxi fare, it wouldn’t take too long for my investment to show a little profit.

I walked up to the second floor and looked for the soldier’s room. Luckily he was in, and in a few minutes I was taking a little ride around the base in the strange-looking car. When I saw the car described as a Plymouth/Dodge, I was a little mystified. Now the mystery was solved.

In 1957 the Chrysler Corporation manufactured a car for Canadian consumers called a Dodge Mayfair. It was a coupe that combined a Plymouth body with a Dodge front clip, making them a forward looking car that was never seen in the United States. Although originally a beautiful car, this particular unit had seen its share of bad days. It had apparently spent most, if not all, of its life on Okinawa, and the harsh salt air and lack of body care had taken its toll.

Besides several patched-over rust spots, and ragged interior, the car had been repainted in rust colored primer. I assumed one of its many owners, finally throwing in the towel on the growing patches of rust he would find weekly, decided to just paint the car in a color it would eventually become.

Its saving grace was that the sturdy V-8 engine was still quite serviceable, and in spite of the bad suspension, the windows that didn’t work all the time, and the noisy exhaust system, I was happy to take the deal for $50. For another $7 for license and registration, and $5 to fill the tank, I was set! No more taxi rides for me.

***

About a month into my karate training I paid a visit to the little snack bar located in my barracks for a Coke. I hadn’t seen the little female attendant since I’d returned from Reno and was a little surprised that she was still working there. As usual, she was sitting at the little table just across from the counter reading a small book and taking notes on an open pad. I could see that since I’d been gone she’d not changed her normal behavior of ignoring arriving customers.

After standing at the counter for a couple of minutes I finally decided to speak up.

“Excuse me, naisan. Could I get a Coke?”

She continued to ignore me by feigning even more interest in what she was doing. I cleared my throat loudly and in a slightly louder voice asked again for a Coke. This time I heard her mumble something under her breath, and she lifted her head out of the book, her face screwed up in an extremely annoyed look.

As soon as she saw me her expression changed instantly. “Oh! It’s you! I haven’t seen you for a long time. Where you been? Maybe TDY?” (Temporary Duty).

“Oh…no. I went home…to the U.S.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I had some…uh…family business.”

“OK. So you want Coke?”

“Sure. How you been?”

“Fine, just study English, work here, and go home. Same.”

“Well, your English is coming along well–much better than my Japanese.”

“I don’t think so!” (The word think came out as ‘tink’). She smiled sweetly.

I got my Coke, said goodbye, and headed back to my room. As I sat down at my table and got ready to write a letter to my mom, I found myself smiling at the thought of the little Okinawan snack-bar girl. For a long time, I thought that she was rude and very discourteous to anyone that dared walk into the rec room and order something, but the last few times I’d seen her she was amazingly friendly and positively chatty. I promised myself that I’d ask her what her name was the next time I saw her.

The next time turned out to be just a few days later. I had just finished an early evening training session at the dojo and was on my way back to my room. Since it was still early enough for the snack bar to be open, I decided to stop in and get a hot dog to munch on before taking a shower, doing some reading and hitting the hay. Walking into the rec room, I was quite surprised to see that she was still working because normally she worked the day shift and was gone well before four p.m.

“Hey,” I said cheerfully. “You’re still here. I thought you only worked the day shift.”

“Yes…” She said, her face showing a flash of anger. “The boy that relieves me and works the nights didn’t show up. I call my boss but he say I have to stay until close.” She trailed off into a series of grumpy sounding Japanese words, accentuated with a wrinkled brow and pooched out lips.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Why you sorry? I’m the one working late. And now I have to take the late bus home. I no like to do that.”

“No…” I stuttered. “I mean—no, I’m not sorry…it’s just something we say when we feel bad for someone’s situation.”

“Huh!” She snorted. “Well? What you want?” She was back to her rude self.

“Oh, just a couple of things.” She got up from her table and walked quickly around and behind the counter.

“Well?” She asked, crossing her arms impatiently.

“OK, first…I came in for a hot dog. Next, I wanted to ask your name. And finally…well, this next thing I just thought of now: Can I offer to give you a ride home?”

“Nani?” (What?)

“Oh, sorry…I guess that was three things.”

“How you give me ride home. You have car?”

“Yes, actually. I just bought one the other day. It’s not very nice but it runs. I needed it so I could go to my karate dojo.”

“Huh? Karate dojo? What you mean? You take karate?”

“Hai.” I said, confidently. “Yes, I do.” I fleetingly thought I’d like to give her a little demonstration of the kata I was learning, but then I was missing a couple of cement buckets.

“Eh?” She said, in a little whiney tone, then a flurry of Japanese words.

“Sorry, I didn’t understand.”

She slammed a hot dog on the counter and said, “Twenty-five cents, please!”

I dug into my pocket and held a quarter out for her. She stared at it until I put it down on the counter. Sliding the quarter to the edge of the counter, she angrily pushed some buttons on the register and threw the quarter in.

In my best Japanese I asked, “Nanji-ni au koto ga deki masu ka”? (What time do you get off work?) She looked at me with a shocked expression.

“Nani?? Where you learn that? Bar girl?”

I did, but I wasn’t about to tell her that. “No, my karate sensei taught me that one.”

“Huh.” She grunted. “What else he teach you?”

“Namae wa nan desu ka?” (What is your name?) I said, coyly.

“Hmm, funny. I finish nine o’clock, and my name is Kazumi, but everyone call me Mika. You Furanku, ne?”

“Uh, yes. But how did you know?”

“Come back to snack bar after nine. I have to clean up then I want to go home. I’m tired.”

And with that she slammed the register drawer shut and turned away.

A Light in the Darkness

On that first evening that I gave Mika a ride to downtown Naha in my new (old) car, I got the impression she didn’t seem to care what it looked like, just that she was getting home in something other than a bus. Once downtown I asked her for directions to her house, but she told me that she’d be getting off a couple of blocks away. She didn’t say why, but I assumed she didn’t want her parents to see her being driven home by an American serviceman. On the way, she didn’t say too much and not knowing exactly how much English she understood I decided to just enjoy the company.

She pointed to the side of the street once we passed a stop light and I brought the Plymouth/Dodge to a noisy stop. She opened the door, stepped out, and took a couple of steps before turning and thanking me for the ride. As she walked quickly away, I noticed that I was just a couple of blocks away from my dojo.

The next few times I saw Mika in the snack bar, I began to notice a marked change in her attitude. If she was busy with other customers she tended to treat me, more or less, like she did everyone else: rudely. But if I caught her alone she smiled, inquired about my karate lessons, and a couple of times actually asked me to tell her about Texas. Before I knew it, I was looking forward to stopping by the snack bar after I got off work and before I went to my dojo.

One evening, as I was finishing up with my karate, Sensei came up to me and asked that I stop at his office before I left. I thought I was doing pretty well in the kata department, having graduated from cement buckets to actually doing something with my arms and hands, but I was still apprehensive as I knocked at his door.

“Hai, dozo!” Sensei said loudly, waving his hand toward a chair. I stepped in and bowed deeply.

“Sawatte kudasai.” (Sit down.) He said, motioning again in the direction of the little metal chair in front of his desk.

“Hai, domo arigato.” (Yes, thank you.) I said, and took the seat.

“So Sinatra-san, how you like karate?” He asked gruffly.

“Dai jobu desu…” (It’s good…).

“So desu ka?” (Is that so?)

“Hai, so desu.” (Yes, it is.)

“Ano, (Uh,) how you like be sensei?”

“Me? Karate sensei?!” I asked, surprised at the question. He burst out laughing, his belly bouncing gaily under his gee.

“Ah, Sinatra-san, you taku-san (a lot) funny, ne? No, not karate sensei—English (pronounced, Engrish) sensei.”

“English sensei? Waka ri masen.” (I don’t understand.)

Sensei took a sip from his little cup of ocha (green tea) and told me what he had on his mind. He had a friend, he said, who was an educator in what we would describe as a middle school. A few days ago they met for dinner and his friend mentioned that he’d like to have an English speaker help him out in a couple of his English Language classes. Sensei thought of me and mentioned that he may know someone who may want to help out, but he’d have to ask first.

“Dakara, (so) I ask if you like to be Engrish sensei?” He said, raising his ocha cup in a toasting gesture.

“Well, I don’t know that much Japanese so I don’t know how I’d teach English to Japanese students. Besides, I don’t have any sort of teaching license or degree.”

“No need! You his, etto…ashisutanto…” (assistant).

“Assistant?”

“Hai, ashisutanto. You teach kodomo (children) Engrish, and boku no yuji (my friend) teach you Nihongo (Japanese). Idesu ne?” (Good, right?)

I didn’t know what to think of this offer, but I promised him I’d think it over. He said I would be needed three days a week, from 9am until around 1pm—assisting for a total of two to three classes a day. I said I’d let him know in a couple of days.

***

The middle school was located just north of Naha City, in a semi-rural area surrounded by lush palms and thick-trunked camphor trees. The building itself was a simple two-story structure sitting on a field of fine white gravel. It was rectangular in shape, and outfitted with numerous windows and large doors. Most of the classrooms were located on the east side of the structure, thus affording them the full advantage of the bright Okinawan sunshine in the morning, and cool breezy shade for the two hours they were in session during the afternoon. The cafeteria, administrative offices, teacher break rooms, and bathrooms were mostly located on the western side, and were amply outfitted with slowly rotating ceiling fans.

Sensei had instructed me to ask for his friend, Yamamura, Kiyoshi, when I arrived at the school for my first day as “Engrish Sensei”. What he didn’t prepare me for was the string of administrative assistants I would have to wade through when I walked into the Administrative Office that first morning. Apparently, no one had briefed them on my arrival, or even that I was going to be assisting Kiyoshi-san. They naturally assumed I was lost, so they all attempted to usher me out to my car to resume my search for whatever building I was looking for, and where I was sure to find someone named Yamamura.

After a lot of bowing, hand gesturing, and the depleting of my entire thirty-word Japanese vocabulary, the principal finally came out of her office. Gratefully, she spoke good, if not heavily accented English, and asked me to take a seat while she rounded up Mr. Yamamura.

He walked into the office and his stature immediately reminded me of the Emperor of Japan during the war: Hirohito. Tall, wiry-thin, wearing a dark slim-cut suit, white shirt and a well-tied black bowtie; his glossy black hair was cut very short and on his face he was wearing thin black-rimmed spectacles.

I immediately stood up and placed my arms snugly against each side of my body, preparing to bow respectfully. He stopped directly in front of me, snapped to almost military attention—and while bowing deeply said, “Ohayō gozaimasu, hajimemashite?” (Good morning, how do you do?)

“Hai, genki desu, arigato gozaimasu.” (Yes, I’m well, thank you very much.) I replied, attempting to bow deeper than Yamamura-san’s bow—showing respect and honoring him for being a highly-placed sensei. In response to my deep bow, he bowed again deeper and I responded with an even deeper bow.

After a couple of more rapid bows on each side I decided that if I went any lower I was going to fall over. I straightened up and offered my hand. He smiled slightly, his almond-shaped eyes almost squeezing closed, and reached out and took my hand.

“Ah, I am Yamamura, Kiyoshi, and you must be Dereonu, Furanku-san—sensei Uchiyama (this was the first time that I’d learned Sensei’s last name) speaks very highly of you. He tells me you are his only American student, and for that he is very proud.”

His English was very precise—not quite unaccented—but each word was delivered with defined exactness and clarity. And the tone of his voice was a dead ringer for Peter Lorre.

“Ah no, it is I who is proud to be Sensei’s humble student.”

“Well, let me show you around the school before the students arrive. My classroom is on the second floor. Do you need to relieve yourself before we go up?”

I was a little shocked but quickly answered that I was OK for now. He smiled again and said that on the way he’d show me the “resting” room. He turned and began to walk out of the office, gesturing that I should follow him. Quietly, the entire administrative staff, all women, stood and bowed deeply as we walked out the door.

The classroom was large and airy, and there were twenty desks lined up neatly in four rows of five each. Although the sun was shining brightly through the large windows, I noticed that the ceiling was lined with three rows of fluorescent lighting. Behind Kiyoshi-san’s large wooden desk, an oversized chalkboard took up most the class’s front wall. Scattered about the classroom walls were neatly posted placards written in English, reminding the students of certain English grammar rules—many of which most Americans currently ignore or never paid enough attention in school to learn.

Next to Kiyoshi-san’s desk was a large wooden chair. “This is where you will be sitting during class”, he said. “You will give help to the students in relation to American slang and colloquialisms. Sometimes I have great difficulty in trying to explain the plainer side of English and there’s where I hope you will assist.”

“Sure, I’ll do what I can.”

“I understand that you also wish to expand your knowledge of Japanese.”

“Yes.”

“So this will be a learning experience for all involved.”

“I hope so. At least I hope I can be of some help.”

“I’m sure you will be, and I am most appreciative that you have chosen to take time out of your busy life to help us here in our little school. Thank you.” He bowed deeply and I unsuccessfully tried to outdo the depth of his bow.

I looked at the clock on the wall and asked what time class started. He said it would be starting in a few moments so he suggested we retreat to the Teachers’ Lounge. I wondered aloud why we were leaving just as the students were beginning to arrive, and he explained that it was not proper for the teacher to be in the room when the students walked in. It was customary to wait until the class president called the class to order before the instructors walked in.

The Teachers’ Lounge was smaller than I thought it would be—a couple of almost worn out couches, a small table with wooden chairs, and a minuscule counter complete with a sink and a couple of two-burner propane stoves.

“You like ocha?” Kiyoshi asked, pointing to the small kettle boiling on one of the burners.

“I’ve had it a time or two—it’s OK.”

“Ah…I love the American way of using ‘OK’. It’s a clever non-committal word that often passes for acceptance, but mostly means that the person who uses it is not convinced one way or the other.”

“Hmm yes, I guess that’s right. But I’m willing to try it unless you have something else.”

“No, ocha is all we drink here. Give it a week and you’ll find yourself wanting nothing else.”

I took the plain white ceramic cup filled with the steaming green liquid and sipped it loudly as I’d seen Sensei do at the dojo. Outside I could hear the shrieks the children were making as the hallways filled.

At eight o’clock a gong sounded and the noise in the hallway instantly stopped.

“Finish your ocha, Furanku, it is nearly time for us to begin.”

I drank the last of the ocha, leaving a layer of crushed greenish-black leaves at the bottom of the cup and placed it in the sink.

“Are you ready?” Kiyoshi asked.

“Hai.” I said, a wave of nervousness rising through my body. I still wasn’t too sure what I was supposed to be doing.

Approaching the open classroom door, a step or two behind Kiyoshi, I began to hear the high-pitched hubbub of the children’s voices. We could’ve been in any school, anywhere in the world; as the inharmonious sound of their collective voices belied any definitive language—they just sounded like happy, noisy children.

The din suddenly ceased, save for the soft shuffling of students scurrying into their seats as we crossed the threshold of the classroom. Walking slightly behind, and to the right of Kiyoshi, I got my first glance of the class.

We strode to the front of the classroom, and facing the students, stopped in front of the large wooden desk.

In the front row, a small, thin male child, dressed in the identical uniform of the rest of the nineteen, stood suddenly and snapped to stiff, ram-rod straight, attention. His face a mask of complete seriousness, he opened his mouth and in a high-pitched shout, said, “SENSEI! OHAYO GOZAIMSU!” Then, he bowed perfectly and deeply, from the waist up. As his bow reached its lowest point, the rest of the class, in unison, rose from their desks—snapping their posture to match their little leader—and bellowing, “SENSEI! OHAYO OZAIMUSU!”

The class held their collective bow until Kiyoshi acknowledged them with a slight drop of his head, which he held for about two seconds. Then, again in unison, the entire class turned ever so slightly and bowed to me. I thought the appropriate thing to do was to mimic Kiyoshi, I also dropped my head a couple of inches and brought it back up a couple of seconds later.

At that, the class instantly relaxed and they all slid back into their seats. Their eyes, however, remained glued on Kiyoshi as he explained to them what the lesson of the day was and who I was. I didn’t catch everything, but a couple of times I picked out my name (Sensei Dereonu), and twenty sets of eyes shifted over to me, lingering for a second, then back to Kiyoshi.

The lessons were simple grammar and vocabulary—greetings, and simple sentences such as ‘my name is…’—and the children were exemplary. Even in those days when the American classroom was still centered on education instead of political correctness, these kids put their American peers to shame. Quiet, respectful and attentive, it was clearly obvious that these kids were there to learn.

Each class was ninety minutes in duration, and there were four classes a day. Each class, in succession, was more complex than the previous—making the students in the last class almost fluent in reading, writing and comprehending English. I was amused to note that the highlight of the final class of the day was a section in English jokes.

“If the students can master humor in the English language, one can assume that they have very well mastered the language itself,” Kiyoshi said to me at the end of the first day. “I, myself, have not totally mastered American humor, and as an example, those ‘knock-knock’ jokes you like to tell each other don’t make a lot of sense to me. But, hopefully, someday…”

I asked him where he’d studied, and he said the majority of his education had been received in England, but he had studied in New York. “Well, there you go…” I said. “With that British background hobbling you, you may never be able to master ‘knock-knock’ jokes.”

I was only able to assist Kiyoshi for a couple of months, as I’d traded off a work cycle that put me on the evening shift at the ADC, but soon I found that I just couldn’t juggle work, karate, and teaching when I had to rotate back to the day shift. However, the experience, as short as it was, turned out to be extremely rewarding and allowed me to me see another piece of the Okinawan culture. The children were a joy to be around, and on my last day each class performed a little skit for me, all in English, to demonstrate their appreciation for my efforts.

Although I didn’t learn that much Japanese during my short tenure at the school, I really got hooked on ocha.

Frank and Mika

Whenever I wasn’t working at the ADC, taking karate, or teaching, I found myself thinking more and more about Mika. More often than not, when I was in the barracks I’d make a trip down to the snack bar feigning interest in buying a Coke, some blades, or a candy bar. The real reason of course was to see her and maybe chat a bit about my karate classes, or even discuss my time at the middle school. Unless she was busy with other customers, she would always smile at me—not something she did readily for anyone else—and cheerfully ask how my day was going.

Because I was now eligible for off-base housing, and I no longer had any roommates, I’d been looking at renting something near the base. Most of the guys I knew who lived off-base lived in Okinawan houses—commonly called a ‘hootch’. I’d received a couple of recommendations from some of my co-workers, but the hootches that I’d seen were either too expensive, too shoddy, or located in a neighborhood that was not close enough to the base.

Since Okinawan hootches normally were not outfitted with bathroom facilities (there was usually a communal outhouse that I wouldn’t send my worst enemy into), I felt that whatever I rented had to be close enough to the base to allow me to shower before and/or after work, or to hurry to a barracks’ restroom facility in the event of a sudden urge.

Eventually, fortune smiled at me and I located a small two-and-a half room hootch, not more than half a block outside of the base’s southern gate. The two main rooms, each about fifteen feet long by ten feet wide, were meant to be used as as a dining/living room, and a bedroom; and the smaller half-room on one end, equipped with a sink and a four burner countertop propane stove, would serve nicely as a kitchen. The best part was that I was able to negotiate the monthly rent down to twenty-five dollars a month—utilities included. Now all I needed was a little furniture.

When I told Mika about my renting a hootch she seemed pleased and actually recommended a couple of Okinawan furniture companies where I was sure to get good deals. After visiting them, I decided that to get the really good deals I would have to speak Japanese. Since I was sorely lacking in that department, I asked Mika if she could accompany me the next time I went. Surprisingly, she readily agreed.

On her next day off she told me she’d meet me at one of the furniture stores at a certain time; although I was relatively sure she’d show up, I was still somewhat surprised when I saw her waiting outside as I roared up in my Plymouth/Dodge.

After I’d bought a small full-size bed (Japanese full-size beds were about the size of one and a half an American twin), a hutch, and a small table and four chairs, I asked her if she’d like to join me for lunch. Surprising me again, she agreed. I guess our lunch at Ichiro and Kyoko’s restaurant could be considered our first ‘date’.

As the year came to a close I found that Mika and I were spending a lot of time together. Whenever I wasn’t working the evening shift at the ADC, I would take her home after her shift, (always dropping her off a couple of blocks away from her home), and on those days that she was off we would meet up and go shopping or have dinner. Once I asked her if she wanted to go with me to a movie on the base, as the movie theaters in Naha featured mostly Japanese movies—and the few American movies that they did show were all dubbed in Japanese. I was surprised when she declined my invitation, but then she went on to explain that the company that employed her at the snack bar prohibited her dating American servicemen, and she didn’t want to be seen doing so.

I was now living in my hootch and driving onto the base when I had to go to work. Although it had a small fenced area just outside the kitchen, complete with a full rain barrel, where one could actually take a sponge bath, I preferred to leave early and do my showering at my old barracks.

One evening, after having dinner and taking in a Japanese movie, I asked Mika if she wanted to see what my little hootch looked like now that it was furnished. At first she seemed reluctant, but in the end agreed to come over for just “a little bit”.

After a very short tour of the house, I brewed up a pot of ocha and we sat at the little dining room table to chat. As we conversed I began to realize just how taken I’d become with her. I found that her coquettish mannerisms, her beauty, and especially her intelligence had completely overtaken my emotions and caused my mind to dwell mostly on her. When we were together she brought a light into the deep darkness in my heart and caused me forget about all the unhappiness that I’d experienced in the past two years.

As the evening wore on and the ocha pot emptied, thoughts about driving her back home dimmed for both of us; and it was then, that night in late December that we decided to spend the first of many nights together.

Okinawa – Part Seven

Okinawa

Part Seven

September-October 1966

The Event, Interrupted

Right after the Johnny Carson interview with Hubert Humphrey, the Democrat candidate for President, I must’ve fallen asleep in the big overstuffed chair, despite waiting anxiously for Claudia Cardinale’s turn on Johnny’s couch. I heard a voice coming from faraway calling my name—softly at first, then louder and with more insistence.

“Mr. DeLeón!! Sir, could I talk to you, please?”

I opened my eyes and the vague memory of where I was and why I was here just wouldn’t come to the forefront of my memory.

“Sir!!” This time the voice was much closer, and I forced myself to focus.

“Ye…yes?” I managed to mumble.

“Sir, could I have a word with you?”

Taking a deep breath and blinking my eyes rapidly, a man’s face—slightly in need of a shave—came into view. He was wearing rimless spectacles and had a funny looking white cap on his head. I pulled myself into a more upright position, and the man moved away from my face.

“Yes, sure. Sorry, I must’ve fallen asleep.”

“No problem. Hi. I’m Doctor Rogers, and I’m tending to your wife. It looks like I have a bit of bad news for you.”

“Oh? What’s wrong? Is my wife OK?”

“Well…yes, for the most part she’s fine. It’s the baby that’s being stubborn.”

“Stubborn?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.” He turned his body slightly and sat down on the large left arm of the chair. “It seems that the birth is not going to happen…at least not tonight.”

“Oh?”

“So, I came out to tell you that maybe you should go home. We’ll call you if something changes.”

I sat straight up, almost knocking the man off the arm of the chair. “Uh, so she’s not ready to have it yet?”

“Well, everything seemed right on schedule, then her labor pains subsided quite a bit, so it seems we’re into a sort of ‘wait-and-see’ mode.”

“And, I should go home then?”

“Well, you’re certainly welcome to stay here, but I can’t tell you when she’s going to resume her labor. We’ll try to induce, but there’s no guarantee that she’ll start right back up. I just thought you’d be more comfortable at home, rather than trying to sleep here.”

I looked around and found that the large room was empty and the TV was off. I tried to find the clock on the wall to see what time it was. “What time is it?”

“Oh, it’s about twelve-thirty right now. Do you have a long drive to get home?” he asked.

I stretched and continued to gather my bearings. “No, it’s not that far.” I yawned, large.

“Well, then! I suggest you go on home. If anything changes, we’ll be sure to call you. It’s my understanding that this…um…birth is not particularly welcome.”

“Not as far as I’m concerned. I really don’t have anything to do with it.”

“So then, it’s best that you wait at home. OK?”

“Sure.” He moved off the arm and stood up. I noticed he was wearing something that looked like a big white apron, tied off at the front—and funny shoes that looked like white ballet slippers. I got up and stretched and yawned again—this time a little noisily. “OK, so I’ll get a call…when?”

“If anything changes in her condition.”

“OK, thanks.”

The doctor stuck his hand out to shake mine. “Good luck. I know this isn’t the best situation for either of you.”

“No…but, that’s OK.” And I walked out of the “Expectant Fathers Waiting Room”, and headed for the elevator.

The temperature had fallen quite a bit since we’d arrived and I was shivering a bit by the time I got into the front seat. After all the miles I’d put on this car in the past few days, it almost felt like an old friend. The drive back to Sharon’s house seemed a little shorter than when we’d taken off for the hospital, and before I knew it, I was turning left into her driveway.

I saw another car there, a green older model Ford, and remembered that Sharon had mentioned calling Brenda. I assumed this was her car. I opened the door, expecting to see her—as all the lights were on—but I stepped into an empty front room.

Suddenly, Sharon’s bedroom door opened and Brenda stepped out. She was not the same girl that I’d last seen so long ago in Winnemucca. Dressed in black bell-bottomed jeans, and a white western-cut long-sleeved blouse, she seemed taller, filled out; and, her long black hair had been permed into a cute semi-Afro style. She still had the same, almost transparent large blue eyes, and her once thin face was now nicely rounded out—creating a pair of deep dimples on either cheek. I’d once thought that she was a pretty girl, but she’d blossomed into a beautiful woman.

She opened her eyes wide and threw her arms out into a warm welcoming hug. She bounced up to me, giggling. “Oh Frank! My God, you look great!”

I hugged her back—hard, taking in the light sweet scent of her perfume. “Brenda! You look pretty good yourself!”

Still holding me tightly, she pulled her head back taking me in with her eyes. Suddenly, she smiled, pulled me back in, and planted a big juicy kiss right on my lips! Surprised, I tried to pull my head back a bit, finally surrendering to her insistence.

“There!!” She said, throwing her head back. “I’ve been wanting to do that for years, but I always thought you were too hung up on Sharon!”

“Well…uh…” I stuttered. “I don’t know what to say. Thanks, I guess!”

She laughed heartily. “Well, I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

“Well,” I said, disengaging myself from her grip. “There hasn’t been a lot to joke about lately.”

She stepped back and look of sadness came over her face. “Oh Frank…God…this is so awful. How can you stand it?”

“You mean, Sharon getting pregnant?”

“Well, yeah…no! Everything! I mean, you just don’t deserve what she’s done to you. And believe me, she’s paid for it too!” She walked over to the couch and sat daintily down. “Everyone has just about written her off…she’s like the black sheep of the family, I’ll tell you. I was the only one she ended up talking to, and that’s because I just felt so sorry for her—and her pathetic situation.”

“Yeah, well I don’t know too much about it. She never wrote me while I was gone—well, except for the letter that I got in July when she told me her condition.” I sat down on the other end of the couch.

“Yeah!” she said, forcefully. “And even then, she didn’t want to do it! She had to be forced, you know.”

“I didn’t know that. All she said was that everyone, including her lawyer had advised her to write me and tell me about what was going on with her.”

“Yeah, well she was in denial for the longest time—claiming that she just didn’t know what had happened, when she damn sure knew what caused her problem.”

“Well, in her letter she didn’t know who the father was and we haven’t had a chance to talk about it—in fact, we’ve really not talked about anything since I came back. We did speak a little during dinner last night, but all she seemed interested in was finding out about Okinawa. She made comments to the boys and me about being excited about going to a foreign country, you know, and stuff like that. I didn’t feel that I should bring up her pregnancy in front of them.”

“Oh! Are you planning on sending for them after all this is over and you go back? You’ve still got a couple of years to spend over there, right?”

That question brought on a great feeling of sadness and sorrow—and my throat tightened up, causing me to pause and swallow hard a couple of times. My memory instantly replayed the scene a few weeks prior when, after I’d asked for an appointment, I found myself sitting in front of one of the Assistant Adjutant Generals at Naha Air Base. I had showed him Sharon’s letter, which he read several times over; then, finally looking up and asking me what it was that I wanted to do. Without hesitation, I told him that my first inclination was that I had no desire to continue being married to her, but I wanted to know what my options were.

After referring to a couple of large black, red-trimmed volumes, he advised me that under the ‘Soldiers and Sailors Civil Relief Act’, I had the right to file for an uncontested divorce, and my absence at any, and all, court proceedings would be allowed due to my military service obligations. In other words, I could file for divorce, offer a reasonable amount of monthly child-support (which could be increased or decreased by the presiding judge), have any alimony demand quashed (given the defendant’s egregious actions), and have a judge render a final judgment—all with my not having to be present at any of the proceedings.

After about another hour of discussion I told the AAG that I would make my final decision after I returned from Reno. He thought that was a good idea, and advised that whatever I decision I came to should be properly and carefully considered—as the result of that decision would be permanently binding on all parties.

On the long flight home, I had all but made up my mind to file for divorce. It had come down to this: I felt that I could never again trust Sharon. And, if my trust in her was gone, then I had no business being married to her.

“Oh, uh…well, like I said before,” I stuttered, as Brenda’s interest piqued, “I haven’t had a chance to talk to her about that, or anything else. I guess once this is all over we’ll have to have a serious discussion.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I think! She fucked around on you, then denied the obvious to everyone here! So as far as I’m concerned anything you decide to do, short of forgiving her and hauling her unfaithful ass back with you, would be entirely justifiable!”

“Well…we’ll see…”

“Oh yeah, and that bullshit about her not knowing what happened? That’s a crock. She told me and Sherry…you remember Sherry don’t you? She was Sharon’s bridesmaid.”

“Of course.”

“She’s living here in Reno now, working at one of the casinos. Anyway, she told us that she’d been invited to a Christmas party by someone none of us ever met; and she ended up getting drunk. She said she woke up and this guy was on top of her.”

“Oh God.”

“Yeah, she claims she was so drunk she just let him do it.”

“Really? So in truth, he raped her.”

“One would think!”

“Did she ever report it to the police?”

“No! Her excuse was that she was too embarrassed. Can you believe that?”

“Kinda sounds like something she’d say.”

“Yeah, well I think she knew what she was doing all along. Just didn’t think she’d get knocked up.”

“Probably.”

“Anyway, the phone call—did she already have the little bastard?”

“Huh?” The question shocking me in its bluntness. “Oh, no. The doctor told me to come home because her labor pains had subsided, and they weren’t sure just when she was going to give birth.”

“So, you’re just supposed to just wait here until, what? She pops?”

“What else can I do?”

“Right! OK, I have an idea. How long has it been since you’ve had a glass of good scotch whiskey?”

It was then I remembered that Brenda’s choice of drink was scotch. “Well, Okinawa may be on the other side of the world, but they do have scotch whiskey there.”

“Ha! That may be, but I’ll bet it just doesn’t taste the same as it does when drinking it in Nevada.”

“You may be right there.”

“So, here’s what we’re gonna do: Since I couldn’t find a damned thing to drink around here, I’m gonna run out and buy us a bottle; and you and I, old buddy, are going to get old-fashioned shit-faced! What’dya say to that?!”

Actually, I didn’t have anything to say about that, so I just asked a lame question. “So, what would be open this time of night?”

“Are you shitting me? This is Reno! Everything’s open! Boy, you’ve been gone too god-damned long!”

And with that, she jumped up and retrieved a fancy black rawhide leather jacket that had been hanging on one of the kitchen chairs. I noticed that she was wearing a pair of really expensive-looking western boots.

“It won’t take me but a jiffy, then we’ll—by God—put this night away properly!”

I reached into my pocket to give her some money.

“No! No you don’t!” She said—shaking her finger at me. “This bottle’s gonna be on me. It’s been a long time since I’ve bought a handsome man a drink.”

“OK,” I laughed. “But if you find one out there fitting that description don’t you dare bring him home!” She laughed loudly. So instead of money I pulled Sharon’s car keys out and threw them to her. “Here, you better take Sharon’s car. I parked it behind yours in the driveway.”

“Right! I’ll be right back.” She grabbed me by the cheeks with one hand and planted a noisy kiss on my mouth. “Hold that thought!” And, she walked out.

***

She brought back a fifth of Cutty Sark. “I remembered it was your favorite.” she said, after putting the bottle down on the dining table. “Let me find us a couple of glasses and a pitcher of water, and then let’s see how much damage we can do to that baby.”

We talked and we drank, and she filled me in one what she’d been doing since we’d last seen each other way back in what seemed decades to me. She’d moved to Reno, and was living there when Sharon had returned and I’d flown off to Okinawa. Some good-looking cowboy named Roy, who’d been working the rodeo circuit had swept her off her feet and they’d married. Two years, and two kids later, she discovered that during those trips when he was competing, he’d fathered a number of other kids with other women in a couple of other states.

“Oh, but don’t worry,” Brenda said while taking a healthy swig off her lightly-diluted scotch and water. “He ended up paying big for his fucking little indiscretions.” In addition to a healthy chunk of change up front, she ended up with some land in Idaho and a generous monthly child support payment. “I ended up doing OK, but you know the sad part is that I really loved that asshole—and even with all that went down, I still really miss him.”

“Well, that’s too bad.” I said. “But I’m sure you’ll find someone else.”

“Ha! Well, if I were looking—maybe. But no, not for a while.”

“So where are your kids now?”

“Roy’s back off the circuit for a while after cracking some ribs, so the kids are with him for a couple of weeks.”

“Oh. So, you always dress like this when you’re just hanging around the house waiting for your half-sister to call?”

“Oh no. I was getting ready to go out western dancing with some of my girlfriends when she called. Hell, if you were home for good I’d take you out to the dance hall and show you off.”

“Stop it!” I said, a little embarrassed. “I have other things I need to worry about right now.”

“Yeah, I guess you do. Too bad.”

I don’t remember exactly when we decided we’d had enough, but the shrill ring of the light green wall phone brought my senses back abruptly. I was lying, face-down on the couch, one arm under me and the other resting on the floor. With every ring, my head throbbed, and as I pushed myself upright, I felt a little light-headed and a lot nauseous.

The wall that the phone was hanging on really looked far away, and I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to walk all the way over there to answer it. I looked around for Brenda, but she was nowhere to be seen. I got myself to my feet, leaned forward, and pointed myself in the direction of where the phone was jangling noisily.

“Hello?” I said, through what felt like cotton balls in my mouth. “Hu…hello?”

“Mr. DeLeón?”

“Uh…yes?”

“Hold please.”

“What?” I asked, looking for a chair where I could sit myself down. “Hello?” I said again. Then I remembered that the tinny female voice had said to hold. Pinning the receiver to the side of my face with my right shoulder, I reached for one of the dining table chairs and pulled it over to me. Sitting down, I felt a bit steadier.

“Mr. DeLeón?” Another female voice asked.

“Yes?”

“This is Doctor Rogers’ nurse…”

“Uh, OK.”

“Well, sir…Doctor Rogers wanted to let you know that your wife gave birth this morning just after six.”

“Oh.” I just didn’t know what else to say.

“Mr. DeLeón?”

“Yes?”

“Did you understand what I said?”

“Yeah…Sharon had the baby.”

“Yes sir, that’s correct…a little after six today.”

“All right.” I wasn’t sure what else I should be saying, but the thought that went through my head just then was that if these were normal circumstances I would probably be ecstatic. Probably. “OK, so what happens now?” I finally thought to ask.

“Well, I think what the important thing to tell you is this,” the nurse continued, “If you’re planning on visiting her this morning, the doctor suggested that maybe this afternoon, or maybe early evening would be better.”

“Oh? Why? Is something wrong?”

“Well, I’m not at liberty to discuss the particulars, but she didn’t take to the procedure very well, I’m afraid.”

“You mean, there were some problems with the delivery?”

“No, not the delivery. Sir, I really can’t discuss this with you. But I can tell you that she’s presently under heavy sedation and is in no condition to receive any visitors. At least not for now.”

“OK, I don’t understand. Is she OK, or not?”

“Dr. Rogers, or the other resident will call you back with more details later today. Will you be at this number?”

“Yes, sure.”

“When the doctor decides she’s up to seeing you, he’ll call. Right now, he just wanted to let you know that she’d given birth.”

“All right.”

“OK, sir. Someone will call you later. Goodbye now.”

And she was gone.

I stood and hung up the phone. I sat there for a few minutes trying to understand what had just happened, when Brenda cracked open the bedroom door.

“Hey…” she said, eyes squinting and obviously in pain. “Was that the phone?”

“Yeah…”

“So…is everything OK?”

“Um…kinda…I think. That was the nurse. She said Sharon had given birth, but then told me not to plan on going to the hospital to visit her until I got a call later. Something must’ve happened because she was under heavy sedation but she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong.”

“Oh God! I hope she’s OK. What about the baby?”

“The baby? Oh…I don’t know. I guess they must’ve taken it away.”

“Taken away? What do you mean—taken away?!”

“You know—that’s what Sharon wanted to have done. I thought you knew…she signed papers to give the kid up for adoption. Shit, I had to sign them too…something about my being the legal father.”

“WHAT?”

“You didn’t know?”

“NO! No one knew! God damn her!” And she slammed the door shut.

I staggered back to the couch and sat down. I didn’t know what to think.

Regret, Hysteria, and Pleas for Forgiveness

I spent the rest of the morning trying to sober up. Brenda came out of the bedroom wearing one of Sharon’s robes and made a long trip to the bathroom. As much as it hurt for me to move too fast I decided that I should take advantage of Brenda’s absence and go in to wake the boys. I seated them at the table and went into the kitchen to grab some milk and cereal. Just thinking of eating made my stomach quiver and roll.

Brenda finally came out, greeted and kissed the boys and said she was going to go get dressed. I told her that the doctor was going to call me later to let me know when I could go see Sharon, and Brenda suggested I call her when that happened. She also said she’d come back and pick up the boys and keep them at her house while I went to the hospital.

“Also,” she added, “I guess I’ll have to make some calls when I get home to cancel Ricky’s party this weekend.”

The word ‘party’ sunk slowly into my scotch-soaked brain. “Party? Oh…oh my God—yes, his party!” My hand flying to my head.

Ricky looked up from his cereal and asked, “Is it my birthday yet, Aunt Brenda?” Beebe stopped his spoon as he was guiding it into his mouth and yelled, “Party!”—spitting Cheerios half-way across the table.

Brenda, quicker on the draw than I was, said, “No Ricky, not yet. Maybe tomorrow, or maybe the next day—but not today.” She looked up at me with pooched lips, made a sorrowful frown as she shook her head slowly.

“Yeah son, and Grandma and Grandpa DeLeón sent you some presents from Houston. So when it’s your birthday you can open them—but not today. Is that OK?”

“Uh-huh…” he said, slightly disappointed. “Will I have cake too?”

Beebe yelled out, “CAKE!” and spit more Cheerios out.

“Yes, everyone will have cake.” I said.

As Brenda retreated back into the bedroom, I was left to ponder this deplorable fact: My wife had given birth to an illegitimate child on our son’s birthday. Could this situation get any worse? Regrettably, it could—and it did.

After Brenda left I took the boys into the bathroom and ran a hot bath for them. They were still at the age where they both played well together in the tub, and that came as a great relief for me. Anytime I bent down to adjust the water or to scrub their backs, I thought my head was going to explode, or I was going to throw up all over the bathroom. By the time they called out to me to tell me they were ready to get out of the tub I was beginning to feel a bit more human.

There didn’t seem to be much food in the cupboards so after the boys were dressed I told them I was going to take a shower then we’d all go to the store. That really seemed to get them excited.

After I showered and dressed, I was very disappointed when I tried to find clothes for them to wear for the trip to the store. A search of their small dresser yielded just a few t-shirts—most of them in not very good shape, and a couple of pairs of old jeans and some too-small corduroy pants. I did the best I could and made sure that their little coats covered up the condition their shirts were in.

I still had some money left over from what my dad had given me so I tried to buy stuff that the boys seemed to like. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to get everything they wanted. We got home around noon and the boys decided that they wanted hot dogs for lunch. Still a little queasy from the night before, it took all my willpower to keep my stomach in check while preparing their lunch.

At about two-thirty, Ricky advised me that this was the time that mom insisted they go into their room for their nap. I was all for that, and thought that after they were down I would probably partake in that same activity on the couch. Just as I was getting myself comfy, the phone rang.

Thinking it might’ve been Brenda, I made my best effort to sound cheery as I answered. Instead, it was the hospital. They told me that I should plan to visit my wife today, but not earlier than 6:30 pm that evening; also, that I should check in with the floor nurse before going to Sharon’s room. I told them I’d be there and asked if she was all right. The nurse on the phone sounded very evasive, and while ignoring my question repeated the instructions for my checking in when I arrived at the hospital.

I called Brenda and she suggested that I bring the boys over to her house so I wouldn’t be rushed when I went to see Sharon. “They can stay the night here in case they want you to stay overnight with her, or something…” she mused.

“I hope not. But I’ll let you know one way or the other once I get there,” I said.

I arrived at the hospital a few minutes early and decided to go into the gift shop to see if I could find something small to give Sharon when I saw her. Although I was still very uncomfortable and didn’t quite know what to expect, I sure didn’t want to make her feel any worse than she probably already did. I bought her a very non-committal get-well card, and a handful of pink and white flowers in a small crystal vase. Everything came to less than five-dollars, but I was getting close to being broke again.

Walking back into the lobby I looked for the check-in desk, and failing to find anything that looked like one, I opted to go to the information desk instead. The lady instructed me to take the elevator up to the maternity ward, and there would be someone there to check me in and direct me to my wife’s room.

When the elevator door opened, the first thing I saw was a large glassed-in room that was full of infants in small light-blue and pink, round baskets. Each basket had a card displaying their names and date of birth. There were several men lined up, noses pressed to the glass—most pointing and waving to the babies—most of whom were sleeping.

To the right, I saw a large desk with a sign that said, “Nurse Station”, so I turned and headed in that direction. There were several nurses, but they all seemed to be either reading, writing, or doing both, to clipboards that they each had in their hands. I stood there until one of them took notice.

“Can I help you, sir?” She asked me, suspending her note writing temporarily and looking at me in an almost cross manner.

“Yes, my name is Frank DeLeón, and I was asked to check in before I’m allowed to see my wife.”

“And, your wife’s name is…?”

“Sharon…Sharon DeLeón.”

“Oh…!” A frown instantly overtook her previously annoyed expression. “Oh…yes. Just a minute.” Her body tensed a bit. “Just wait right there. I’ll get someone to help you.”

She put the clipboard down and hurried out from behind the desk, heading down the hallway where I assumed the rooms were. She glanced back once, and quickened her pace. She ducked her head into a couple of rooms, then finally paused and entered one of them.

I quickly noticed that the rest of the nurses had mostly ceased the intense interest in their clipboards and were gazing surreptitiously, but intently, at me. I cleared my throat and tried to assume one of my most nonchalant poses. With the little vase of flowers and the card clutched in my hand, that was a tough thing to pull off.

A few minutes later, the nurse re-appeared—this time with a doctor in tow.

“Mr. DeLeón?” Said the doctor, who looked like he’d just graduated from high school.

“Yes.” He reached out shake my hand.

“OK, we need to have just a little bit of a chat before we let you go in to see your wife, OK?”

“Uh, sure.”

He led me behind the nurse’s station to a small office with just a desk and a couple of chairs. He motioned for me to sit to the side of the desk while he stood, leaning on the edge.

“I think you need to know that your wife’s had kind of a bad experience.”

“Well frankly, I’m not surprised. The baby’s illegitimate, and she’s given it up for adoption; so, I think that in itself is pretty bad.”

“I’m afraid it’s a little worse than that.”

I didn’t know what else to say, but I started to get a really bad feeling about all of this. “I guess you’d better just tell me.”

“You know that the procedure that she agreed to was to never see, touch, or even hear the child’s first cries, right?”

“Well, I didn’t know it was that detailed. I just thought she wasn’t supposed to see it.”

“Yes, that’s true. But there was a bit of a glitch. Let me tell you what happened. Because the delivery was delayed until early this morning…I think it was about three minutes after six when she gave birth, the team of nurses assisting had been changed out. The new team apparently wasn’t briefed sufficiently…at least the head assisting nurse wasn’t…and when Dr. Rogers delivered the child he handed it to that nurse to prep.”

“OK.”

“That means she was supposed to leave the delivery room with the child, go into the next room and do the prep, then take it away. That way, your wife—already a little bit sedated—would not be aware of the child. Unfortunately, the nurse—as I said before—had not been briefed sufficiently, and instead of leaving the delivery room with the child, returned with it wrapped in a blanket and presented it to your wife.”

“Oh…”

“Well, not only that—but before Dr. Rogers was able to intervene, the nurse told your wife that she was the mother of a healthy baby boy!”

“OK, so now she knows it was a boy. I don’t see how that…”

“Mr. DeLeón, do you understand what the term bonding means?”

“Uh, well no, not really.”

“The mother/child bonding process is very complicated, but it’s also very personal. That’s why it was forbidden for your wife to see or touch the child. The moment the nurse put the child on your wife’s bosom she realized that that baby was hers—and not someone else’s. So she instantly bonded with the child. Understand?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Consequently, when the mistake was corrected, and the child was taken away, your wife…well, let’s just say, she didn’t take it very well.”

“Oh…”

“No, she immediately tried to get off the birthing table and chase after the nurse and child. She had to be restrained—and ultimately sedated…heavily.”

“Oh God. How is she now?”

“Well, we think that she will eventually accept that the child is gone forever, but that’s really going to have a lot to do with you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. See, I’ve been briefed on you and your wife’s situation, and given the stress and guilt that she’s been under for the entirety of her pregnancy, she was…and is…on the verge of a serious nervous breakdown. Add to all that the experience she went through this morning and, well…I think you understand.”

“Where is she now?”

“She’s been placed on another floor, obviously away from the maternity floor, in a private room. For her safety, and the safety of our staff, she’s physically restrained…that is, her arms and legs are belted down and she’s under moderate sedation. We lightened the amount of sedation to allow for your visit because we feel that you may have a calming effect on her.”

“How so?”

“She’s extremely fragile right now…mentally speaking…and will have to be evaluated by one of the psychiatrists on our staff before we consider discharging her. But before that happens we’d like to see how she relates to you.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“I know it’s tough on you, but I would ask that any animosity that you may feel for her right now be put aside. What she needs now is understanding and kindness. She’s been through a lot, and I’m afraid we didn’t help in that regard.”

“Can I see her now?”

“Yes, when you think you’re ready.”

“OK.”

“I see you brought her a gift. That was thoughtful of you, but remember that in her condition she may not understand your motives. Regardless of what she says, just stay calm and be gentle with her. Can you do that?”

“I think so.”

“Good. So, if you’re ready we can go up to her floor now.”

We walked out of the office, and under the nurses’ veiled gazes and walked over to the bank of elevators. The doctor chose a floor two levels up, and in a few seconds the door opened.

This floor was very different from the one I’d just left. While the maternity ward was painted and decorated in bright colorful tones, its walls plastered with cartoonish-like decals, this one was plain and almost colorless. Light gray walls, subdued lighting, and dark gray spongy carpet on the floor gave this level a feeling of quietness and restraint. It was so quiet one could hear the hissing of the heated air as it was being pushed out of the registers and into the hallway.

I was led to the center of the main hall and to a very different-looking nurses’ station. The head nurse was seated behind a tall dais, and when we arrived she was speaking on the phone. Even though I was just a few feet from her I could not hear her voice. It was then I realized that something on this floor restricted sound from traveling as it normally would. It was as if the air was still and dead.

The nurse hung up the phone and focused her attention on us.

“This is Mr. DeLeón, and he’s here to visit his wife, Sharon.”

The nurse stood and reached out to shake my hand. “Mr. DeLeón—you’ve been made aware of your wife’s condition, have you not?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Fine. I’ll escort you to her room but I may not enter. I see you have some flowers for her.”

“Yes, and a card.”

“Well, she may not be able to open the card today due to her restraints, but leave both items on the table next to her and we’ll make sure she gets them when she’s better.”

“OK.”

“So, when you walk in you will see that her arms and legs are tied down to the bed with leather straps. Don’t be alarmed. They’re there for her own safety. She’s…well… she’s been flailing about quite a bit. You’ll also see that her knees are raised and her legs spread apart under the sheet. We’ve placed a type of heating lamp, and it’s focused on her pelvic area. During the birth the doctor had to make an incision to accommodate the baby’s head and shoulders, and the lamp helps dry the stitches. Because of her past violent movements she’s already torn them out a couple of times.”

“Oh.”

“We don’t think she’s in pain, except the small discomfort in her pelvic area, so don’t be concerned with that. It’s her mental state that is a little worrisome now.”

“All right.”

“I’m just telling you these things so you won’t be confused when you see her.”

“OK.’

“Now, we’re not sure how she’ll react to your presence, but I’ll be right outside the door in the event she gets violent. Under no conditions are you to attempt to remove her restraints. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“OK. Doctor,” the nurse turned to the resident, “do you have anything further for Mr. DeLeón?”

“No, I think you’ve covered everything well. I’ll just go ahead and return to my floor now—there’s no reason for me to be here any longer.”

“OK, that’s fine. Mr. DeLeón, are you ready?”

“Yes, I think so.” She came out from behind the dais and motioned for me to follow her. She stopped in front of a very heavy-looking wide wood-grained door which she quietly pushed open and stepped aside. I walked in, and although the nurse had said she wasn’t going to go into the room, I sensed her just behind me.

The room was small, just enough room for a bed, a small metal nightstand, and one chair. The curtains were pulled tight over the one window, even though a deep darkness had already descended on the city.

I saw Sharon in the bed right off my left. She was on her back, heard turned toward the window, arms splayed out to her sides, and she was lying very still. Her knees were drawn up and I could see a strong light reflecting between her legs under the sheet. That seemed to be the only thing in the room that was giving off light.

I couldn’t see her face very well from the foot of the bed where I was standing, so I moved quietly to her right side, and glanced to see if she was sleeping. The nurse tapped me on my left shoulder, momentarily startling me, and motioned for me to put the vase and flowers on the little metal table. I moved toward the table, being careful to place the vase softly on its surface to avoid making any noise. It was then that I was able to get a good look at her face.

Her eyes were closed, and although she appeared to be sleeping, she had a very pained expression on her face. I turned to see if I could pull the chair close to me so I could sit down, but the nurse was already quietly carrying it to me. She put the chair down, motioned for me to sit, and then she quietly stepped out of the room—leaving the door slightly open.

I sat down and looked at Sharon closely. Her breathing seemed ragged, and she appeared to have aged overnight. The puffiness in her face had all but disappeared, but the circles under her eyes had darkened considerably. Her right arm jerked slightly, and that’s when I noticed the strap around her wrist.

It was leather, about two inches wide, and the buckle appeared to be heavy gauge steel. Between the leather and her wrist there was a layer of what looked to be flannel—apparently so that the edges of the strap wouldn’t cut into her skin.

As angry and abysmally disappointed I’d been with her after coming home, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sorrow for what she was going through. After watching her for a few minutes, I found that I wanted to touch her and hold her hand.

Reaching slowly for her right hand I found that I could only grasp the tips of her fingers. As soon as we touched she turned her head toward me and opened her eyes.

“Ohhh…Frank…oh…my love…” she whispered, and I saw that her lips were severely chapped and raw.

“Shh…that’s OK, everything’s OK.” I said, moving my other hand and placing it on top of hers. “Don’t say anything…I’ll be here for a while.”

“Ohhh, Frank…! Ohhh…my God…what have I done…?”

“Nothing…you’ve done nothing. In a couple of days, I’ll take you home and you’ll…everything’ll be fine…”

“No, no, no….oh God…oh Frank,” she whispered in a high tortured voice. “It was a boy, Frank…a boy…oh my God! And they took him away!!” Her voice cracked, and a sob came ripping out from deep in her chest. “OHHHH! MY GOD, WHAT HAVE I DONE FRANK, WHAT HAVE I DONE?”

The abruptness of her wail took me completely by surprise, and I found that she was squeezing my hand with almost superhuman strength. I looked down at my hand and saw that she was pulling up on the leather straps making the buckles rattle.

“Hey, hey…” I said, a little bit panicked. “Take it easy, everything’s OK.”

“Frank, Frank, oh Frank. I’m so, so, sorry for what I’ve done. Please, please forgive me—oh, I just want to kill myself! OH GOD! Frank! Do you still love me?”

“Look, everything’s going to be OK, you’ll see. Just think about getting better, OK?”

“Nothing will ever be the same—ever! I’ve ruined our lives and the life of our sons…and the baby…oh, the baby! What have they done with my baby…ooh….” Her voice trailed off.

Suddenly she began viciously pulling up on the straps on her wrists; and by the way the bed was shaking I assumed she was also pulling up on her legs. She jerked her head off the pillow and the tendons in her neck stood out precariously…her teeth clenched and her face was a mask of anger and frustration.

“GOD FRANK! HELP ME TAKE THESE THINGS OFF!!” She screamed hoarsely, “HELP ME FOR GOD’S SAKE!!”

“No, Sharon I can’t…I can’t. You need to lay back down and relax, OK?” I stood up and tried to push her back down onto the bed by her shoulders, but she was stiff as a board.

“Are we having a little episode?” I heard the nurse’s voice behind me.

“UNNG…! GET…THESE…THINGS…OFF!!” Sharon, grunted and I saw spittle running out of the side of her mouth.

I stood up as the nurse pulled me back and away from the edge of the bed.

“Now, now, dear!” she said, in a low sing-song voice, moving smoothly in front of me. “Keep this up and we’ll have to put you back to sleep, won’t we?”

“UNNG..!” Sharon grunted.

I saw the nurse reach for a wire that was hung on the back of the bed. She pushed the button on the end. “Mister DeLeón, could you step out for a few minutes, please?”

“Uh…sure,” I said, not knowing what else to do or say. As I stepped back I realized that Sharon still had one of my hands in a vise-like grip. I carefully undid her fingers and pulled my hand away. “I’ll just wait out in the hallway.” As I turned towards the door, I saw it open. A male nurse, carrying a large syringe hurriedly stepped in. I went out into the hallway and pulled the door closed behind me.

***

The female nurse came out a few minutes later and told me that I could go back in and see Sharon for just a few more minutes.

“The sedative should be kicking in pretty soon; then she’ll be out for a few hours.”

“How long is she going to be this way?” I asked.

“Hard to tell, but we’ll know more tomorrow. The staff psychiatrist will be here for an evaluation. So for now, say goodnight to her and then come back tomorrow evening. I’ll make sure the doctor calls you beforehand so you’ll know what to expect. She just needs to get over this, then she’ll be all right. It’ll probably be just a couple of more days.”

I walked back in and Sharon was lying on her back, her head turned away from me. I walked up to the side of the bed and touched her shoulder. I could see that her eyes were open, but she appeared to be again staring at the closed and curtained window.

“Hey…I’ll try to come back tomorrow to see you, OK?”

No answer, and I saw beads of sweat and a non-stop trail of tears rolling onto the wrinkled pillowcase. Her breathing seemed extremely erratic.

“OK, I’m gonna go now, but I’ll be back, OK?” I said, hoping that she was hearing me. She didn’t move.

Taking a deep breath, I turned and walked back out of the room. The nurse put her hand on my shoulder and said, “She’ll be a little better tomorrow, you’ll see. Now you go home and get some rest.”

I wanted to tell her I wasn’t tired, but instead just shook my head and headed down the hallway.

Walking out of the building and into the parking lot I felt more confused than anything else, and I felt like I was going to burst into tears. Up until the moment I had seen her in that state, I had pretty much made up my mind about what I was going to do. Now—I wasn’t so sure. I reflected on how helpless and how tortured she seemed, and I wondered if the plans I’d made would eventually drive her over the edge. I decided that what I needed now was a drink and some time to think.

When I got home I called Brenda and partially filled her in on Sharon’s condition. I left out the part about the restraints. She suggested keeping the boys until the next day because they had already had dinner and were getting ready to go to bed. I agreed, my mind set on that little bar I’d seen just down the street.

After having a few drinks and trying to think things over, I found that I had not changed my mind at all. As sorry as I felt about Sharon, I concluded that she’d done what she’d done all on her own—and I just couldn’t see myself trusting her ever again.

About an hour later, I got back to the house and headed for the couch. Just before falling into a deep, dreamless, sleep, I made some tentative plans for the next few days.

***

I called Brenda when I woke up the next morning and asked her if she could keep the boys with her for the next couple of days—or at least until Sharon got home. I told her I just wasn’t up to looking after them—and besides, the hospital could call me anytime and ask that I return to the hospital. Further, I had no idea how long they were going to keep her there. From what I saw, it could be weeks.

My concerns also included my eventual return to Okinawa. In order to make it back before being declared AWOL (Absent without Leave), I would have to leave no later than October 3^rd. Not knowing when Sharon was going to be discharged put me in a real bind. Since I had no way of contacting my commander, I would just have to play it by ear and see what happened.

I got no calls from the hospital the following day, nor did I hear from them on Thursday. I finally made a call to inquire about my wife’s condition and to ask about a discharge date. After being put on hold and transferred several times to different floors, I finally found myself speaking to Doctor Rogers.

“She’ll be ready to go home tomorrow.” he said abruptly.

“Tomorrow? Friday?” I asked, a little bit surprised.

“Yes, Friday. I’ll check on the exact discharge time, but I’m assuming she’ll be ready to go sometime after ten in the morning.”

“Oh…uh…so, she’s OK now?”

“Well, I don’t know her exact condition, but I’m assuming she’s better now. The doctor will be prescribing some medications for her before she leaves. One for any post-discharge infection and the others to help stabilize her mental state. But, to allay any of your concerns, she seems to understand now what her situation is—so, she should be much calmer.”

“OK, so I can just go up there around ten and she’ll be ready?”

“Should be. But, why don’t you call around nine and ask for the discharge nurse. That way, if something happens you won’t make a trip for nothing.”

“OK. Should I get anything for her for when she comes home?”

“No, nothing special. She’s still a bit weak and will be on bed rest for a few days, but besides that she should be good to go. No special diet or anything like that—just make sure she takes her medications.”

“OK.”

The following morning, a brightly sunlit but bitterly cold day, I called the hospital and after receiving assurances that Sharon was indeed ready for discharge, I got in the car for the short drive and pulled into the same circle driveway as I had a few nights ago. Sharon was sitting, just outside the sliding door, in a wheelchair. Bundled up against the cold blustery wind, she was wearing the red coat I’d first seen her in at the Reno airport. A green hospital blanket was wrapped around her legs and on her feet were a beige pair of hospital-issued footies. A male attendant was standing behind her steadying the wheelchair against the wind.

I got out of the car and walked up to her. She looked up, eyes squinting against the sunlight, and smiled weakly. I looked down, and saw that in her hands she was tightly clutching the card and the little vase of flowers that I brought her. Before I could say anything, the attendant handed me a clipboard and asked me to sign the form that was attached, but flapping crazily in the wind. After I returned the clipboard, he placed it into a pouch on the back of the wheelchair and proceeded to roll Sharon towards the car. He handed me a small white bag with three small bottles full of pills.

After I opened the door, I helped lift her off the chair and into the seat. As I began to pull out of the driveway, Sharon looked at me and said, “Thanks for coming to pick me up.” I noted how hoarse her voice was.

“Oh, no problem…” I responded, not sure why she was thanking me.

The rest of the trip back home was accomplished in complete silence.

Once I got her into the house, I helped her into her bedroom and onto the bed. She seemed to be very weak and in some pain. The night before, I’d washed the sheets and made the bed in preparation for her return, and I had also tried to straighten up the room as well as I could—making sure her closet doors were closed. After propping her head up on a couple of pillows I asked her if she was hungry or wanted some water.

“Oh…maybe, if you don’t mind, could I have some soup? I’m a little hungry. I didn’t eat breakfast this morning.”

“Sure, I can get that for you in just a few minutes. You want some crackers too? I went to the store the other day and got some, among other things.”

“Oh, that was so sweet of you. Yes, crackers would be good.”

I walked out of the room and went to the kitchen to prepare her meal.

While waiting for the soup to warm up I tried to think of what I should say to her. There was just so much we needed to discuss, but with my impending departure—and her just getting home—the timing was extremely awkward. By the time I walked back into her bedroom with soup and crackers on a tray, I had decided to not say anything for awhile. She, however, had apparently come to a different conclusion.

As I finished helping her prop herself up on the bed and positioning the tray on her lap, I asked if she needed anything else. She took a deep breath, looked at me wide-eyed, and whispered hoarsely, “Forgiveness.”

This took me so much by surprise that I could only stand there holding the paper napkin in my hand—truly, not knowing what to do or what to say. Her eyes filled and overflowed with tears, and her lower lip began quivering uncontrollably. Her chest heaving, she looked at me pleadingly—longingly—her head cocked slightly, and she whispered: “Oh…please, Frank. I’m so sorry. So…so sorry…But…but, please…oh…please forgive me and don’t leave me. I love you so much…I don’t know what I’d do if you were to leave me…oh God…I’m so lost…”

She managed to say these words between choking sobs. Her hands suddenly flew to her chest, as if she was afraid her heart was going to come flying out, and her fingers tightened into tight little white fists. As the sleeves of the light blue sweater she was wearing fell away, I saw the mean black and blue bruises on her paper-white wrists where the leather cuffs had dug in during her post-partum ordeal. No longer able to restrain herself, she completely surrendered to her emotions and broke into loud heart-rending sobs. I had never seen anyone cry so bitterly, and it affected me profoundly.

No longer able to contain myself, I muttered, “I’ll be right back…”, and walked quickly out of the room—closing the door softly behind me. I made it as far as the dining room table and collapsed onto one of the chairs. I buried my head in my arms and, without being able to stop myself, gave in to my own emotions.

All the pain, all the hurt, and all the disappointment that had been building in me for almost a year came flooding up and completely overwhelmed me. My eyes burned as my own tears poured out and my throat ached painfully as my own sobs racked my body. The bitter sentiment that pained me the most was that I knew, deep down in my heart, what I would have to do. And, the result of that decision would not only tear us apart, it would keep me from seeing my boys grow into young men. The sweet love that had been born in our young and innocent hearts just a few years ago in that little town in Nevada had now been ripped out, pounded into dust, and laid asunder by forces and circumstances that neither of us had seen coming. And the heartbreaking thought that cut deep into my very core at that moment, and on that table, was knowing that we would never, ever again, be husband and wife.

***

On Saturday, October 1^st, 1966, a small birthday party was held for my son Ricky to celebrate his 4^th birthday, and of the children that had been invited from the neighborhood, only three showed up. The lack of attendance didn’t seem to bother him though–he being more interested in the gifts that he received.

Brenda and Sherry, with their children also attended, and for me it was a bittersweet experience spending time with both of them. Sharon had mostly recovered, at least physically, and although she put on a happy face during the party, I could see the sadness deep in her eyes.

After the party, and after everyone left, the boys went outside to play with Ricky’s new toys and I helped Sharon clean up. Afterwards, she retired to her bedroom and I retreated to the couch. I sat there for the longest time trying to build up enough courage to tell her what I needed to say. Finally, deciding that there would never be a better time, I got up and knocked on her door.

She was in bed and had been reading a book when I stepped in quietly. She smiled and thanked me for helping make Ricky’s party enjoyable. I sat on the foot of the bed and asked her if she wanted to talk. Her only response was a barely perceivable nod. I asked if she had anything she wanted to tell me before I said what I had to say. She said that she really didn’t have anything to say except that she didn’t want me to leave her.

I nodded, and took a deep breath. As I began to talk she crossed her hands on her lap and lowered her head. I began by telling her that I had decided to leave Reno the following day and return to Okinawa, because there was no longer anything else I could do here. I also advised her that before leaving Okinawa, I had sought out legal assistance to determine my rights in light of what I had learned after reading what she’d written in the only letter she’d sent to me in almost a year. Then I told her that, although it would break my heart, I had made the decision to file for divorce once I arrived back at my base.

I continued, and said that although I truly forgave her for her indiscretions, and I still loved her very much, the past, current, and future circumstances made it impossible for me to want to continue our marriage; especially in light of our having to be separated from each other at least the next few months.

My trust in her, I said, which had already been shaken severely back in Olathe, had finally been completely decimated by her illegitimate pregnancy. For the rest of my life, I would always wonder where she was, and who she was with, when late coming home from some errand in which she had been delayed by a perfectly innocent reason. I would constantly be on edge if the phone were to ring, and once I answered, the party hung up. And lastly, I was ashamed to think that I would forever be considered to be, by all those who knew, an object of derision and referred to as the cuckolded husband.

Perhaps it was selfish for me to think of my feelings in this regard, but it was more than I could ever bear. Better for both of us to go our separate ways and forge new relationships than to remain together and forever have this incident sitting conspicuously between us.

“I’m not asking you to agree with me, nor do I expect you to understand why I just don’t let bygones be bygones. It just is what it is. I know myself well enough to understand that I will never recover that deep sense of trust that I once had for you—and without that trust I know that our marriage is doomed. I’m so sorry, but I can’t see us in my future any longer. My one and only regret is that I will forever lose the joy of seeing my sons grow up. I only ask that you try to be a good mother to them and to shield them from the harm that this incident may bring their way.

As for me, I will try—in my limited capacity—to be a good, but distant father. In the end, our sons will end up as the grand losers in all of this. And if I knew of any other way to resolve this without condemning the boys to a life of living with only one parent, I would. But sadly, I can’t.”

With that, I stood up and walked out of her bedroom.

That evening I called and made civilian air reservations for my flight out of Reno to Oakland for the following day. From there, I would use military transportation to return to my base.

Sharon did not come out of her bedroom for the rest of the evening, and I called the boys in once it got dark. After changing their clothes, I took them out for a fast food hamburger dinner before bringing them home and seeing them for the last time.

In the morning I got up, showered and changed into my uniform. I called a cab, and twenty minutes later I was on my way to the airport. Two days later I was back at my base in Naha, Okinawa.

The End

Epilogue

When I returned to Okinawa I proceeded with my divorce from Sharon. In a matter of weeks, I received the final signed papers, and I was again single.

My five dear friends were all very supportive and helped me through the expected ups and downs—but especially during those moments when my resolve weakened because I thought I may not have done the right thing.

But, one by one, those wonderful, loyal friends began to leave Okinawa for one reason or another, and by the end of 1966 they were all gone. I was the only one left, rooming alone in that big noisy barracks.

Nat had had enough of the Air Force and decided to take his discharge and return to Philadelphia. He married his high school sweetheart and went to work for the Federal Aviation Administration, as a civilian Air Traffic Controller.

Smokey also took his discharge in early December and returned to his home in Minneapolis. Once there, he found that while he’d been on Okinawa, his wife had been carrying on a torrid affair with his best friend. After beating her to within an inch of her life and spending over a month in jail, he divorced her. After one letter, I never heard from him again.

Roomie, Ramie and Peewee all received orders from Army Headquarters reassigning them to combat positions in Vietnam. Within a few weeks of my returning to Okinawa in October, they had all been transferred out; one by one, Roomie being the last to go.

In late December of 1966, I heard that their old commanding officer who was still assigned to the Army side of the Air Defense Center had received some tragic news. All three of my friends had been killed within days of each other—even though they were all at different bases. Roomie and Ramie had each died of small arms sniper fire while on patrol near Danang, and Peewee had been killed when a Vietcong soldier, dressed as a farmer, threw a hand grenade into his jeep just outside of Saigon.

I wondered just how much more heartbreak I could take.

In February of 1967, I was promoted to staff sergeant and became eligible for off-base housing. Despite not having a family on the island, I was allowed to rent a small two-room Okinawan house located just outside of the base’s south gate. I lived there until I got married and was reassigned to Bergstrom Air Force Base in Austin, Texas, in January of 1968.

1972

In May of 1972, I saw my sons for the first time since my divorce. Sharon had eventually married a man named Kip, and was still living in Reno with him; and I, also now remarried, had been working as an Air Traffic Controller in Houston with the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) since 1969. As fate would have it, I had married that rude little Okinawan girl who used to work the snack counter in my barracks at Naha Air Base. Her name was Kazumi, and she turned out not to be that rude after all.

After requesting an overseas assignment to an FAA facility on the island of Guam in 1971, I was finally approved to go in late April of 1972. I told my wife, Kaz, (my nickname for her), that on our way to California on the way to drop our car off for shipping to Guam, I wanted to make a side trip to Reno to see the boys. She thought that would be a good idea and readily agreed. I got Sharon’s phone number from my parents and called her to ask if I could spend an afternoon with the boys.

We drove into Reno on a sunny and warm day in early May and checked into a hotel. I left Kaz there for the day and drove to pick up the boys at Sharon’s house. We spent the afternoon at an amusement park, and the early evening went to a movie the boys wanted to see. After dropping them back off at Sharon’s house around seven, I returned to the hotel where my I’d left my wife. The next day we continued our drive to the shipping docks of St. Pedro, California to turn our car in for shipment to Guam.

1978

I had now been on Guam for six and a half years, and had been promoted to Air Traffic Training Officer in 1976. In early 1978, I had submitted a bid for a vacant Military Liaison Specialist position at the Honolulu Air Route Traffic Control Center, on Oahu, Hawaii, and had finally been notified of my selection in May of that year. My reporting date was set for October 31^st.

On September 9, 1978, about a month before my departure to Hawaii, I received an unexpected phone call from Sharon. The call came as Kaz, the kids, and I had just finished a late dinner at our home in Perez Acres, in Yigo, Guam. We were clearing the dishes when the phone rang. I answered, and heard a very weak female voice on the other end. I couldn’t understand what she was saying, so I asked her to speak up.

“Oh, OK.” she said, a bit louder, “Frank, this is Sharon. I’m calling you from Reno. Can you hear me OK now?”

I was momentarily shocked. “Sharon!?”

Kaz, who was cleaning off the dinner dishes, looked up suddenly with a quizzical look on her face. She mouthed the name, “Sharon?” I nodded yes.

“Oh, Sharon! Hey, how are you?” I could not imagine why she should be calling me. “Is everything OK? I mean with the boys?”

“Oh yes, the boys are fine, and they send their love. Listen, I’m sorry for calling you, but…what time is it over there?”

“Uh, it’s a little after nine in the evening, on Saturday.”

“Oh, I hope I’m not calling too late.”

“No, no that’s fine.”

“I won’t keep you long, but I just need to tell you something very important.”

“OK.”

“Well, there’s no way to sugar-coat this, so here goes. I’ve been diagnosed with breast cancer. And, uh…it’s apparently very advanced.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I think it’s a little funny because, I don’t know if you remember when we were married I once told you that if I ever got breast cancer I’d just have to die. Do you remember that?”

Unfortunately, I did—and I was thinking just that when I heard the words, ‘breast cancer’. “Yes, I do”.

“Well…” she paused for such a long time that I thought the call had been disconnected. “Uh…there’s no other way to say this, but the doctors tell me I have stage 4, and only have about nine months to live.”

“What? Oh, my God!!”

“Yeah, crazy huh?”

“No…no! My God Sharon, could they be wrong?”

“No.”

“Oh God.”

“Yeah, well anyway, that’s not the main reason I called. I need to know that when I finally pass if you’re willing to take the boys. I mean, to live with you.”

“My God, Sharon…of course. They are my sons…of course!”

“Oh, thank God.”

“But excuse me for asking, your husband…? He…he, doesn’t want…you know, custody?”

“No, he doesn’t. He says they belong with their father and he doesn’t want anything to do with them after I’m gone.”

“Yes, of course. He’s right. When are you planning to send them over here?”

“Oh no. I don’t have any plans to do that until…you know…when I….”

“No, I know—sorry.”

“I just wanted to make sure you were good with them returning to their father.”

“Of course. And maybe this will all be unnecessary…you know… the diagnosis may be wrong after all.”

“Oh, that’s so nice of you to say. But no. It’s not wrong.”

“OK.”

“It was so nice hearing your voice, Frank. Thank you so much. I’ll be in touch, bye.”

And the line went dead. I stood there, wondering if what I’d heard was real. Kaz came up and asked what the call was about. After we put the kids to bed we stayed up late talking about this and planning what we would do.

The following month, I completed the purchase of a new Lincoln Town car that I’d made through the military auto purchase program on Guam. I had decided to fly from Guam to Houston (to visit my folks), then to Dearborn, Michigan, to take delivery of my new car. I then planned to drive it back to California and have it shipped directly to Hawaii, so it would be there when I arrived to start my new job. On the drive from Michigan to California, I decided to call Sharon and tell her that I wanted to pass through Reno and visit the boys for a day. She thought that would be a great idea and gave me directions to the house they now lived in.

When I drove in to Reno, I stopped at a phone booth to ask her if I it was convenient for me to drop by and pick up the boys. She told me it would be fine, and that the boys were anxious to see me. As I pulled up to the address she’d given me I saw an old lady sitting on a lawn chair on the front lawn of the house. I assumed it was probably Sharon’s mother-in-law, and I casually waved hello as I walked up the concrete walkway leading to the front door of the house.

To my surprise, the old lady called out my name. I stopped, a bit shocked, and took a closer look. It was then that I saw it was Sharon. She was frighteningly emaciated, skin hanging off her arms and face, and scraggly wisps of hair sticking out of the cheap scarf she’d wrapped tightly around her head. Had it not been for the distinctive shape of her nose, I would have never recognized her.

“Frank! She rasped weakly, “It’s me…Sharon. Come here. Let me take a look at you.”

I stepped off the walk and onto the thin lawn. I saw that the cancer had taken its toll on her and I could only wonder how much longer she could hold on.

She smiled weakly and told me how well I looked. “You’ve always been so handsome, but as you’ve gotten older you’ve really turned into a great-looking man.”

I thanked her and attempted to return the compliment. “Well, you know, you look really good yourself,” I lied, embarrassed that I couldn’t think of anything better to say.

1979

Almost exactly ten months later, I received another call from Sharon. By this time, I was already in Honolulu, in a house I’d purchased from an air traffic controller who’d taken reassignment back to the mainland. The house was located in an exclusive area named Hawaii Kai.

Prior to leaving Guam, Kaz had decided not to accompany me to Hawaii right away, as she was deeply involved with the management position she had with a large company on Guam, Duty Free Shoppers. She kept the kids, as Ken was doing well in school, and Christine was still too young to travel.

Sharon’s call caught me by surprise one afternoon while I was in my office at work. My secretary buzzed me and said there was a call from a Sharon waiting on line one.

“Hello?”

“Hi Frank, it’s me, Sharon.” Her voice was raspy and very, very weak.

“Oh, hi. How are you?”

Oh, not too good, but better than expected.”

“Oh, OK.”

“Look, I need to ask you a favor. I know we talked last year about the boys, and I was wondering if you’re willing to take one of them now.”

“Take one…now?”

“Well, here’s the problem: I am not doing real well, having to get oxygen treatments often, and doing my chemo, and unfortunately, the boys are not behaving very well.”

“What do you mean?”

“They are constantly fighting and at each other’s throats. Kip, my husband, is at his wit’s end, and neither he nor I can control them anymore. I need to have them separated.”

“Oh, I see. That’s terrible, but how do you propose to do this?”

“Well, if you take one of them now—that is, fly him to where you live now in Hawaii, then that would really solve my problem. Can you do that? Do you have room at your house?”

“Well, the room is no problem. My wife decided not to come to Hawaii right away, and I live in a two-story, four-bedroom home over here. So, yes—I have plenty of room.”

“Great. Which boy do you want to fly over?”

“Uh…Sharon…I can’t make that decision from over here. Who do you suggest?”

“Well, frankly I’d prefer that you take Rick. I can pretty much control Beebe, but Rick has just been a handful.”

“OK, that’s fine with me.”

Since it was summer vacation, both boys were out of school. When Rick flew in to Hawaii a couple of weeks later I was ecstatic and anxious to see him. Although we’d not seen each other for several years, we seemed to hit it off just fine.

At 4:40 am on Thanksgiving morning, November 22, 1979, as I was getting ready to go to work, the phone rang. It was Kip—Sharon’s husband. He told me that Sharon had passed away a few hours earlier after being rushed to the hospital. Before I could express my condolences he abruptly asked me how soon I could arrange to have Beebe flown to my home in Hawaii. I told him I could probably get him a ticket for the following weekend. He seemed pleased and told me he’d call me back as soon as the funeral arrangements for Sharon were made. His plans were to put him on an airplane the day after she was buried.

When she died, Sharon was 34 years, 7 months, and 18 days old.

The night before we knew of Sharon’s passing, I had discussed with Ricky that after I got off work on Thanksgiving afternoon I would let him choose the restaurant where we’d eat our Thanksgiving Day meal. Now, instead of looking forward to enjoying a turkey dinner, I was filled with dread knowing that as soon as I got home I’d have to tell him about his mother.

When I arrived home I saw that he was ironing a pair of shorts and a new Hawaiian shirt that I’d bought for him after he’d arrived on the island. I asked him to sit down and listen because I had some news I needed to share with him.

Afterwards, I said I would leave it up to him to decide how we spent the rest of the evening. If he just wanted to stay home and mourn his mom that would fine with me. He thought about it for a few seconds and said that he’d prefer we continued on with our plans. “I knew she was going to die, and although I’m sad, I’m happy she’s finally at rest. She’d been suffering a lot before I left,” he said, sagely.

The following weekend, on a Sunday evening, Ricky and I drove to the Honolulu Airport to pick up his brother, Beebe. For the next year, the boys and I lived contentedly on the island. They learned to surf, experimented with various Hawaiian dishes, had girlfriends, and enjoyed conversing in the local dialect. In 1980, we returned to Houston where I resumed my career as an air traffic controller.

***

OK, that’s it. So, are you’re wondering if all my future adventures have been as stimulating as those which I experienced when I was younger? Well, the answer to that is, yes and no. My life, from 1980 up to this point, has been no different than what most people experience: moments of dead boredom interrupted by periods of sheer terror, with months of sadness, broken by weeks of happiness.

But this has been my life; and all these experiences that you’ve been reading about made me who I am: not good, not bad—just me.

FDL, Shawnee, Kansas—February 2017

Okinawa – Part Six

Okinawa

Part Six

September 1966

A Hitch in my Giddy-up

My desperation was growing dramatically as I drove into the quaint little town of Duncan, Arizona, population 550, that sunny Sunday morning in 1966. The noise coming from the left rear-end of the car was getting worse and the further I went, the less I had to use my brakes to slow down. As soon as I pulled my foot off the accelerator, the car would immediately begin to slow down. Even with my limited knowledge of automobiles, I knew that wasn’t a good thing.

The whole town looked completely closed: restaurants, gas stations and convenience stores all stood dark and deserted—and I had yet to see a living soul anywhere as I drove down the main street. My panic level was growing by leaps and bounds as I passed block after block of dark store fronts. Even the diagonal parking spaces in front of the various businesses were vacant—their respective parking meters standing sentry-like, each guarding the empty strip of scarred asphalt laying before them.

Stopping at a lone blinking red light signal hung in the middle of an intersection, I thought I saw movement to my right. Looking in that direction, I saw what appeared to be a small gas station that a large red pickup truck was pulling away from. I flipped my right turn signal and made a quick turn heading in that direction.

It was an off-brand gas station–two non-descript gas pumps standing on a small concrete island. The building was old and weather-beaten, with a wooden sign hanging over the two-bay garage that read: “Mac’s GaS & OiL”. The sign was obviously hand printed, black letters on white board, and the ampersand was written backwards. Under the main header was written, “minor car repares to” in lower case letters.

I drifted in and stopped the car in front of the garage’s two doors. After turning the engine off, I got out and walked toward the main building next the garage. I noted an acrid burning metallic smell coming from the rear of my car as I stepped into the small office. A large man, long graying red hair pulled into a pony tail, dressed in striped overalls and greasy brown boots was sitting behind a very old and worn metal desk with his crossed legs up on top. He was in the process of lighting a cigarette as I walked in.

“Hi. I was wondering if you could help me?” I asked.

“Sure buddy! What’s aching ya?”

“What?”

He took a long drag off his cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Uh, what…what’s your problem?” He blew out a long blue-gray stream of smoke, and spit out a stray piece of tobacco.

“Oh, uh…well…I was driving a while back and my back window started getting misted over with some kind of gook…like oil, or something. Then I heard a noise coming from what I think is the right rear wheel. And now, it feels like it’s dragging…you know.”

“That so?”

“Yes sir, it is.”

“You need some gas?”

“Gas?”

“Yeah, like go juice…get it?”

“Oh sure. I could probably use some—but I need someone to take a look to see what may be wrong with my car.”

He dragged his feet off the desk and rotated his large body in my direction in his squeaky wooden rolling chair. “Say you got oil on the back winder, huh?”

“Yes sir. Uh, the back window, yes.”

“Hmm. How’d you know it’s oil?” (Sounded like he said ‘earl’).

“Well, it looked like oil—it’s greasy and brownish looking. Can you come take a look?” He wrinkled his brow and took another humongous drag off his cigarette. He held the smoke in while he pondered my question. Finally, he exhaled.

“Well, don’t know what I can do about that, but sure, lemme take a gander.” He pushed himself upright and rubbed his belly. “You know it’s Sunday, right?”

“Yes, yes I do.”

“And, it being Sunday they ain’t nothin’ open. You know that?”

“Well, I was hoping maybe it wouldn’t be too serious. Maybe just an adjustment or something.”

That struck him really funny and he burst out in a loud phlegmy laugh that ended up in some kind whooping-like cough. He walked out, coughing and shaking his head, and headed toward my car.

“Adjustment?” He finally said. “Maybe I can just clean off your back winder and ever-thing’ll be awright!”

“Well, that would be nice.” I said, half truthfully. For some reason, he found that comment extremely funny and went into another prolonged fit of coughing and laughing.

“Sto…stop…you’re killing me.” He said, wiping his mouth with an oily rag he dug out from the backside of his overalls. He stood by the left rear fender and reached over to wipe the back window with his big greasy index finger. Bringing the finger up to his nose, he took a big whiff.

“Ah hah! Just as I thought.” He turned to me, showing me his finger now smeared with fresh oil off my window. “That ain’t motor oil…that’s rear-end oil. Got a different smell, you know, and it’s thicker.”

“Oh, no I didn’t know that.”

“Yup! You say you heard a sound coming from the wheel here?” He pointed at the left rear wheel.

“Well, I think so. It was hard to tell from inside the car.”

“Sure! I’d venture t’say you went and burned up an axle bearing on this wheel—and blew the seal out too. When the seal gave out, the oil that’s in the differential, lubricating the gear assembly in there, started leaking out. When it hit the wind it sprayed up onto your rear-end. If you looky here,” he wiped the fender with his hand, smearing it with oil, “you’ll see that it hit the fender before it got to the glass. You just didn’t see it ‘cause the paint’s black.”

I wasn’t sure what all of that meant, so I ventured a question. “Is it serious?”

He looked up slowly, wiping his oily finger on the leg of his overalls. “Well, it could be—but, then again, it may not be. All depending on what damage you all did to the axle. If the axle’s scarred, then you’re out some money for sure. But if it’s only the bearing and the seal, then it ain’t so bad. Either way, looks like you ended up with a hitch in your gitty-up.”

“A hitch in my giddy-up?”

“Yup. That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

“Uh, I don’t know what that means, but can you think you can fix it?”

“Sure, leave the car here with me and I’ll take off the wheel and check it out. If it’s what I’m thinking, then I can get you the parts tomorrow at the parts house. If it’s the axle, then you’ll have to wait a couple of weeks, ‘cause then I’d have to order that from GM.”

“Wait, wait, wait! I can’t do that. I’m in the military…and I’m on emergency leave. I’m on my way to visit my parents, but I have to be back by next week…to Reno…for my…my son’s birthday. Besides, I don’t have money to stay anywhere. I gotta get back on the road today…this afternoon, by the latest!”

He put his big hands on his hips. “Son, that’s the saddest fucking story I’ve ever heard. You’re in a real pickle, seems like to me.”

“Well, yes.” He just stood there in his overalls staring at me. Just when I thought he was never going to say anything else again, he spoke. “Tell you what. It’s your good luck that Chuck married my ugly sister, or else you’d really be in a jam.”

“Chuck?”

“Yep, my brother-in-law. Damn fool went and married Ruthie, he did. Now, after a couple of kids, who happen to be uglier than her AND him combined, he’s stuck. Drinks like a fish, he does.”

“OK, I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t. Why should you? I don’t understand it either. She’s coyote ugly. Shows you what pussy’ll do to a man.”

“No, I mean…”

“Come on. I’ll try to get his dead ass out on a Sunday. Chuck owns the only parts house in town, see? So if he tells me he’s got a seal and bearing for your car then I’ll pull that wheel off and check to see what’s what.”

“Oh, OK.”

“If the axle’s scarred you’re fucked. But let’s just do this one thing first.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“Hey!” He stopped suddenly, making me almost run into his large rear end. “Did you say you didn’t have any money?”

“Well, yes…I mean, no. I mean, I do, but not much.”

“Hmm. Lemme call Chuck. Come on in and have a Coke on me.”

I followed him into the office. He opened the lid on what looked like an old chest freezer. It was full of chipped ice covering dozens of bottles of various bottles of Coke, 7Up, Hires Root Beer, and Nehi orange sodas. He dug a Coca-Cola bottle out and handed it to me. “Opener’s hanging off that string on the wall. Help yourself.” He fell into his squeaky chair and pulled an old black rotary phone from under some invoices. “He’ll probably be glad to get out of the house today.” He chuckled under his breath and dialed the number. “By the way, Mac’s the name,” he said, looking up from the rotary dial.

“Frank…my name’s Frank. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise, I’m sure.” He cleared his throat, then yelled into the receiver, “Hey Chuck! How’s it hanging buddy? Mac here!”

***

Apparently, Chuck was OK with leaving the house on a Sunday and heading out to his auto parts store to conduct a search for a 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air left rear axle bearing and seal.

“I knew he’d do it!” Mac said, chuckling under his breath as he hung up the phone. “He’d do anything to get away from my sister and those shitty kids.” He pulled himself up from the messy desk and started to head out the door of the office. “Lemme have them keys so I can pull her in the garage and onto the lift. Won’t take but a few minutes to find out how deep in trouble you are.”

I dug the keys out of my pocket and handed them to him. He rumbled out of the office and got into the car. A few minutes later he had the car up on the lift and was busy taking the left rear wheel off.

Walking back into the office I sat down on an old metal chair and took a couple of swigs off my Coke. Just then, the thought of money crossed my mind. I wondered exactly how much I actually had in my pocket, so looking through the side door I saw that Mac still had his back to me and was now busy dismantling the brake drum. I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet. Holding it close to my body I opened it and took stock of what I had. I counted out one twenty, a ten, a five, and two one dollar bills. Reaching into my pockets I found thirty-two cents. So, that was it: thirty-seven dollars and thirty-two cents. A cold chill passed through my body, as I realized that I would probably be coming up short regardless of what Mac found to be wrong with the car.

“Well son!” Mac said loudly, and shocking me half out of my skin. “You are one lucky bastard!”

“I am?”

“Yup! Come out here and take a look.” I followed him into the garage as he walked up to the car. The right rear tire and brake drum were gone, and all I could see was a long black solid metal rod sticking out where the tire should’ve been. “See here?” He said, pointing at the rod. “This here’s the axle.” I saw that it went into a large metal ball centered just about where the spare tire was in the trunk. “If you look at the end of it here…” He rubbed the end of the rod, and I noted how shiny it was, “…see how smooth it is? That means the bearing didn’t score the axle.”

“And that’s good?” I asked.

“Damn good! That means that whenever my worthless brother-in-law finally calls me we’ll be overjoyed if he tells us he’s got a new bearing and seal for your car. Since she ain’t scored, the seal will go on there nice and smooth right behind the bearing and keep the oil from leaking out! Yup, you’re one lucky bastard!”

“Oh, that is good news. So, if your brother-in-law has the parts then you can replace them and I can be on my way?”

“Kinda looks that way. Shit, let me call his ass over at the parts store.” As he started to walk over to the office, the phone rang. “Well, hells-bells—that’s gotta be him!”

I stayed in the garage studying the car’s axle and differential. I noticed he’d taken a plug off the differential and inserted a small plastic hose into the hole. The hose led to an old five-gallon paint bucket that had about two inches of thick black oil at the bottom.

“Yup!” Mac yelled behind me, making me jump just a little. “I had to drain the rest of the oil outta the differential. That’s no sweat though, we’ll just put some fresh oil in when we’re done. It don’t take much anyway.”

“Uh, did he have the parts?”

“Chuck? Yeah, he’ll be bringing ’em over here in just a jiffy. Yeah, you’re one lucky shit, I’ll tell you! I’da bet my ass you burned up that axle with that bearing in the shape it’s in.” He shook his head, as if he still didn’t believe it. “And then,” he continued, “to have them parts in stock! Whew, you must have some guardian angel looking out after you!”

“Well, I don’t know about that, but I appreciate you doing this on a Sunday.”

“Shit, son. I didn’t have anything to do anyway. Notice how there ain’t been no gas customers pull in all this time? Probably just spend my day here napping anyway.”

A few minutes later I heard a vehicle pull into the station and a door slam. A tall and very skinny man wearing jeans and a western shirt came bouncing into the garage. This was Chuck. If his wife was anywhere close to her brother’s height and girth, I could see why Chuck preferred to stay away from home. Although well over six feet tall, he must’ve weighed no more than a hundred and thirty pounds.

Chuck had a couple of very small white boxes in his hand and gave them to Mac. “We’ll be done here in just about thirty minutes so why don’t you go back into the office and wait?” Mac suggested.

Chuck didn’t hang around very long—his red Ford dually pickup pulling out of the station and back onto the main road a few minutes later.

***

I glanced at the old black and white clock hanging crookedly on the wall and saw that it was well past noon. I figured I had about another twelve hours of driving to do before I hit Houston’s western city limits, so that would put me there sometime after midnight. I got up and peeked into the garage. Mac had just reassembled the brake shoes and was pushing the outer brake drum cover onto the axle. I assumed he was almost done and my heart jumped when I thought that the unknown and scary part was yet to come. How much was all this work and parts going to cost.

At about a quarter to one, Mac strolled into the office wiping his gigantic hands on a gray shop rag. “OK, buddy—she’s all done.”

“OK, thanks. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t been open.”

“Ah, that wasn’t anything.”

“Well, I appreciate it all the same.”

“OK, lemme total up the damage.” He opened the main drawer to the desk and took out a large receipt book. He sat down and searched around the drawer for something to write with. Finally finding a capless ball pen he began to write down some figures.

“OK, look. I told you I didn’t have a lot of money, so I hope the bill isn’t too much.” I said, tentatively.

He stopped writing and looked up from the pad. “Well, you know all this work, plus the parts, ain’t gonna be cheap.”

“Oh…well, how much do you think it’s gonna be?”

He put the pen down and turned in his chair to face me. “Well son, you know I ain’t doing this for free.”

“No! I don’t mean that. But I’ve only got so much money…and I still have to get to Houston.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, well…and I also need some gas.”

He stared at me quizzically, and I couldn’t tell if he was angry, amused, or confused.

“Awright, let’s just do this. How much money you got?”

“OK, I counted it all a while ago, and I got thirty-seven dollars and thirty-two cents. That’s all the money I got, honest.”

“Hmm…” he said. Turning back to his pad he wrote a few more figures, then made a grand gesture with his pen—drawing a big circle around a set of figures. “Well, ain’t this your lucky day! Your bill comes to exactly, thirty-seven dollars and thirty-two cents. Ain’t that a fucking coincidence?”

“Yeah…but…that’s all I have. And like I said, I still have to drive to Houston.”

“I hear you, but that’s what the bill is. Now, pay up or neither you nor your car are going anywhere!”

Seeing no other way out of this, I dug out my wallet and pulled the bills out, handing them to him. He kept his hand out while I stuck my wallet back into my back pocket.

“You’re thirty-two cents short.” He said, flatly.

I reached into my front pocket and pulled the change out. Without another word, he stuck the money into his front pocket and walked out of the office and into the garage. He lowered the car off the lift, started the engine and pulled it out into the drive.

“There you go, son.” He said, as he got out of the car. “Good as new! Happy trails!”

I didn’t say a word—instead, I just got into the car and put pulled the gear lever into reverse.

“Oh!” Mac suddenly said, “I’d suggest you drive across the state line, into New Mexico, and into the next town—that’s Lordsburg—and it’s bigger than Duncan. Find yourself the Western Union office, look for the big five and dime store on Main Street, and it’ll be right next to it. Then, you go in there and have them wire your folks a collect telegram, asking them for money. When they get it, they can give the delivery boy some money back, and for a small fee, he’ll wire it back to the Western Union there at Lordsburg. It may take some time, but at least you’ll then have money to get home.”

I didn’t know what else to say, so I just said “Thanks.” Pulling out onto the highway I glanced at the gas gauge and saw that I had a little less than a quarter tank of gas. My stomach was cramping and I was getting a hell of a headache. I remembered I hadn’t eaten all day.

As I drove east, I wondered just how far Lordsburg was.

Sometimes You Gotta Swallow Your Pride

The road sign said, ‘Lordsburg – 35 miles’, and I hoped it was right. I didn’t think I had enough gas to go much farther.

It seemed larger than Duncan, but not that much. What made it different was that it seemed to have more life. Everything was open: gas stations, convenience stores, fast food restaurants, and grocery stores. Personally, I was hoping the Western Union was open.

About a mile inside the city limits I spotted what appeared to be a large store on the right side of the street, so I took a chance and found a diagonal parking spot near the front of the building. I shut the engine off and looked for something that resembled a telegraph office. I saw nothing.

After walking up and down the block and not finding anything, I decided to go into the large variety store and ask someone. It was packed with shoppers, but as I scanned the interior I saw a “Customer Service” sign and headed straight for it.

The lady working the counter was on the phone so I waited patiently while she worked out a problem with an unsatisfied customer concerning a broken iron.

Finally, she hung up and smiled at me. “Hi,” I said pleasantly, “I’m looking for a Western Union office. I was told it was next to your store but I can’t seem to find it.”

“Sure, honey,” the lady said in an artificially sugar-sweet voice. “See that door over there?” She pointed over her right shoulder.

“Uh, yes ma’am.”

“And do you see the sign over the door?” I looked, and it was a dark, natural wood, highly varnished sign that said, “Western Union”.

“Oh, it’s in your store. I’m sorry, I was told it was next to it.”

“Used to be, but that’s now a jewelry store. They moved in here about a year ago.”

Since the door was closed I had to ask, “So, just knock on the door or should I just go in.”

“Oh no, honey. You don’t have to knock. Just open the door and go right in. They have a little waiting room in there for their customers.”

“OK, thank you very much.” I walked to the door and opened it. Sure enough, it was a rather large room with three long benches that I assumed were for the customers. The operator was housed behind a glass window—like a cashier at a movie house, and was wearing a cap with a green plastic visor…like an accountant. He was young, maybe early thirties, and had a cigarette hanging precariously from his mouth. He seemed preoccupied with whatever he was reading, so I walked up to the window and stood there until he finally looked up at me.

“Can I help you?” he asked, without much enthusiasm, the cigarette bouncing up and down, flinging ash all around.

“Yes sir, I need to send a telegram to someone…to…uh…well, I need some money.”

He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and violently smashed it into an already full glass ashtray. “So, you want to send a telegram to someone, asking them to send back a MoneyGram?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“OK, outbound telegrams are priced according to zones. Look at the map there,” he pointed at a map to my right that had been placed under glass, “and find the city you’re sending the telegram to. The zones are marked in red.”

On my drive from Duncan to Lordsburg I had, after much internal debate, decided that I would contact Sharon, instead of my parents, and ask her for money. I knew that if I sent a telegram to my folks they would probably think it was some practical joke and chase the delivery boy away. To my knowledge, they’d never received a telegram in their whole life, but what I did know for sure was that they had very little tolerance for strangers who appeared out of nowhere and knocked on their door. I could only imagine how they’d react to a Western Union delivery boy telling them they had to sign and pay for a telegram.

So, swallowing my pride, I decided that Sharon would have to be the one for me to contact. I wasn’t sure how she was fixed for money, but at least she’d hear out the delivery boy, and maybe even read the telegram.

“OK, I said,” finding Reno on the map. “The telegram’s going to Reno, and it looks like that’s zone three.”

“Hmm…” zone three. OK, that’ll be five cents a word, with a limit of twenty words.”

“Oh! Uh, is there any way I can send that…collect? Like a phone call?”

“Collect? You mean you want the receiving party to pay for the telegram?”

“Yes. That’s why I need to send the telegram—I don’t have money and I need some to continue my travel…uh, trip.”

“I see. OK, there are pads at the table over there.” he pointed with a nicotine yellowed finger. Print out your message, legibly, minding the number of words you use. Then fill in the information at the bottom of the form regarding the receiver—name, address, and so on. When you’re done, I’ll send it to the Reno office. Bear in mind, the person who receives this will be paying for this telegram before they can read it—and if you want them to send you back a MoneyGram, there’ll be a charge for that too. Plus, of course, the amount of money you’re asking for.”

“I understand.”

“What I’m saying, is that if you intend to wait for the return message, it may be a few hours—if at all. Most of the time people who send these never get back a response, or the receiver refuses the telegram. If that happens you’ll have to pay.”

“Oh, but I don’t have any money on me.”

He looked at me with a look that said, ‘Oh, how many times have I heard that?’ “OK, let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.”

I walked over to the table and grabbed one of the several telegraph pads. There were several short pencils, so I grabbed one of those too. I never thought I’d feel as humiliated as I did then, just by sitting down and writing a short note. But I did.

It took three tries before I was satisfied that I wrote what I wanted to say in the shortest number of words. In short, I had car trouble and I needed fifty dollars. I promised to pay her back when I returned.

After I gave the completed sheet back to the operator I took a seat on the hard bench. I looked up at the large clock on the wall. It said, two twenty-five. Somewhere in the building, probably just outside the door, was a cafeteria. I could smell the food and the coffee. I was famished beyond belief.

At five thirty-five, I heard my name being called. I had dozed off and thought I heard my name several times before I came to.

“Yes! Yes! I’m Frank DeLeón.” I tried to jump up off the bench, but my right leg was numb, and I couldn’t feel my butt. I hobbled over to the window. To my surprise, there was now another operator there: an older black man.

“You Frank?”

“Yes sir, I am.”

“Need to see some ID, please.” I pulled my military ID out and showed it to him. He studied it carefully, comparing the picture on the front to the real me standing in front of him. “OK,” he said, as he handed the card back to me. “Got a MoneyGram for you here in the amount of fifty dollars. Is that what you expected?

“Yes sir.”

“OK, you can take it to a bank and get it cashed with your ID.”

“Bank? It’s Sunday! I doubt that any banks are open today.”

“You can take it first thing tomorrow.”

“I need it today! I’m traveling to Houston!” He looked a little annoyed.

“OK, I can cash it here, but it’ll be a dollar to do so.”

“A dollar? OK, I guess that’ll have to do.”

“OK, tear off the MoneyGram at the dotted line, turn it over and endorse it.”

I did all of that, and in a matter of minutes I was walking out into the early New Mexico evening with forty-nine dollars in my pocket.

Now, I needed to get gas for the car and I needed to eat. After pulling out of a gas station with a full tank of gas I spotted a fast food restaurant with a drive-thru window. Before I drove back out onto the highway, I consulted my now ratty-looking roadmap and plotted my route to intercept Interstate 10 East.

I would reach the outskirts of Houston at six-thirty in the morning. Exhausted and barely conscious, I pushed on until I pulled into my parent’s house early Monday, September 19, 1966.

A Discovery

My dad was just getting ready to leave for work as I was arriving that morning. They had moved a couple of times since I’d left home in 1960, he no longer pastoring a church, and this one happened to be located in the old neighborhood where I’d lived as a kid on Kashmere Street. Because they had no idea what car I was driving home, they were a bit suspicious—peering out through the front window—as the black Chevy rumbled off the now newly-paved street, onto their dirt driveway.

As I stepped out of the car, my mom ran out to the porch making little screeching sounds and waving her hands in the air. Dad eased out of the door and stood on the porch smiling, hands on his hips.

After many hugs and kisses, I was able to finally disengage myself from my mom and climb the stairs to greet my dad. After a bit of a bear-hug, he asked me about the car.

“Oh, that’s Sharon’s car. She got it from her mom.”

“Hmm, looks like a good one,” my dad said knowingly. “Those fifty-seven Chevys are hard to beat. Did she run well all the way down from Reno?”

I recounted my adventure in Duncan, but left out the part about the Western Union telegram. After a last cup of coffee, my dad said he had to go to work. I moved my car from the single drive to let him roll his blue 1955 Ford Fairlane out onto the street and roar off to work. Before he left though, he promised to take a couple of hours off around noon to take us all out for lunch. Although I was starving, I was much more interested in laying down and getting a few hours’ sleep, so I suggested that instead of lunch maybe he could just take off a couple of hours at the end of the day and we could go out to dinner instead. That way, I told him, I could feel free to sleep most of the day if necessary. He gave me a thumbs up and took off for work.

Mom wanted me to tell her all about Okinawa, but I told her I would be happy to do that after I got some sleep. Reluctantly she agreed, and after helping me bring my luggage into the house and putting fresh sheets on their bed, she quietly closed the door and gave me the privacy that I sorely needed.

I undressed and collapsed on their bed. For a few minutes my mind was so shocked with the sudden cessation of activity that I actually tossed and turned restlessly for a while before my body finally surrendered to the blissful silence and coolness of the freshly-laundered linen.

I fell into a deep and shadowy slumber, interrupted periodically by flash dreams replaying the angst and stress that my mind had been under for the last few months. At times I found myself wandering a horrifying landscape populated by lifeless unhuman-like beings laying scattered on the grayish-black ground in grotesquely twisted positions. As I passed each corpse-like form it would come to life, reaching out to touch me—toothless mouth agape, and unseeing black holes where eyes used to be, beseeching me soundlessly and reaching out, begging me to stop.

Try as I might, I could not quicken my pace. My legs, seemingly powerless to move faster would not allow me to escape the touch of their fleshless fingers; where they did touch, a black moldy mark would appear and grow.

Another dream found me floating helplessly, neck deep, in a large body of bottomless water. Unable to move my arms and legs to assist me in staying afloat, I would flail my head to and fro, trying to keep my mouth and nose from going under. Finally, my efforts useless, I would slowly sink into the wet darkness knowing that once I was no longer able to hold my breath, my lungs would fill and explode.

Just as the instinct to breath in the watery darkness took hold, I heard a sweet voice in the distance call my name.

I jerked violently, almost throwing myself off the bed.

“Frankie?” It was my mom calling just outside the door.

“Um, mom? Just a minute.” I found the top sheet coiled around my legs, and the light comforter pushed off onto the floor. “OK, mom! I’m getting up,” I said, groggily. “What time is it?”

“Oh, mijito, it’s almost five. Your daddy’ll be home anytime now.” My mom’s muffled voice came through the closed door.

“OK, let me wash up a bit and then I’ll be out.” I said, now a bit more cognizant of where I was.

“Bueno mijito. If you want to take a shower, there’s clean towels in the bathroom.”

Sitting up on the edge of the bed I thought that would be a great idea. “Sure mom! Are my bags still out there?”

“Uh…yes, they are. I’ll just open the door a little bit and push them in.”

The shower was invigorating, and although I was still a little dopey from the long drive and lack of sleep, I felt almost human. By the time I dressed and came out of the bedroom, dad was just pulling into the drive. A few minutes later he came into the house through the back door, in his usual style: whistling some jaunty little tune, like he always did, that he’d just made up on the spot.

While dad took a shower, mom and I sat at the kitchen table and had a cup of coffee.

“So mijito, how’s Sharon and the boys?”

“Oh…they’re fine.”

“Did you spend any time with them? It seems to me like you just got to the states and the first thing you did was drive down here to see us.”

“That’s pretty much it, mom.”

“So…is everything OK between you and Sharon?”

“Uh, well no, not really.”

“Is that why you came home?”

“Yup.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“No, not really, mom. I know it’s unfair…and I know you deserve to know…but, I don’t really have any answers right now. That’ll have to wait until I get back to Reno.”

“Well, as long as the boys don’t suffer.”

“Hmm, I think it’s too late for that.” That comment came out before I had a chance to think. I instantly knew that I shouldn’t have said what I said. I looked up at my mom and saw a tear roll off her cheek and land on her freshly-ironed blouse. “Look mom,” I said, reaching for her hand. “Things will work out, but there’s a lot of stuff that’s gone on with her since I left for Okinawa.”

“I know, mijito.” She said softly. “I guessed as much, but the babies will end up suffering regardless of what you and Sharon end up doing. They will suffer so much.” Not knowing what else to say, I concentrated on drinking my coffee and looking out the window.

Dad came out of the bathroom and suggested we go to dinner at a Mexican restaurant that he and Reverend Villa used to go to. While at dinner I tried to explain some of the issues that Sharon and I had been dealing with since I’d left, but it was extremely difficult because I really didn’t want to tell them about her pregnancy, so I was forced to dance around that issue. In the end, I think they realized that what I’d told them was not even close to what was really happening, and that there were a whole host of other issues that I was never going to discuss.

***

I stayed with my parents for the next four days. I think they were anxious to “show me off”, as they wanted to take me to their church services on Tuesday and Wednesday evenings. I declined to go on Wednesday, but because I was planning to begin my drive back to Reno on Friday, I gave in to my mother for the Thursday service. As it turned out, my decision to attend church on Thursday evening ended up being a good thing. My dad had been asked to preach the sermon that evening, and since it was common for the church to take up a collection for the visiting preacher, he made a good haul. On the way home he reached into his pocket and pulled out five twenty dollar bills. “For your trip home, son. I know you’re probably a little thin in the money department, having traveled all the way from Okinawa, so maybe this’ll help you on the way back.”

Since he couldn’t have known that I had been planning to ask him for a loan, I had to believe—maybe just a little bit—that this event may’ve been prompted by just a wee bit of divine intervention.

My trip back to Reno was, for the most part, uneventful. I left early on Friday morning, September 23^rd, the back seat of the car full of birthday gifts my parents and my Aunt Janie were sending back for Ricky. I wanted to take my time on the return leg, averting a little bit of wear and tear on the car, and certainly, on myself. My thinking was that, in spite of my decision not to stop anywhere overnight, if I got terribly tired I would just have to pull over and get a few hours’ sleep at roadside stops. Oh, and I was not going to pick up any more hitchhikers.

I passed the city limit signs on Reno’s east side early on the morning of September 26^th—the day before my son’s fourth birthday. When I arrived at Sharon’s house I wasn’t sure if anyone was up that early, so after retrieving my baggage from the trunk and stowing Ricky’s gifts, I walked quietly up the stairs and onto the porch. Pulling open the screen door, I knocked softly on the door—thinking that if no one answered I would just drive to a nearby coffee shop and have breakfast. Before I had a chance to knock again, Sharon opened the door.

She was dressed in a terribly undersized housecoat—the terrycloth fabric pulled open between the large white buttons exposing the pink silky material of an underlying slip. And her hair, grown much longer than I remembered before leaving for Okinawa the year before, was piled atop her head in a sloppy bun, a few stray strands hanging limply over her ears. She seemed genuinely happy to see me, and reached out to hug me and pull me into the house. I took a step back, as her hands came to rest on my shoulders.

“Oh hi…” she said, a blush suddenly rising to her cheeks when she realized I wasn’t going to accept her hug. “I didn’t know when to expect you.”

I stepped around her, ducking under her left arm as I entered the room; the move all but nullifying her attempt at a hug. “I told you I’d be back before Ricky’s birthday.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t sure…” she left the sentence hanging as I walked in, looking for the boys.

“Where are the boys?”

“They’re back in their room getting ready to take their morning baths. I was just clearing the table and putting their cereal bowls into the sink. You can go in and say hi, if you want.”

“Sure, I’ll just walk back to their room.” I stepped away from her and entered her bedroom on my way to the boys’ room. They were barefoot and dressed in loose briefs, and were having a noisy tug of war, pulling a faded and ragged-edged light green towel between them. Apparently, both of them wanted to use the same towel, as I noticed that there was a white one lying neglected on the floor.

As I stepped into the room they both looked up and let the towel go. They started to move toward me, Ricky, as always, leading the way while Beebe stood stoically deciding if the trip was going to be worth the effort. I reached down and picked Ricky up and nuzzled his neck. Beebe finally decided to walk over and attach himself to my right leg.

After a few minutes I walked out to the main room and told Sharon that I was going to give the boys their baths while she washed the morning dishes. I asked where their clean clothes were because when I looked through the dresser drawers I’d found nothing but odds and ends. She said that they were in the clothes dryer and would bring them to me directly. As I walked back into their room to herd them out to the bathroom I noticed the Sharon’s closet door was open. I stopped to peruse its contents.

The entire closet was stuffed with what appeared to be at least two dozen matching outfits—most of them with the price tags still hanging off their sleeves. I pulled one of the tags up to read it in the dim light of the bedroom. It said, “Sonny and Cher Original”, and the price of this one particular outfit was equal to about one-third of my monthly pay. All of the outfits looked expensive and very well made, most of the pants cut in the trendy bell-bottomed style that Cher had made her trademark look; and the blouses and jackets were adorned in a colorful frilly lace-like trim. On the floor of the closet were more than a dozen pairs of shoes. I now knew where most of the nine hundred dollars that I’d sent her had gone.

After giving the boys their baths, I dressed them in the clothes that she’d brought me and sent them back to their room. I walked back out to the main room and told Sharon that I was exhausted and was going to take nap on the couch.

“Well, why don’t you just go into the bedroom and lay down on the bed? It’s way more comfortable—and I can pull the blinds so the light won’t bother you.”

“No thanks, the couch’ll be just fine.” There was a small TV, which I hadn’t noticed before, atop a serving tray we used to call a ‘TV tray’, situated next to the dining table. It was on, but the sound was turned down. Some game show was playing.

“OK, then,” she said, in a slightly disappointed tone. “I’ll turn the TV off so you can at least have some peace and quiet,” she said, walking over and turning the set off. “I’ll pull the drapes and close the blinds too. I want to get off my feet anyway, so I’ll go to the bedroom and do some reading.”

“Whatever…” I responded nonchalantly, as I headed toward the couch.

“I’ll bring you a blanket so you won’t get chilled,” she said, caringly.

I had noticed that the house was very chilly, as the outside temperature was in the low twenties with some snow still on the ground.

I slept a deep and dreamless sleep, not waking until late that afternoon. I sat up suddenly and stretched. My back was sore and tight, probably because of the long drive back, and certainly not helped by the sagging cushions on the worn couch.

“Hi there!” I heard Sharon say, before I saw her. She was behind the counter in the kitchen. The boys were perched on their chairs at the dining table, looking at me warily. “I made some soup and sandwiches for me and the boys, and I’ll bet you’re hungry too. Why don’t you wash up and join us in an early dinner?”

I had to admit that I was extremely hungry—my last meal having been consumed the day before, somewhere between Las Vegas and Reno. “Sure, OK. Let me brush my teeth first.”

So for the first time since I’d left for Okinawa the year before, and for the last time ever, we shared a meal as a family. Afterwards, and while she was clearing the table, I walked back to the sofa to read a newspaper I’d grabbed off the counter. As I sat down and looked at my very pregnant and bloated wife as she washed the dishes, I wondered just what she might’ve looked like all dressed up and ready to party in one of her ‘Sonny & Cher Originals’ outfits.

Surprise, Then Another Surprise

After a while, I decided to turn on the TV and see what was on. The boys had put on jackets, which they should’ve been wearing when they came to meet me at the airport, and went outside to play. It was getting dark, but Sharon had given them strict orders to stay in the back yard where there was a chain link fence.

After flipping through a couple of channels I began to feel very sleepy again, and before I knew it I had drifted off. When I awoke again, it was a little before ten. All the lights were on in the main room and in the kitchen, and Sharon’s bedroom door was closed. I got up and paid a visit to the bathroom.

As I was walking back to the couch the bedroom room door suddenly opened. Sharon stepped out, her face ashen. “OK, sorry, uh…we have to go,” she said, in a tone that was both shaky and frightened.

I stopped abruptly. “Go? Go where?” I asked.

“To the hospital! We need to go now.” She was rapidly biting her lower lip. “My water just broke!”

“What!!”

“Yes, please don’t be mad at me, but you have to take me to the hospital right away—please!”

I didn’t know what to say, or what to do. I just stood there mesmerized. “I…I don’t know where any hospital is around here! Are you in pain?”

“I’m getting a few labor pains, but I know I’m due to give birth very soon. Please, I’ll give you directions to the hospital—it’s not too far away. I have a suitcase all packed, but we have to hurry!”

“I…I…what about the boys?” I finally asked.

“I’ll call Brenda right away. She doesn’t live too far away and she already knows what she has to do. Please, go into the bedroom and get the suitcase out from under the bed. I’ll call Brenda while you get it and take it out to the car.”

“So, she’s going to come over to take care of the kids?”

“Yes! Please, hurry!”

Not knowing what else to do I hurried into her bedroom and found the blue-green plastic suitcase under the bed. As I walked out, heading for the door I saw that she was already on the phone. I noticed for the first time that she was dressed in a loose maternity dress, slippers, and had the red coat draped over her arm.

As I walked back up the stairs after putting the suitcase in the trunk, Sharon came through the front door. “We don’t have time to go back in,” she said in a near panic. “I turned the TV off and shut off the lights. Come on, we have to go! Here’s the car keys.”

“Is Brenda on her way? I don’t feel comfortable leaving the boys by themselves.”

“Oh, they’ll be fine. I do it all the time.”

That told me more than I needed to know.

I helped her into the car and ran over to the driver’s side. As I pulled out of the driveway she said, “Take a right at the intersection and then straight for about a mile. I also called the hospital and they’re expecting us.”

Us?

Since I didn’t know what to say I kept quiet—just wondering what was going to happen. Then, she spoke.

“Look, we haven’t had a chance to talk, but just so you know, I’ve made arrangements to give the child up.”

“What? Give the baby up? Why did you decide that?”

“Frank! I have no idea who the father is, and I just don’t want it, OK? And besides, I didn’t think it was right to burden you with a child that’s not yours. It really wasn’t that hard of a decision for me.”

“Don’t you think that should’ve been discussed before you went ahead and made that decision?”

“Quite frankly, no. I did this by myself, so I decided that I shouldn’t involve you.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing for the rest of the drive. In just a few minutes, we were pulling up to the hospital’s circle drive where a nurse and a male attendant were waiting with a wheelchair. They ran to Sharon’s side of the car and helped her out and into the chair. The nurse wheeled her through a set of glass sliding doors and out of sight.

The male attendant walked around to my side of the car. “Sir,” he said, pointing to an area to the side of the hospital, “Drive over to that area and park. If your wife brought a bag, please take it out of the car and bring it with you. When you enter the lobby, look for the admitting desk where there’ll be some papers for you to sign. While you’re there someone will be sure to take the bag to your wife.”

I nodded, and drove to the parking area. I sat there for a couple of minutes and wondered what I was going to do. I was confused, had a million questions, and felt a little scared. And what papers did I have to sign? I had nothing to do with this!

As I entered the lobby I saw the admitting desk. I walked up to it, but couldn’t think of what to say or how to even start.

“Are you Mr. DeLeón?” The gray-haired sixty-something lady asked.

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Wonderful. And how are you tonight.”

“OK, I guess.”

“Of course. I know you’re probably a little nervous, but we’ll get you through all of this. Now, is this your first?”

“My first? My first, what?”

She looked up from the clipboard and smiled warmly. “Child. Baby. Is this your first?”

“No! I mean, this…that…uh, it’s not mine.”

She glanced quickly at the clipboard. “Oh, are you an uncle?”

“What? No! I’m Frank DeLeón, and Sharon’s my wife. There are no uncles.”

Her smile disappeared. “All right sir. There seems to be some mistake. Is your wife’s name Sharon Lee DeLeón?”

“Yes.”

“And she was just admitted to the maternity ward because she’s having a baby—is that correct?”

“Well yes.”

“OK! So, then you’re her husband and she’s having your child, correct?”

“No!” I really wanted to pee now. “She’s my wife, but I’m not the father! She doesn’t know who the father is!”

The gray-haired lady actually did a double-take. “I’m…I’m sorry. What did you say? Did you say you’re not the father?”

“That’s right!” The woman stared at me for what seemed to be a full minute.

“Wait right here!” She finally said, pushing her chair back and grabbing the clipboard. As she walked away her white shoes made loud squeaky noises on the black and white tile floor.

I sat there for a while until I saw a sign that said, “Restrooms”. I got up and headed for the Men’s Room.

***

I was taken to a private office where another lady, this one younger and reminding me of a fresher version of the actress who played the Wicked Witch of the West in “The Wizard of Oz”.

She was sitting behind the large wooden desk—but before she addressed me she studied a large stack of papers and forms in front of her. Finally, she spoke: “Mr. DeLeón, let me apologize for what happened earlier out in the lobby. We don’t have our best administrative people on the night shift, and apparently, she hadn’t been briefed on your wife’s…um…situation. My name is Mrs. Wilmott, and I am an Assistant Hospital Administrator.”

“OK.”

“But first, let me be clear about one thing. Irrespective of what you may be thinking, according to the laws in the state of Nevada, regardless who the natural father is—when a married woman becomes pregnant, the woman’s husband is, and always will be, the legal father.”

“Wha…what?”

“I’m sorry, but your wife should’ve explained this to you. It’s my understanding, after speaking to your wife, that you arrived from your overseas base last week and spent the last few days in Houston with your parents—is that right?”

“Yes.”

“So, you and your wife never discussed any of this?”

“No.”

“How did you find out about her pregnancy?”

“Well, she wrote me a letter and told me she was seven months pregnant. I’ve been on Okinawa since October of last year, and I got the letter this past July.”

“And in her previous letters, she never mentioned anything?”

“There were no previous letters.”

“You mean she never wrote to you at all since you left last October?”

“Correct.”

A flood of wrinkles appeared between the lady’s eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry. That’s really unfortunate.”

“That’s OK.”

“All right. Be that as it may, I’m going to advise you on what decisions your wife made and what your position is in all of this.”

“OK.” She paused a few seconds, took a deep breath, and began to talk.

She explained that a few months after the doctor had confirmed that Sharon was indeed pregnant, she had made the decision to give the child away at birth. Papers had been signed and unfortunately, that decision was not reversible. I asked, that if I was the legal father, why anyone hadn’t asked me what my wishes were. She explained that as the legal father, the only thing I was responsible for, had Sharon decided to keep the child, was raising the child as my own. Then she slid a small stack of papers for me to sign.

I was shocked, confused and angry. How could I be held responsible for the raising of a child that my wife had conceived with someone else? It just didn’t seem fair.

After I signed the forms I wanted to ask a question. “Of course,” she said. “If I can legally answer it, I will.”

“What’s going to happen to the baby?”

“Well…” she paused, leaning back in her chair. “Law requires that the child be taken from her immediately after it’s born. The mother is not allowed to see or touch, or even be told the gender of the newborn. Once it’s determined that the child is healthy, the adoptive parents will be notified. When the time comes, the baby will be released to them.”

“So, the adoptive parents have already been determined?”

“Oh yes, a long time ago. Just after Sharon signed all her rights to the child away.”

“Oh.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Fine, then we’re done here. I’ll escort you to the ‘Expectant Fathers’ wing where you’ll wait until she gives birth tonight. If all goes well, you can see her then. I expect that she’ll be able to go home in a couple of days.”

She walked me to an elevator, then once on the correct floor she took me to a large room furnished with a couple of large couches, some overstuffed leather chairs and many, many, magazines. On a shelf, high up on a corner of the room, was a large TV. I sat down on one of the chairs and noticed that the ‘The Tonight Show’ was playing. On it the host, Johnny Carson, was interviewing the Democratic candidate for president, Senator Hubert H. Humphrey.

To be continued…

Okinawa – Part Five

Okinawa

Part Five

July-September 1966

Breaking News

“So what did you want to tell us?” Nat asked, once everyone had finally settled down.

“Well, actually I have two pieces of news. The first one I got from the Finance Office, and the second one I found in the mail room.” Everyone got suddenly very quiet. “So, which one do you guys want to hear about first?” For a few seconds, no one said anything. They just stared.

“Oh, I don’t give a shit, I’m just pissed at what fucking Smokey just did to your hair!” Roomie whined, turning and glaring at Smokey. “You’re a goddamned brute, Smokey!” He said, resentfully. “Here Frank, let me straighten that shit out.” He started to walk towards me.

“Roomie!” I said, forcefully. “Wait! This is way more important than my hair.” He stopped, and he looked absolutely crushed.

“Well, shit—OK!” He said, genuinely hurt. He backtracked and rejoined the group.

“OK, first: As you guys heard, I was royally reamed out by the shift sergeant, then the colonel, about not giving to the United Fund. Even though I do have a few dollars left from what you guys contributed to me, I wasn’t about to give that money away.”

“What money are we giving you?” Peewee asked, innocently. “What the fuck’s he talking about?” he pleaded, looking around, eyes all wide and arms spread out in front of him.

“Shut up, Peewee!” Nat said, forcefully. “Go on, Frank.”

“OK. So, I was threatened with everything from losing rank to a general court-martial—that is, until I told them I hadn’t been paid since November of last year. The colonel then tried to prove me a liar by threatening to call the Finance Department. After he asked me to leave his office, I guess he made some calls and found out that I was telling the truth. He called me back into his office, then asked me to go down to Finance and tell them he’d sent me. When I got there, I was given a hundred bucks in cash. And—come to find out, they were supposed to be paying me ten bucks every month for living expenses the whole time. I don’t know what happened, and I didn’t ask, but I suspect someone fucked up. Anyhow, I’ll start getting paid regular in a couple of months and ten dollars is going to be deducted out of my check until the hundred dollars they gave me is paid off.”

“OK, so you’re good now as far as your pay is concerned, right?” Ramie asked.

“Yes, but I don’t know how I would’ve survived without your help. I am genuinely grateful, and I intend to pay all of you back.”

“Well!” Roomie piped up. “You can start by handing over that hundred to cover all the expenses I went through trying to make you beautiful!” He stepped up and stuck his hand out.

“Roomie, I’m just about ready to kick your ass!” Smokey said angrily. “Get the fuck back here, you silly bitch!”

“Hey!!” Roomie said in an even higher whining tone. “Jesus Smokey, I was just kidding! Good God, you’re such a thick fuck!”

“OK, guys,” I interceded. “I know you’ll never admit to it, but you are the best friends anyone could ask for.”

“Stop it, Pancho. You’re gonna fucking make me cry.” Ramie said, rolling his eyes. “So, you’re back in clover, and that’s good, but what’s the other news you had.”

“Well, this is just a bit more serious and maybe just a little depressing. As I said earlier, I went to the mail room…and I found that I had received a letter from my wife—Sharon.” No one moved, nor did anyone make a sound. “And…well, the letter brought me some news that I just never expected.”

At this point, I paused. It was not for effect—mostly, I didn’t know how to start with what I had to tell them. “All right, this is going to be tough, but I need to know that no one in this room will ever say anything about this to anyone else.”

“What?” Nat asked. “Did she sue you for divorce?”

“No. That’s what I would’ve guessed, but what it was, was completely unexpected.”

“So, she’s got a boyfriend, right?” Ramie asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Hey, why don’t we just let him tell us, OK?” Smokey said irritably. “And Frank! You should know better than to think we’re going to go around blabbing about your business! Jesus!!”

“OK, sorry. Well guys, she wrote to tell me that she’s pregnant. Seven months pregnant!”

“Holy shit!” Peewee exclaimed. “And you’ve been here for how long?”

“Nine months.” I said, digging the letter out from my pocket. “Further, she claims she doesn’t know who the father is.”

“Fuck that!” Smokey spit out. “That’s complete bullshit! She’s not only a slut, but a fucking liar too!”

“I know that, and you know that.” I said, patiently. “But that’s what she wrote in the letter. I doubt that she would’ve put some guy’s name in a letter to her husband when she’s telling him she’s knocked up.” I said.

Roomie walked over to where I was sitting and sat on the edge of the bed next to me. “Well, what we’re all missing here,” he said, putting his arm around my shoulders. “Is that Frank just got a letter that beats the hell out of all the “Dear John” letters ever written.” He tightened his grip around my shoulders. “Are you doing OK with this? I mean, you’re not going to go off the deep end, or anything like that, are you?”

“Thanks Roomie, but no. I’m OK. I really am.”

“So what’re you gonna do now?” Ramie asked softly.

“Nothing, for now. I met with the squadron commander about this and he offered a MARS phone call, which I declined. Then he said I could go home on emergency leave.”

“So, are you going to go home?” Roomie asked.

“No, not right away. I’d have to pay my own way if I opted to go home now, but if I wait until the squadron gets approval from the Wing, then they’ll pay for my flights and grant me ten days’ emergency leave. But the approval probably won’t come down for a couple of months. I told the colonel that that would probably be the best option.”

“So, that won’t be until September, right?” Nat asked.

“Yup. I think that’s right—probably early September.”

“So did you tell her already? I mean, that you’re not going home to see her for another two months?” Roomie asked.

“No, I haven’t had a chance to write back. Actually, I don’t really know what to say to her. You know?”

“Fuck! Tell her to go fuck herself! If that was my wife I’d be on the next plane on my way to kill her ass!” Smokey said forcefully. “Fuck that! Sleazy cunt!”

“Well, I guess I should be angrier than I actually am. But I’m just not. I guess her not writing to me for this long kinda numbed me and I was just about ready for anything.”

Nat stood up from the chair he’d been sitting in. “You do realize that if you wait for two months she’ll either already have given birth or be just about ready to pop?”

“Well, now that you mention it…” I said, realizing this for the first time. “I guess you’re right. But I’m not going home any sooner. So I guess we’ll just have to see what happens.”

“Did she say what she’s gonna do with the kid? And, for that matter, what’re your plans?” Peewee asked, hesitantly. “I mean, you should explore your options. At least make an appointment with a judge advocate here on the base.”

“I don’t know, I guess I should, but I just don’t know. She didn’t mention anything about the kid, or what she plans to do about it, so I guess I’ll just find out when I get home.”

For a few minutes no one said anything, and I sure didn’t have anything new to add. Finally, Smokey spoke up. “Well, shit! I could use a beer or two. Who’s up for that?” The consensus was unanimous.

“OK,” I said. “Since I happen to have a little cash on hand, I will buy—but I don’t want to go downtown. Let’s go to the Airmen’s Club.”

“Well it’s about fucking time you buy, you damned cheapskate!” Ramie said, breaking out one of his best winning smiles. “But, I may be only able to just stay for one. I have some business to take care of in Naminoue.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

“Figures!” Roomie said, disgustingly. “You are such a whore, Ramie. I wouldn’t be surprised if your dick just rotted off one of these days.”

“Hey,” Ramie countered. “At least I got one, Roomie!”

The room filled with whoops and cat-calls—and Roomie waited a few seconds until he could get his final repartee: “Whenever you want to check it out, Ramie! But when you do, you’ll never go back to your gook bitches!” Whoops and cheers greeted that one.

“OK guys,” I finally said, “time’s a-wasting. This is nickel beer night at the club, so let’s go belly-up to the bar and drink until they throw us out!”

***

Compared to the Airmen’s and Officer’s Clubs that I’d been to before, the club at Naha Air Base was gigantic and unique in many ways. I guess because it served all service members on the base, it had to be large. Easily well over twenty thousand square feet, it was probably once an old B-52 hangar now converted into a glamourous and well-appointed structure. One end of the building was sectioned off and served as a fine restaurant where the enlisted personnel, living on and off base, could bring their wives, husbands, or dates, and enjoy some of the finest and cheapest food on the island.

On the other side of the building was a huge double bar, tables, a large dance floor, and a concealed stage. When the stage was lowered onto the floor, a full orchestra pit was revealed by pulling aside a set of heavy blood-red ceiling-to-floor velvet curtains. During the week, an orchestra would play from eight in the evening until midnight—usually dinner music, and on weekends the curtains would be closed, the stage raised, and different rock and roll bands would perform. The bands, usually cover bands from the Philippines, would play all sorts of current rock music, usually impersonating (covering) popular bands of the day. Some of the best covers were of the Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Beach Boys, The Who, Pink Floyd, The Doors, and my personal favorite—The Animals.

The bands were fabulous, but physically looking at them—rather than just hearing them—could confuse the senses. They were, of course, Filipinos—mostly straight from Manila. The males were almost all skinny and most sported long stringy black hair, while the occasional female in the groups were extremely flashy in high spiked heels and tight mini-skirts. But closing one’s visual sense and just listening to their music would almost make you believe that you were listening to the real thing. Yes, they were that good. The bands had hokey names like, “The Busy Boys”, “The Family of One and Five”, “Jake and Them”, and so forth, but boy could they cover the bands and groups of the day.

Another oddity that I had only ever seen at this military club was the bevy of young Okinawan girls whose job it was to dance with the customers. About ten or twelve girls would be seated on either side of the sound stage waiting to be asked to dance. They did, however, reserve the right to refuse someone if they felt they were too drunk or too loud, or if during the dance they put their hands where they didn’t belong. And, there were always two beefy looking Marine bouncers on duty to remove and eject any customer who abused his privilege on the dance floor.

The girls were under strict instructions on how to conduct themselves while at the club. No dirty dancing, no suggestive rubbing, and certainly no alcoholic beverages. If the club management found out that they were dating any military man once they went off duty, they would quickly be fired; and since they were paid well above what they would’ve earned on the local economy they made sure to adhere to all the rules.

For the most part the girls were attractive and very trim, but most of them couldn’t speak very good English. Not that they needed to—all they really needed to do was to know how to dance.

The six of us arrived at the club early that evening, and before we went to the bar decided to go into the restaurant to eat. Oddly, the restaurant was divided into two sections: the family and the single person section. Of course, the single section was a bit more rowdy but we were able to have conversations that perhaps would not have been appreciated by families.

After consuming the best two-dollar T-bone steak this side of California, we walked into the bar. It was still a bit early for the rock group to be on stage, but the full-sized orchestra was playing some 1940’s Glenn Miller music that was all but putting everyone to sleep. No one seemed to know the orchestra’s real name, or the name of the conductor, so as military men will do, they tagged the group, “Gus and the Gooks”.

As promised, after finding some stools at one of the bars I ordered beers for all of us. For the rest of the night we never again spoke of the letter I had received or the news that it had contained. We just drank, told each other jokes, and enjoyed each other’s company. In spite of the jovial atmosphere and the camaraderie, I sensed a certain pall over our get-together that night. It was almost as if someone told us that soon our happy and tight-knit group would be broken up forever.

We ended our evening and walked all the way back to our barracks and headed for our respective rooms. As I settled in for the night, and before descending into a soft and slightly drunken slumber, my thoughts turned to Sharon. As much as I’d suffered in the last nine months, I thought about how she must’ve felt when she’d finally been convinced that she had to sit down and write me that letter. And I could only imagine the shame and humiliation she had to fight through when she was forced to face her own family with her embarrassing condition.

As my consciousness ebbed away I promised myself that, sooner rather than later, I would have to make plans for my trip back home. What would I find, and how would I deal with my wife’s pregnancy? Before I had a chance to look for answers to those questions I was fast asleep.

***

Six weeks short of a year after landing on Okinawa, I was again preparing to fly home to see my wife and children. I had no idea what I’d find when I got there; and not having received any pictures, I had no idea what my boys would look like now. However, having put a lot of thought into what needed to be done on my part, and after paying a visit to the base judge advocate, I had finally settled on a series of decisions that, once put into action, would significantly alter all of our lives for many years to come.

Reno

I received the orders for my emergency leave on Friday, September 2^nd. They stated that I was authorized to travel via common air carrier from Naha Air Base, Okinawa to Reno, Nevada. Travel was to begin early on September 13^th, and I had been granted two travel days outbound, and three travel days back. With ten days’ emergency leave, I was expected to report back to my base not later than October 4, 1966.

About two weeks after I received Sharon’s letter I wrote a short letter back. In it, I told her that I would be planning to travel back to Reno. I told her truthfully that I had no idea when that would be, but that my next letter would provide her with more details. I did not mention her pregnancy, nor my feelings about it.

So on the day after I received my travel orders I sat down and composed a final letter to her.

***

September 5, 1966

Sharon,

Just a short letter to advise you that I will should be arriving in Reno on the morning of September 14^th. When I land at Travis Air Force Base in California, I will call you at the last number that I have for you to let you know what flight I will be arriving on and what time it will arrive in Reno.

Please do not meet me at the airport as I would prefer to take a cab to your house. I don’t really want to see you, and anything we may have to discuss can be done once I arrive at your house.

I plan to be in Reno for only a few days and I will probably be staying in a motel.

Frank

***

The day before I left, the guys wanted to throw me a little going away party down in Naminoue. I declined their kind offer for a lot of different reasons, but mostly because I was growing increasingly nervous and unsettled about my seeing Sharon again. I had no idea what I was going to say to her when I saw her again—considering that by this time she would be as big as a house.

Further, I had yet to devise a way to ask her why she had not had the decency to write me at least one letter for almost a year; and then of course, there was the dicey subject regarding what she’d done with the nine hundred dollars I’d sent. So, not wishing to hurt their feelings, I promised the guys that once I returned in October we’d all get together and throw a really good bash downtown.

The flight from Okinawa to Travis Air Force Base in California, was excruciatingly long and very uncomfortable. For almost the whole time, regardless of the altitude, we experienced thunderstorms and moderate to heavy turbulence. And because the flight had been rerouted excessively once we’d left Tokyo on our way to California, we were diverted to Seattle-Tacoma Airport in Washington to refuel. To add insult to injury, and because of our international flight status, we were prohibited from disembarking at this airport—and by this time we’d run out of food and snacks. We sat on the ground for well over an hour before we were allowed to depart.

I finally arrived at Travis and was able to immediately book a shuttle bus to the Oakland Airport to pick up a flight to Reno. My original connecting flight had long departed, but fortunately I was rebooked on a flight that went to Boise then on to Reno.

Landing at the Reno Airport three hours late, I was both relieved and very apprehensive as I entered the terminal and headed for the baggage claim area. I wondered if I should call Sharon as soon as I got my bag to tell her that I’d arrived, or if I should just take a cab to her house and arrive unannounced. As it turned ou, I never got to make that decision.

After retrieving my bags, I was headed for the taxi stand when I heard someone call my name. I turned to my right and saw two little boys running towards me—followed by a very pregnant woman in an ill-fitting red coat.

“FRANK, FRANK! Go boys! Your daddy’s home!” the round-faced woman said, trying to stay up with the two little guys, running clumsily while holding her belly with both hands.

I dropped my bags to the floor as I recognized Ricky—running with his little arms outstretched, long dark unkempt hair bouncing on his forehead and into his eyes. A few feet behind him, and not as enthusiastic as Ricky, came Beebe. Although he was also running, he didn’t appear to be on the same mission as his brother. Rather, he seemed more interested in looking at the people who were dodging them.

Squatting down, I caught Ricky as he all but dove into my arms. I hugged him tightly and realized that he’d lost all of his baby fat and grown more than a few inches. Beebe finally arrived, but he stopped a few feet short of us and stood there curiously observing me. I motioned him over but he instead stuck his right index finger up his nose and looked back to see where his mother was. In spite of the near freezing temperature in Reno, I noticed that both boys were dressed in loose-fitting corduroy pants, beat-up sneakers, and thin T-shirts.

I knew that eventually I had to look up and face Sharon but I wanted to delay the inevitable as long as possible.

“Hi honey!” I heard her say—the word stinging my ears and making me instantly angry. I looked up slowly and took a long look. I released my grip on Ricky and stood up.

“Hey.” I said, cautiously.

“Welcome home…” she said, now a bit more hesitantly.

“Yeah. I thought I told you I’d take a taxi home?”

“Oh…well, I thought it’d be nice to come and pick you up instead. I mean—after the long flight and all. Plus, when we got here we found out you were going to be delayed, but, we decided to wait for you instead of going home again. The boys…they were excited to see you—you know.”

“The boys…oh, I’m sure.” I reached down and pulled my bags off the floor. “OK, since you’re here. Where’s the car?”

As we walked to the airport terminal exit and in the direction of the public parking area, I tried to keep my eyes off her. The short glance I’d gotten of her when she first approached had left me in a bit of a shock. She looked much older, and tired. Her face was swollen and there were hints of lightly shaded shadows under both eyes. Her glasses, usually riding high on her perky nose, were disturbingly off-kilter. It was after we’d gotten into the car that I noticed she’d lost the screw to the right temple of her glasses and had secured it to the frame with a paper clip.

Dowdy. That was the word that popped into my mind.

“How was your flight?” she asked, as we pulled away from the lot.

“Fine.” The boys were rolling around in the back seat of the black 1957 Chevrolet Bel-Air, which I’d never seen before.

“Oh…I know you said you probably wanted to stay in a motel, but you know, there’s plenty of room in the house. You’ll see. The bedroom is pretty big and the bed is a double. So I think you’ll be more comfortable there. Don’t you think?”

“Let’s discuss that once we get to your house. Where’d you get the car?”

“Oh, mom bought it for me. She got a great deal from a friend of hers that was leaving to go to California after a divorce. So…you know…since I didn’t have transportation and all…”

“Hmm.”

“You like it? It kinda reminds me of our old car.”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Where are the boys’ coats? They must be freezing.”

“Oh, no! They love the cold. Besides, we were mostly going to be in the car or in the airport terminal, so I thought they’d be fine.”

I wanted to yell at her! Cuss her out! Say all the words that had been boiling in my heart for the last two months! But instead, I just angled my body to the right and concentrated on the cold gray scenery as it zipped by.

“By the way,” she said, “I really like your hair. It looks so neat.”

I didn’t bother with an answer.

After about a fifteen-minute drive we pulled off a main avenue onto a small residential street. Hers was the second house on the left: a single-story wood-frame house, with a small porch in the front. Red brick pillars rose on either side of the stairs—rising to support the small roof extension covering the porch. A once white, and now mostly rusty metal two-person slider sat to the right of the screened front door; and the driveway, situated to the right of the house, consisted of two well-worn dirt ruts.

“Home sweet home!” Sharon said, trying to sound cheery. “Come on boys, time to help daddy with his bags.”

“I’ll get my own bags. Get the boys into the house and out of the cold.” I said, pushing my door open and heading for the trunk of the car. The boys raced from the car, up the rickety-looking stairs, and pushed open the unlocked door. Sharon stood by the driver’s side door waiting for me to close the trunk before walking slowly and painfully up the stairs. She paused on the porch to catch her breath before slipping through the open door.

The house was small and simple. Walking through the door, one was greeted by a large and mostly empty living room. There were two doors on the right wall in the main living area—one, guarding a small coat closet and the other, leading to the main bedroom. The two doors were separated by a brown two cushion sofa that I’d never seen before, and which had seen better days. The left wall was mostly bare, except for a calendar advertising a local market and drug store, thumb-tacked up next to a light green wall phone with a long extension cord hanging from the receiver.

At the end of the room was a small bar that separated the kitchen from the rest of the front room. Along the left kitchen wall was a burn-scarred Formica counter and a yellow-stained sink sitting under a small glass window. A greasy white four-burner gas stove sat against the back wall and next to the rear exit door. The cabinets, once painted white with small yellow daisy decorations around the edges, were hung over and on either side of the stove, and had faded to varying shades of gray and brown, their bottoms spotted with dark finger smudges.

On the right wall was a small closed door. At the time I assumed it was a pantry, but it turned out to be the only bathroom in the house.

A bare wooden four-chair dining table sat on the living room side of the bar, with only a small set of salt and pepper shakers set on its center.

“Where’s our furniture?” I asked Sharon, as I put my bags down on the scarred and worn linoleum floor.

“Oh, well I sold some pieces to my mom. But I kept the bed and night stands. Wanna see?”

“No thanks. Where do the boys sleep?”

“Their bedroom is right off mine. You have to go through my, or rather our, main bedroom to get to theirs.”

I could hear the boys’ voices, so I assumed they had retreated to their room. “You didn’t sell their beds too, did you?”

“Well yes…no, I actually traded their stuff for a set of bunk beds. Come see.”

Although I didn’t want to enter her bedroom, I found that I had no choice but to go through it to see where the boys slept.

The main bedroom was large—taking up at least two-thirds of the length of the right side of the house. There was a large window set onto one side, overlooking the porch, under which her bed was placed. Another window oversaw the driveway. No curtains were hung on either window, but dingy pull-shades hung half-way down each one. On the wall separating her bedroom from the boys’ was a large open walk-in closet whose double-doors were splayed wide open. I didn’t look too closely, but I could tell it was stuffed with clothes and shoes.

The door to the boys’ room was open, and I saw them playing on the bare wooden floor. The small room was windowless and smelled like old laundry and dirty socks. A set of bunk beds was stacked on the driveway side of the room, and a dresser, missing its mirror, was pushed up against the opposite wall. Most the drawers were hanging open—most of their pulls missing, and I could tell that the runners had long since been worn out.

The beds were unmade—sheets and thin blankets hanging willy-nilly off the edges of the thin mattresses.

“Who sleeps on the top bunk?” I asked.

“Ricky does! He heard somewhere that the top bunk was the best so that’s where he staked his claim.”

“How does he get up there? I don’t see any ladder.”

“You know—he’s like a monkey. He just swings up there on his own.”

I couldn’t see how he did it, but I took her word for it. Not wanting to see anymore, I turned around and walked back out to the main room.

Sharon took her coat off and threw it on her bed as she followed me out. It was then I saw just how pregnant she really was. Even though I’d seen her when she was pregnant with Ricky, I didn’t recall her being quite this big.

“Hey,” she said behind me, a little out of breath. “You want something to drink—or anything? I can warm up some soup if you’re hungry.”

“No, just some water will be fine.” As she headed to the kitchen, I looked around at where she and my boys had been living for the last year. It was disgusting and dirty. My anger rose and I wanted to say something—anything—but I successfully resisted the impulse. There’d be plenty of time to discuss this, and other things. Later.

“Here you go.” she said, handing me a glass of water. There was a chip on the drinking edge of the glass. “You must be tired. You wanna go take a nap?”

“Nope.”

“Oh…OK. Well then, do you mind if I go into the bedroom and get off my feet? I got up early and haven’t had a chance to rest.”

Whatever you want to do.”

“OK, you know as tired as I feel I’ll probably drift off, but I’ll be up in a little bit so I can cook you and the boys some dinner.”

“Don’t bother on my account.”

“Oh…all right. You sure? It’s no trouble.”

“Can I use your phone?”

“Uh…sure.”

“I want to call my folks. I’ll call collect, so don’t worry.”

“No! No problem! Say hi to them for me.”

“Sure thing…” I said, thinking that it would be a cold day in Hell before I mentioned her to them or anyone else. She closed the bedroom door, and then I heard her yelling at the boys, telling them that it was time for a nap. I thought about how they looked and how they were dressed. ‘Ragamuffins’ came to mind. The thought of what she’d done with the nine hundred dollars bubbled up into my brain.

I talked to my folks for a few minutes and made some plans. After hanging up I unbuttoned my shirt and loosened my belt. I was dog-tired, and I knew that if I stretched out on the couch I’d fall asleep immediately. I headed to the small door I’d seen in the kitchen and found that my instincts had been correct: it was a bathroom.

Coming back to the main room I rummaged through my bags and pulled out a fresh pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, a T-shirt and a clean pair of shorts and socks. I eased into the small bathroom and removed my travel-worn clothing. What I really wanted to do was to take a shower but I just couldn’t bring myself to step into the scummy and chipped porcelain tub. Instead, I took a “GI” bath: using a washcloth, water and soap to wipe myself clean the best I could. After brushing my teeth and spraying deodorant under my arms I felt almost human.

After changing into fresh clothing, I went out and sat down on the couch. In what was probably less than a minute I drifted off into a deep and delicious slumber.

“Hey!”

I jerked my head up and tried to focus.

“Hey you! I knew you were tired. Why didn’t you just come into the bedroom and lay down? I know it’s a small bed but I would’ve made room,” she said, almost jovially.

“Shit! What time is it?”

“Almost three. You hungry?”

“No,” I said, pulling myself up to my feet. “Hey, can I ask you a favor?”

“Sure, anything.”

“Well, are you planning to use the car for anything for the next few days?”

“Uh…no. I don’t think so. Why?”

“I wanna go down to Houston to see my folks. When I talked to my mom she said they wanted to see me while I was stateside, so I thought that if I could, I would drive your car down and back. Today’s Thursday, so I should be back by Tuesday. I only plan to stay a couple of days, or so.”

“Oh…”

“I know Ricky’s birthday is on the 27th, but I should be back by then.”

“Well, I had plans for a little birthday party for him on the following Saturday, and inviting some of his little friends in the neighborhood; and since you’re home now, I thought it’d be nice for all of us to be here together.”

“I told you, I plan to be back before then. Can I use your car or not?”

“Well, sure…I guess. But, I thought…you know…that we could spend some time….” Her voice trailed off.

“OK, thanks. Where’s the keys?”

“You’re leaving…now?”

“That’s the plan. The sooner I leave, I quicker I’ll be back. Don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of time to talk…about…you know…”

“Oh…” Tears welled up in her eyes, and she quickly ducked her head and wiped her face. I noticed how loose her glasses fit on her head. “They’re over there on the counter.”

“I’ll get them.” I retrieved the keys and started to close my bags.

“Gosh, you just got home,” she whispered.

“Yeah, how about that.”

In just a few minutes I had my bags back in the trunk, and opened the driver’s door. She had come out and was standing on the porch—one hand resting on her swollen belly. “You have money for gas?”

“I’m fine. Is there anything I need to know about the car? Like burning oil or something like that?”

“No, it’s a good car.”

“Fine!” I said, turning the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life. I closed the door and rolled the window halfway down. “Say bye to the boys when they wake up. Tell Ricky I’ll make sure I’m back for his birthday party.”

She said nothing—just standing on the porch looking miserable. As I put the car in reverse I looked up to see her wave while mouthing the words “I love you.”

Houston Bound

I was starving, so I started looking for some type of drive-in or burger place I could pull in and get something to go. A gas station went by and I suddenly remembered that I hadn’t even bothered to check the gauge to see how much gas was in the tank. Ah, just over half a tank. That meant I wouldn’t have to spend as much filling the tank before I got on the highway. Since gas was about 33 cents a gallon I figured I could get to Houston on less than forty dollars, and last time I checked I had a little over fifty bucks in my pocket.

I would probably have to ask my dad for some money to get back to Reno on, and I would make sure to pay him back once I got back to Okinawa. A few miles later, on the southern outskirts of Reno I spotted a “Big Boy” hamburger restaurant and I pulled in, anxious to bite into one of their best burgers.

As I got back on the road I looked for the signs to Highway 50, eastbound towards Winnemucca, until I could pick up Highway 95 just south of Fallon, then southbound to Las Vegas. According to the road map I’d picked up at the gas station where I filled up, it would be about a four-hundred and fifty-mile drive before I would spot the glittering outline of that infamous party city. Since it was close to 4 pm, I calculated that I’d arrive there around 11 pm. The thought of such a long drive began to wear on me since I’d had very little sleep since I’d left Okinawa so many hours ago.

Worse, these were the days before cars came equipped with cruise control, so in just a few hours I began to feel the strain on my right heel as it rested on the floorboard controlling the accelerator pedal. Occasionally, a small cramp would painfully shock my right calf muscle, causing me to jerk my leg up and off the pedal. I tried to use my left foot to push on the gas while I vigorously massaged my right calf, but inevitably my speed would become erratic and my steering less than accurate. After several episodes of leg cramps, I arrived at the conclusion that it was indeed going to be a very long drive.

At Hawthorne, not even a quarter of the way to Las Vegas, I decided that what I needed was coffee—lots of coffee. Several times I’d dozed off–the severe rumbling of the right wheels kicking up gravel was the only thing that brought me back to almost full consciousness. I also assumed that I was a little dehydrated, hence the leg cramps, so coffee would definitely serve me well.

I found a small gas station that had a small store attached to it, so I pulled in to order myself a large black coffee and visit the men’s room. A few minutes later I was back on the dark highway sipping the hot brew and hoping that I wouldn’t need to make any more stops until I’d reached Vegas. Unfortunately, that was not to be.

About an hour and a half after I’d consumed the last of the large coffee that I’d bought, I found that even though I’d emptied my bladder at the last stop, I needed to go again—urgently! At this pace, I wondered if I was ever going to get to Houston.

I drove through several small towns in which I had hoped to find a gas station with a restroom, but due to the late hour they were all closed. After I passed the last closed town on the highway I decided that my only hope was to try to hold on until I got to Tonopah—another forty minutes away. Alas, that was not to be, so finding a stretch of road that seemed more desolate than what I’d been driving on, I pulled off the side of the road. Stumbling in the dark, I relieved myself next to a very unfortunate outcropping of sage.

At twelve-forty-five in the morning, I finally began to see the city lights that I’d been looking for. Slowing down as I entered the city limits, I seriously wondered if I should just make a U-turn and make my way back to Reno. I was completely exhausted, could barely keep my eyes open, and my right leg was all but numb up to my knee.

I pushed on, delaying my decision to see how I felt by the time I reached the southern city limits. That’s when I saw my salvation.

As the city lights began to dim in my rear-view mirror, my headlights illuminated something strange on the side of the road. I moved my left foot over to the dimmer switch, located on the floorboard near the left side of the firewall, and pushed it hard to the floor to turn on my high beams. It was a sailor!

Dressed in his dark Navy blue uniform, the only thing that shone in the dark was his white Dixie cup hat and the white insignia rank on his left sleeve. His right arm was raised, and his hand was forming the familiar thumbs up—signifying his desire for a ride.

Overcoming my normal hesitation for picking up strangers on the road, I quickly made the decision to stop and pick up this sailor. Once in the car, I’d ask him to share in the driving and I could slide over to the passenger side of the front seat and get some much-needed sleep. I assumed he would drive until sunrise, when—completely refreshed, I would take over.

I came to a quick stop, just past where he was standing and reached over to roll the window down. He ran up, dragging his sea-bag, and stuck his head in the open window.

“How far you going?” he asked, a little out of breath.

“All the way to Houston. Where you headed?”

“Phoenix!”

“Oh great! I’m going right through Phoenix, so I can drop you off there.”

“Fantastic!” he said gleefully. He opened the back door and pushed his bag onto the back seat.

Settling into the passenger side of the front seat he immediately pulled off his shoes. “Man, I am so glad you came along. The thought of my having to stand in the dark, especially as cold as it is, gave me the willies. The last guy that gave me a ride dropped me off right inside the city limits. Said he was gonna strike it big on the slot machines.”

“Ha, fat chance!” I said. “So what’s your name?”

“Harvey, Harvey Thompson. You?”

“Frank. Where you from?”

“Well, I just left San Diego, but I was born and raised in Dubuque, Iowa. My folks sold their farm there a couple of years ago and retired in Phoenix.”

“So, you’re a farm boy, huh?”

“Yeah. How about you?”

“Houston. Born and raised.”

“Cool. Anyway, thanks for stopping to pick me up. I am exhausted.”

“Yeah, me too. I thought we’d share the driving on the way to Phoenix. I’ve been fighting to stay awake for the last couple of hours. So, if you don’t mind let’s switch off at the next town so I can get a couple of hours sleep. That OK?”

“Oh…” he said, tentatively. “See…I’d like to help you out…but the deal is that I don’t know how to drive.”

“You what?”

“Yeah, see. I was raised on my folks’ farm and all I ever learned to drive was tractors. Never had any need to learn to drive the car. Only had one, so my dad did all the driving. None of us, the kids I mean, ever learned how to drive. Sorry.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. What are the odds? Of all the hitch-hikers on the road, and I gotta find the one that doesn’t know how to drive.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I gotta get some shut-eye. My folks got a long day planned for me tomorrow. It being my first furlough, and all.”

“Great.”

He curled up, pulling his socked feet up under him on, and burying his head in the space between the back of the seat and the door.

“G’night.” he mumbled. Within a couple of minutes he was snoring loudly. I quickly discovered that driving and trying to stay awake with someone snoring next to you was a thousand times worse than having to drive alone.

About an hour and a half later, and after almost driving off the side of the dark road several times, jerking myself awake at the last moment, I finally gave up as we pulled in to Kingman. For the exception of some twenty-four-hour gas stations on the outskirts of town, everything appeared to be closed. I saw what appeared to be a small restaurant whose parking lot was empty, and I pulled in and shut the engine off.

Harvey immediately jumped up in his seat. “Wha…what’s going on? Why’d you stop?”

He was looking at me with a frightened expression—his eyes wide and his mouth open.

“Take it easy, Harvey. Since you can’t fucking help me drive I thought I should just stop here and sleep a few hours. I almost killed us several times back there, so settle back down and go back to sleep.”

“Uh, OK…” he said, hesitantly.

“Tell you what. Why don’t you get into the back seat and stretch out so I can sleep up here?” That seemed to take the edge off his sudden anxiety.

“Sure! That’s cool.” And he jumped out onto the concrete drive in his socks.

“Get your shoes!” I yelled.

“Oh yeah! Thanks.” And he reached in, keeping both eyes squarely on me.

“Jesus…” I mumbled. As soon as he closed the door and got himself comfortable in the back, I got out and retrieved a towel from one of my bags in the trunk and rolled it up to use as a pillow. Laying across the seat with my head under the steering wheel, knees drawn up, and my feet up on the passenger door armrest was very uncomfortable. Even so, I drifted off in record time.

***

A painful brightness shone through my eyelids, lifting my awareness up to a drowsy and painful state of slumber. Try as I might, I couldn’t shut the brilliance out of my eyes. I attempted to raise my right arm to shield the glare but I found that it wouldn’t move. I turned my head and a sharp pain shot up from the back of my neck up to the top of my head. I was forced to open my eyes.

My right arm was asleep and I had a hell of a crick in my neck. Worse, I discovered that I needed to pee more than I’d ever needed to do so in my entire life. I pushed my legs out, but found that the door wouldn’t let me stretch them all the way out. I groaned.

Slowly, my consciousness began to seep back into my brain and I began to remember who I was and what I was doing. I pushed myself up on the seat with my left arm and immediately my right arm began to tingle with a million pin pricks.

I smelled bacon! And hash-browns! And, as I sat up in the car seat I saw that we were surrounded by cars in the parking lot. We must’ve been facing east because the sun was blazing agonizingly through the windshield. I could barely open my eyes.

“Ugh…” the sound coming from the back seat. Then I remembered Harvey.

“Hey!” I said, scratching my head. “Get up. We need to get back on the road.”

“Ugh…ugh.” Harvey answered.

I stretched, and a tremor rippled from the top of my head right down to my feet. “Shit! I gotta piss…” I said, to no one in particular. I looked through the windshield, my left hand shielding my eyes and saw through the restaurant’s plate glass window that the restaurant we’d parked at last night was open and full of customers. I could see that there were quite a few people sitting and walking around inside. I re-focused and read, “The Rooster’s Crow!” painted in bright red block lettering on the glass.

“Man! I sure am hungry!” I heard Harvey finally say from the back seat. “That smells good.”

“Well, I gotta go take a piss before I do anything else. Then I’ll get a cup of coffee to go.”

“Oh, can’t we eat before we go?”

“Look, I don’t have that kind of money on me. Plus, I need to get back on the road because I’m on a tight schedule. So after I piss I’m gonna buy some coffee and start driving. That is, unless you spring for breakfast.”

“No sorry, I can’t” He said, dejectedly.

“Fine!” I opened the door and put my shoes back on. I found that my legs, although a little weak, held me up just fine, and my right arm was almost back to normal. I slammed the door behind me and headed for the restaurant door.

I walked through the restaurant’s dining room and spied the sign that directed me to the “Men’s” room. More than a few of the customers gave me a less than casual look, so I assumed they must’ve seen Harvey and me snoozing in the car as they passed us on the way into the café.

After some much needed relief, I splashed my face with cold water and rinsed my mouth out. I wanted to brush my teeth but I wasn’t about to go back out to the car to retrieve my shaving kit. Giving myself a once-over in the mirror I decided that I looked halfway decent, despite having a sleep wrinkle adorning my left cheek and forehead.

Walking out of the men’s room I headed for the counter to ask for a large black coffee to go. The waitress behind the green-speckled countertop hurried over.

“What’cha need, hon?”

“Just a large black coffee to go, please.”

“How ‘bout a nice piece of apple pie to go with that?”

“No, thank you. Just the coffee will be fine.”

“OK, that’ll be twenty-five cents. You can pay me when I bring your coffee.”

Coffee in hand, I headed back to the car to resume my trip south. I climbed in and was surprised to see that Harvey was not in the car. I hadn’t seen him on my way in or out of the men’s room, so I assumed he’d gone in while I was ordering my coffee.

I sipped my coffee for a few minutes, getting a bit inpatient when Harvey didn’t show up right away. Suddenly, I looked up and spotted him sitting at the counter in the restaurant. Setting my coffee on the dash, I stepped out and re-entered the restaurant. As I approached him I saw that he had a plate of eggs, sausage, hash brown potatoes and toast in front of him. He was eagerly wolfing down the eggs as I walked up to him.

“What the fuck? What’re you doing?” I asked angrily.

“Huh? Oh, I’m eating. You said you didn’t want any so I thought I’d just get me some breakfast. I’m hungry!”

I sat on an empty stool next to him, and holding my temper back as best as I could, whispered irritably, “Oh, you’re hungry? Well I’ll tell you what. I’m going back to the car and dumping your shit out on the driveway. You can finish your breakfast then try to hitch a ride to Phoenix from some other schmuck.”

“Wha…? No, wait!”

I turned away and headed back out to the car. I noticed some amused smiles on the faces of a couple of customers. I opened the right rear passenger door and started to pull his sea bag out.

“Wait!” I heard from behind me. “The waitress is putting my breakfast in a ‘to-go’ container. I can eat it while we drive. Wait just a couple of minutes, please.” He pleaded.

“Well, hurry the fuck up! I don’t have time for your bullshit.” He ran back into the restaurant and in a couple of minutes came back out carrying a bright red cardboard box and piled into the car.

“Gee, I’m sorry. I didn’t think a couple of minutes would make that much difference.”

“Hurry up and eat your breakfast—because when you’re done you’re gonna drive this fucking car! It’s a goddamn automatic transmission so all you have to do is push on the gas and the brake, and steer the damn thing. Make believe you’re out on the fucking farm!”

About ten miles south of Kingman Harvey had finally finished his breakfast and I pulled the car off the highway and on to the gravel shoulder. Harvey reluctantly got out and walked around the front of the car while I slid over to the passenger side of the front seat.

“OK, you do know that the stick on the right side of the steering wheel is the gear selector, right?” I asked.

“Uh, yeah I think so.”

“So the ‘D’ means ‘Drive’; that’s where you want to pull the stick down to in order to get the car in gear to go forward.”

“OK.”

“Once you do that, make sure your foot is on the brake, the big fat pedal to the left of the left of the flat one, check your side view mirror to make sure no one is coming, and then take your foot off the brake and push gently down on the gas. Once you’re in the lane, accelerate to about sixty miles an hour and keep it there. I don’t want to get a speeding ticket because I don’t have the money to pay for it. Got it?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

It was a complete disaster. Harvey had absolutely no clue as to what he was doing; after about five miles of crossing over to the oncoming lane on the narrow two-lane highway several times, driving off onto the shoulder, slowing to about thirty miles an hour and then speeding up to over eighty, I finally got tired of yelling at him and told him to pull over.

For the rest of the trip to Phoenix, we avoided talking to or even looking at each other. I continued to fight off my heavy fatigue and overwhelming drowsiness until I pulled up in front of Harvey’s parents’ house.

He mumbled a curt ‘thanks’, and got out. As soon as I heard the trunk close I accelerated away without even a glance back. As I found myself back on Highway 70 East, I made a vow never again to pick up hitchhikers—a vow I’ve kept to this very day.

I settled in for the remaining drive to Houston hoping that the rest of the trip would be uneventful. Three hours later, as I scanned for traffic in my rearview mirror, I noticed that the back window was clouded over with some unknown substance. I pulled over to investigate and found that the window was coated with a fine coat of what appeared to be oil. I stood there wondering where oil would have to come from to mist over my back window.

Restarting the engine, I checked the oil pressure gauge and found it to be well within its normal operating range. Shutting the engine down again, I popped opened the hood and visually checked the oil dipstick. Again, I found nothing out of the ordinary. A little mystified, I resumed driving—hoping that maybe whatever was causing this weird problem would eventually go away.

Ten miles west of the small town of Duncan, Arizona that early Sunday morning of September 18^th, I began to hear an odd sound coming from the lower rear end of the car. Regardless of how fast or slow I drove, the sound—like metal rubbing on metal—kept getting louder. Worse, I began to feel a slight resistance coming from the rear end—like I was pulling a trailer or something. I began to panic.

“Oh Lord, what now?” I prayed out loud, as I passed the Duncan, Arizona, city limits sign.

To be continued…

Okinawa – Part Four

Okinawa

Part Four

January-July 1966

Love Begins to Fade

When I left Reno for my eighteen-month assignment at Naha Air Base on Okinawa, I left the bulk of the travel money I’d been issued with Sharon. My thinking was that she would need the money more than I would as she was tending to the boys and would probably incur more expenses than I would. And when I received and sent her the nine-hundred-dollar overpayment, putting my career and well-being in jeopardy, I did so thinking that the windfall would enable us to use it as a buffer when the Air Force authorized her and the boys to join me on Okinawa the following year. What I didn’t count on was that once I left the CONUS (Continental U.S.), her thoughts and feelings were no longer centered on me nor on my welfare.

The pressures and tensions that our marriage had suffered since its ill-conceived inception a few years earlier had predictably taken a toll on its tenuous bonds and the cracks were beginning to show. After my trip to the post office to question why I hadn’t received any letters from Sharon, and the Military Postal Command’s subsequent response that had all but said, ‘Because she hasn’t written you back, that’s why…’, my feelings for Sharon began to evolve—and not in a good way.

Although I continued to hold out some hope that she would eventually give in and send me at least one money order, each day that passed without a letter only served to increase my growing resentment with her. Every trip to the post office that found my mail slot empty added to my belief that she didn’t care one iota about what was happening to me. I kept telling myself that she had to know that I was completely out of money by now, and that I had no way of providing for myself. Had I not been assigned to a base in a foreign country I would’ve, by now, sought employment off base. But not only was that impossible in Okinawa, it was prohibited by military regulations.

In late January, I made one more effort to contact her, and seeing that I had one last first-class stamp left, I sat down and wrote her a long letter. This time, again telling her that I had not received a money order, I explained how I was trying to live without any money. I described washing my own clothes, getting free haircuts, and trying to make do with what was left of my personal hygiene items. Because I was using one razor blade every day for a week, I came down with a severe rash, large red welts blossoming on my face, and I had to go on sick call. The doctor correctly diagnosed my condition as being caused by shaving with old and/or dull blades, and asked me why. I simply told him that I was trying to save money. He prescribed a soothing ointment and gave me a medical excuse exempting me from shaving every day for a couple of weeks. He also insisted that I use a fresh blade every day after I resumed shaving, and to find some other way to be thrifty. Although I thought about adding this little detail to my letter to Sharon, I resisted the urge. As with all my other letters, I never received a response to this one either.

Because I could not shave for a couple of weeks, a rather skimpy and wispy (scraggly) beard began to appear on my face. As the facial hair grew out it began to cover the splotches and discolorations that had appeared on my face, and my appearance gave many officers and non-commissioned officers the impression that I was not shaving because I was lazy, or worse yet, trying to be rebellious. After a particularly nasty confrontation with a young first lieutenant on the sidewalk as I was leaving work at the Air Defense Center, I took to carrying my medical excuse with me wherever I went. I admit it was fun to see the expression on some of the officers’ faces as I passed them on my way to and from work or the chow hall; me, popping a very sharp salute as I approached, and them, trying to figure out what I had on my face. Most of the older officers returned a half-hearted salute while busily focusing on my face, and only the very young and gung-ho officers ordered me to stop and explain my appearance. I would then pull the medical excuse from my breast pocket and watch them try to figure out if it was legitimate. A couple of them asked me to point out the now almost invisible welts to them before they were satisfied. They would then pop to attention, return my salute, and recommend that I should begin shaving again as soon as my medical excuse expired.

By the end of February, I was convinced that I was never going to hear from Sharon again. My disgust for her apparent lack of any kind of compassion for my situation grew exponentially as the days wore on, but for my own peace of mind I decided to carry on as best I could without wasting too much time thinking about her. I began to accept that our marriage was all but over, and I expected that the next time I got any word from her it would be in the form of a set of divorce papers. My sorrow and regret for all things past had all but disappeared, and my feelings for Sharon began to mutate into a dark and deep-seated loathing.

It was about then that a very peculiar, and soon to be recurring, event occurred.

Rescue

One afternoon on the first day of March, as I returned to my room after work, I noticed a small white plastic bag sitting in the center of Nat’s and my writing table. Nat was working the evening shift so I assumed that he’d left the bag there after making a trip to the Base Exchange. After taking a short nap, I washed my face and changed out of my uniform and into a not-too-grimy set of jeans and a short-sleeve shirt for my trip to the chow hall and the evening meal.

I returned to my room and began gathering up a couple of uniforms and some underwear to take down to the deep sink to launder when I noticed that there were now two plastic bags on the table. It struck me as odd because the walk from the Air Defense Center to our barracks took about fifteen minutes, so I knew that Nat would not have had time to return to the room to leave the second bag. And why would he anyway?

I left my room and made the short trek to the deep sink closet, first checking to make sure the custodians had left the building for the day. I spent the next thirty-minutes hand-washing and rinsing my clothes, and after wringing them out the best I could, putting them into a large black plastic bag that I’d liberated from the box of trash bags that I’d found in the broom closet at the Air Defense Center.

Returning to my room, I hung my underwear to dry on the makeshift laundry line I’d hung between the top of my clothes locker and the opposite wall. I held my shorts and T-shirts in place on the line by using large black binder clips which had been used to hold together air defense reports sent up to the division headquarters at the center. All the while I kept eyeing the two bags on the table.

Finally, as I was beginning to iron a damp set of fatigue pants, curiosity got the better of me. I walked over to the table and opened one of the bags. Just inside, I saw what—at first—looked to be a cash register receipt. Instead, it turned out to be a small hand written note addressed to me:

“Hey Frank, we know you must be running short so here’s some stuff to keep you pretty and smelling good. AND SHAVE THAT SHIT OFF YOUR FACE!!”

Surprised, I looked inside of the bag and pulled out five packs of razor blades, a small can of aerosol deodorant, two bars of Ivory soap, and a can of shaving cream. I looked inside of the second bag, and although it did not contain a note, I found a medium tube of toothpaste, a bottle of shampoo, and a small can of Aqua Net hairspray.

Luckily the chair that was usually under the table was just off to the side, because I all but collapsed into it. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Obviously, my friends had gone to the Base Exchange and bought this stuff for me while I was at work. I thought for a bit, then realized that this had been the day that the Air Force and Army got paid.

As I removed the items from the bags I noticed something folded up at the bottom of the one containing the toothpaste. I pulled it out—and what I saw took me by complete surprise. Folded into a neat little square were five five-dollar bills

Emotionally overwhelmed and not knowing what to think, I sat on my chair in my semi-dark room and began to cry.

***

Since Nat’s shift ended at midnight and mine started at six o’clock in the morning, he was fast asleep when I left for work next morning. But before leaving, I wrote ‘Thank you, guys!’ onto the back of the note that had been left for me. That afternoon I ran into Smokey at the chow hall.

“Hey Smokey, what’s going on?” I asked, setting my tray down on the table.

“Not much. What’s up with you?”

“Well, for one thing—I shaved this morning for the first time in almost a month. See? Ta-da!” I stroked my chin as I pulled a chair out.

“About fucking time.” He said, gnawing on a pork chop.

“Hey, if it hadn’t been for you guys I’d still be all shaggy. Anyway, my medical excuse ran out a couple of days ago.”

He looked up from his chop. “What do you mean?”

“You know. The stuff you guys left in my room yesterday.”

“I didn’t leave any stuff. What the fuck you talking about?” Holding the chop in front of his nose he squinted his enormous looking eyes, the gesture pulling his upper lip up and exposing his yellowing nicotine-stained teeth. “You’re mental.” He sucked some grease off his thumb.

I dug into my pork chop and scooped up a fork full of mashed potatoes. “Well anyway. Thanks. You guys are the greatest.”

Smokey put the chop down. “Hey, I know I’m pretty cool and all that, but I have no fucking idea what you’re raving about.”

“The stuff! You know, the stuff you and the guys left in my room from the Base Exchange.”

He balanced some green peas on his butter knife and rolled them into his mouth like marbles. “OK, if someone left some weird shit in your room it wasn’t me—nor was it anyone I know about. Maybe you should fucking lock your room in the future.” He chewed his peas and sort of cocked his head and peeled his enormous eyes at me, looking very much like an interested, but very skinny, dog.

I was about to say something when Peewee and Ramie arrived.

“Hey!” Smokey said to them. “This fucker’s complaining because someone left some shit in his room last night. Did Nat say anything today?” He directed the question at Ramie.

“Nope!” It was odd to see Ramie dressed in his green Army fatigues. “What kinda shit, vato?”

“OK, look. I don’t know what game you guys are playing, but I do appreciate the stuff you left. But really, you didn’t have to leave money.”

“Money?” Peewee exclaimed. “Someone left you some money? Holy shit, I’m gettin’ out of the Army and enlisting in the fucking Air Force. People there leave you money. Jesus!”

“No shit!” Ramie said softly, playing with his mashed potatoes. “When did this happen? Maybe it was the tooth fairy. Open up, Pancho! Let’s see if you’re missing a couple of teeth!”

Everyone but me started laughing. “Hey,” I protested. “I’m just saying that I’m grateful! And you guys absolutely know what the fuck I’m talking about!”

“You know what he’s talking about?” Smokey asked Ramie, who looked over at Peewee.

“Not a fucking clue.” Peewee said. “Hey, we gonna eat, or talk about tooth fairies. If we’re gonna talk about anything I wanna talk about that new naisan down at the ‘Vegas Club!’ Jesus! She is so fucking fine.”

And that was it. The conversation immediately turned to who wanted to do what to whom, down in Naminoue. In a few minutes the meal was over and we left the chow hall heading to our barracks. As we were walking, Ramie asked, “Hey Pancho, why don’t you pull your guitar out and let’s make some music back in your room. You and Peewee can do a really fine ‘Michael Row, the Boat Ashore’ duet, you know?”

“OK, but I think Nat might be coming back to the room pretty soon. I think he’s got a night shift tonight and he may want to sleep.” I said.

“Hey, fuck Nat!” Smokey said, punctuating it with a vicious middle finger salute. “When we get going ain’t nothing stopping us from putting on a damn fine hootenanny!”

And so, once we got back to my room I pulled my guitar out, and we indeed had ourselves a real damn fine hootenanny.

For the next five months, on the first day of each month, two plastic bags full of toiletries—and twenty-five dollars—mysteriously appeared on my table. No one ever confessed, but in my heart, I knew where they were coming from.

A Letter—finally

The letter was dated, “July 7, 1966”; and, it was around 3:30pm, on Friday, July 15^th,when I pulled the envelope from the mail slot in the squadron’s mail room.

Earlier, I had been relieved from my position at the Air Defense Center at 3:00pm, and because we’d been very busy that day tracking B-52 training flights I had passed on lunch. Now I was starving. Walking out into the hot afternoon sun, I had no intention of stopping by the mail room, but because the chow hall didn’t open until 4pm for the evening meal, I decided to burn off a little bit of time by checking my mail instead of waiting in line for the chow hall doors to open.

When I first saw the envelope sitting diagonally in the slot, I groaned internally because I naturally assumed it was from my mother. I had already received two letters from her that week, so when I saw the envelope I thought that now I would have three letters to answer before the weekend was done.

Gripping the envelope, I immediately noticed that it had a different feel to it. My mother wrote her letters on 8 ½ by 10-inch loose-leaf paper, and before stuffing the multi-folded sheets into a standard 5 ¾ inch envelope. In short, her letters all seemed fat, the envelopes almost bursting at the seams. This letter, however, felt different as my fingers grasped and pulled it out. It was lighter and thinner, and the envelope had a slight pink tint.

I looked at it, and immediately recognized Sharon’s lofty script. She left off her name on the upper left return address area of the envelope—penning only her house address and city. Several stamps of different denominations had been glued willy-nilly onto the upper right corner, and the military postal authorities at Travis Air Force Base had made sure they canceled every one of them by repeatedly slamming a hand stamp over each stamp, almost obliterating their face value.

The letter felt light and thin and I momentarily wondered if in fact there was anything in it at all.

I quickly looked around to see if anyone was looking at me because I seemed to have lost track of time and wondered just how long I’d been standing there. The mail room was empty and the hands on the clock on the wall had barely moved.

I thought about sitting down before I opened the envelope, but that would’ve required me to walk over to a small desk that was ten or twelve feet away from me. I told myself that maybe I should just stand.

Realizing that the door was still open to the now empty mail slot, I pushed the glass and brass-framed door until the hasp clicked, then I spun the small combination lock several times to make sure it was locked.

I reached into my pocket and found the small nail clipper that I carried on a link chain with my room keys and exposed the tiny notched blade normally used to trim down the quick on my nails. Running the blade along the top fold of the pinkish envelope, I exposed a single sheet of folded-over stationery. Unfolding the sheet, I forced my eyes to slowly read every word and number written on the letter.

July 7, 1966

Frank,

I’ve asked my mother, my sisters, and my lawyer—and they have all said the same thing. You need to know, and no amount of waiting will make it better. I don’t know how else to say it, so here goes:

I am seven months pregnant.

I don’t know who the father is, nor do I know how this happened. But, it is for real.

I guess I could tell you that I’m sorry, but I doubt that you would believe me since I haven’t written to you since you left Nevada for Okinawa and you are probably angry as hell. But, I am truly sorry.

I’m not sure how you are going to take this, but everyone tells me, and I agree, that what I’ve done is terrible, and not fair to you or the boys. But, what’s done is done.

Let me know what you want to do about this.

Sharon

I read the letter a second time just to make sure that what I’d read was what had been written. It was.

I recall taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out. Then, without thinking, and completely unexpectedly, I said aloud to no one in particular, “Way to go, Sharon. Way to go.”

The mail slots were in a small building which also housed the office of the squadron’s First Sergeant. So again, without giving my actions much thought I walked through a small vestibule and up to a door that was marked, “1^st Sergeant”. The door led to a small ante room where an Air Force orderly was seated. He looked up from his typewriter.

“Can I help you?” he asked, quizzically.

“Yes,” I said, again not thinking about what I was doing. “I have something here that I’d like to show the first sergeant.”

“What is it?”

“A letter.”

“A letter from who?”

“My wife.”

“What’s it say?”

“I’d rather discuss that with the first sergeant. Can I see him?”

“You don’t have an appointment, do you?”

“No, I just got this letter.”

A door behind the orderly suddenly opened and a large gray-haired sergeant emerged. “What’s the problem out here?” He said, sounding slightly annoyed. I’d never seen him before, but he immediately reminded me of a red-faced English bulldog.

The orderly got up rapidly from his chair and turned to face the sergeant. “This airman says he wants to see you because he wants to show you a letter from his wife. I told him he needs an appointment.”

The sergeant looked over the top of the orderly. “You want to see me? Now?”

“Yes sir!” I said.

“And, you want to show me a letter from your wife?”

“Yes sir.”

“What’s it say?”

“I’d rather you read it in private, sir.” The sergeant’s brow went all wrinkly and his eyes narrowed.

“You do, huh? OK, come on in” he said suddenly. Then he added, “This better be important.”

“I think it is,” I said, walking past the orderly and following the sergeant into his office.

Before he sat back down at his desk, he pointed to a small leather chair near the corner of his desk.

“Where’s the letter?” He asked, as he scanned his desk for his reading glasses.

I handed him the letter and sat down. It took him just a few seconds to do a first read on Sharon’s short letter, and as he finished he looked over the letter at me.

He cleared his throat loudly, and his eyes went back to the letter.

After a second reading, he put the letter down and took his glasses off. “Are you OK?” he asked quietly.

“I’m fine.” I said, as I crossed my legs.

“She says here she’s never written you. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been here? On Okinawa, I mean?”

Before I could answer, he spoke again suddenly. “See, that’s why an appointment is necessary. I like to check the files before I speak to anyone. I’m sorry, but I know you work for Sergeant Resor, and that’s about it.”

“That’s OK. I arrived at Naha in late October last year.”

“And, you’ve never heard from your wife until now?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Have you written her?”

“Yes, several times. But when she never answered, I stopped writing.”

“Hmm. So…so, what is it that you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. I thought that maybe you’d have some ideas. I don’t know.”

“Does Resor know about this?”

“No. No one knows. I just got the letter. A few of my friends know she hasn’t written. But no, no one knows about this.” He got up from his desk and handed me the letter. I folded it and put it back in the envelope.

“OK,” he said. “I’m not sure what to do at this point, but for sure I’ll have to brief the squadron commander. Do you want to go home on leave and try to straighten this out with her?”

“Um, I haven’t had time to think about it, but I would say no right now. What am I gonna do there? I don’t even know who she is anymore.”

“I don’t know, maybe try to work things out?”

“Nothing to work out. She’s pregnant and doesn’t know who the father is. What else is there?”

“True. OK, you sure you’re OK? Right?”

“Yes sir, I’m fine. Actually, I feel better now that I’ve heard from her. I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I need a little help there, I guess. I’m worried about my boys.”

“OK, if you’re sure you’re OK I’m gonna let you go back to your barracks. Do you think you may need some duty time off?”

“No.”

“OK, as long as you think you can still do your duty. So, let me discuss this with the commander and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Thank you, sir.” I stood up, snapped to attention, and walked out of his office.

As I exited the building I suddenly remembered how hungry I was. I stuffed the letter into my pocket and headed for the chow hall.

I looked for a table where no one else was sitting and found one in a far corner of the massive dining room and sat down hoping that no one would see me. As I ate, I noticed that I was incredibly at ease and I felt as though a large weight had been lifted off my shoulders; I wondered why I felt this way. I had just received a letter from my wife, after not hearing from her for over nine months; and in it she had delivered what most men would perceive as horribly devastating news. Yet, I felt a strange and overwhelming calm. It wasn’t happiness, but it was as close to relief as I’d felt in a long time.

Things Turn Around

I didn’t tell my friends about the letter; in fact, I didn’t even mention that I’d heard from Sharon at all, but they noticed a definite change in my overall demeanor. In fact, during my bi-weekly hair appointment with Roomie he mentioned the change and asked me if I’d heard from the payroll department.

“No,” I told him, “But I should start getting my regular pay in a couple of months.”

“Cool, because you owe me so much money your first five paychecks will be coming to me.”

I was almost sure he was kidding, but before I could say anything he chuckled and said, “Ha! Had your ass going for a little bit, didn’t I?”

“Well…”

“You dumb shit! You don’t owe me anything. I’ve made so much money off the other guys when they saw how beautiful you ended up looking that I’m booked up for weeks now.”

“Glad to hear it. You are a great barb…um…hair stylist.”

A week after I’d spoken to the First Sergeant I was notified that he wanted to see me again. I was granted official time off one of my duty days to meet with him.

“OK, so I’ve spoken to the squadron commander and here’s what we’re willing to offer. We can grant you ten days of emergency leave and get you booked on a military flight to and from Reno for you to see your wife. The snag is that we are unable to get this approved right away. So, if you want to leave, say…within a week or two, you can, but you’ll have to pay your own way.”

“I don’t want to go now. I don’t have any money to buy an airline ticket anyway.” I responded.

“Right, that’s what I thought. For the Air Force to fund your travel you’ll probably have to wait until sometime around September. I don’t have the exact timeframe, but I’ve been assured that September is a viable date.”

I thought for a few seconds and thought that maybe by then my pay would have resumed. “OK, that may work out for me, but I won’t know for sure until we get closer in.”

“OK, let me know as time goes on. Secondly, what we can do right away is set you up for a MARS call to your wife’s home in Reno.” (The Military Auxiliary Radio System (MARS) was a Department of Defense sponsored program, established as a separately managed and operated program by the U.S. Army, and the U.S Air Force.) “That way, you can at least talk to her and both of you can start to figure out what you may want to do about this problem. The call will be limited to about ten minutes, but at least you can get started on a solution.”

“No, I don’t want to talk to her on the phone.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“May I ask why?”

“What would I say to her? What would I ask her? She’s already said she doesn’t know who the father is, which I think is a lie, and she would only continue to deny it. No, I’d rather just face her and settle this in person.”

“OK, you know that based on the information she gave you, she’s probably due to have that baby in September. You know that, don’t you?”

“Well, now that you mention it.”

“What if she gives birth before you arrive? What then?”

“I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out in September.”

“All right. So you want me to tell the commander that you’re willing to wait until September to take your ten days of emergency leave, and at this time you don’t want to use MARS to call her?”

“Yes.”

“Do you plan to write her back?”

“Oh, I will…but not right away. I’ll write her back sometime before I leave on my emergency leave.” Hearing this, the first sergeant’s brow went all wrinkly again.

“You sure? I know you’re probably pissed and maybe hurt, but are you sure you want to keep her waiting for an answer?”

“Sure, why not? She kept me waiting for nine months.”

He dismissed me and authorized my not returning back to work for the rest of the day. I almost refused, but then I thought I’d just go back to my room and catch a quick nap before the evening meal.

And if things weren’t weird enough already…

***

At work, it was announced that our squadron was now in competition with other squadrons on the base for the highest percentage of participation in the annual United Fund Campaign. On the morning of the campaign’s kickoff, and before we were allowed to relieve the midnight shift, the Air Force base commander, some general whom I’d never seen before, gave us a “rousing” (or so he thought) speech on why this charity drive was so important. He informed us that the squadron who ended up with the highest participation (“it’s not how much you give, it’s how many of us give”) would win a really nifty plaque which would then be mounted on a wall in the hallway right outside of our control room. And as a special treat, the chow hall pastry chef would be commissioned to bake a distinctive cake decorated with the winning squadron’s logo carved into the yummy icing—from which we should all get a very nice little slice.

As with all the other rah-rah speeches preceding the various and sundry charity drives, this one was received by our group with the usual high level of disinterest: large hyena-like yawns and huge amounts of genital pulling and scratching. Contrary to our normal behavior, we couldn’t wait for the speech to end so we could get to work.

At the end of the presentation we all got our very own personalized donation envelope and, even though it was completely voluntary, we were urged to reach down “really deep” into our pockets and give until it hurt.

I stuffed the envelope into my back pocket and headed for the control room. A few hours later, the shift officer, a newly arrived master sergeant, approached me at my position on the daïs.

“Hey airman. I’m picking up the United Fund envelopes if you’ve already made your donation. If not, then I’ll be by tomorrow.”

“Sure, here’s mine. Unfortunately, I don’t have any money to donate.” I handed him the empty envelope. He looked at it and focused primarily on my name printed on the front.

“Airman DeLeón, is it?”

“Yes sir.”

“And, you are refusing to give to the United Fund.” He generated his best unhappy scowl.

“No sir. I would love to contribute, but I just don’t have any money.”

“Well then, take this back and bring it in tomorrow after you’ve put your contribution in tonight.”

“Well sir, as I said, I don’t have any money. Neither in my pocket now nor in my room later.”

“You do understand that the amount of the contribution is not the point. It’s the level of participation that’s important.”

“Yes sir, I understand that.”

“So, dig into your pocket and put a dime into the envelope.”

“I don’t have a dime.”

“A nickel.”

“I don’t have a nickel.”

“A fucking penny, then!”

“Sorry sir, I don’t even have a penny.” The look on his face had changed from a disapproving scowl to simmering rage.

“Airman! You are on the verge of insubordination! Do you understand that?”

“Sir. It is not my intention to be insubordinate. I just don’t have any money. Sorry.”

“So you fucking spend every cent you get in your paycheck on what? Whores and booze? Is that what you’re telling me?!”

“No sir! Not at all.”

“Then what is it you do with your money?” By now, the main point of interest in the control room had shifted from the air traffic displayed on the electronic board, to the growing verbal exchange between me and the very disturbed sergeant.

“Sir, I don’t get a paycheck. Haven’t seen one since late last year.”

“OK! That’s enough! Come with me!”

“Sir, I can’t leave my position without proper relief. Sorry.”

“AIRMAN! I AM ORDERING YOU TO FOLLOW ME…NOW!!” Since the entire control room was witness to my being ordered to leave my position by a superior officer I decided to comply.

“Sure. Where would you like for me to go.” I don’t believe the sergeant was in complete control of his actions as he turned abruptly, nearly upending the airman with whom I was working next to.

I followed him as he led me out through the main doors of the control room and asked me to wait in the hallway. He stomped away in the direction of the Air Defense Center’s commanding officer’s office.

A few minutes later, a female airman walked up to me. “Airman DeLeón?”

“Yes.”

“Please follow me.”

“Where to?”

“The colonel would like to speak to you. Please come with me.”

“OK.” I followed her down the hallway and in though a large glass door marked, “Commander”. She ushered me through another set of wooden doors and into a spacious office where a highly decorated bird colonel was sitting. The master sergeant, now somewhat calmed down, was standing next to the colonel’s desk.

I popped to attention. “Airman DeLeón, reporting sir.”

“At ease, airman.” The colonel said. He was holding my wrinkled and very empty United Fund donation envelope. “The good sergeant here tells me you were a bit insubordinate with him regarding your refusal to give to the United Fund.”

“Sir…permission to speak plainly.”

“Of course. Please do.”

“Sir, it was not my intention to be insubordinate. I tried to explain to the sergeant that I just don’t have any money.”

“OK, I understand that. Since you’ll get paid next week can I ask you to set aside a few cents for a contribution? The drive will not end for another two weeks, or so.”

“OK, as much as I’d like to contribute I will also be unable to do so next week. See, I don’t get a paycheck.” The colonel’s look went from kind and understanding, to confused.

“What do you mean, you don’t get a paycheck?”

“I haven’t received a paycheck since November of last year.” He looked a bit confused but seemed to be really trying to understand what I was saying.

“Come again?”

“That’s it, sir. No pay for almost nine months.” He didn’t say a word for what seemed to be a full minute. He just stared at me while turning the empty envelope over and over in hands.

Finally, he said slowly, “You know…all I have to do is pick up the phone to verify that what you’ve told me is a lie. You know that, don’t you?”

“Sir, with all due respect, you can call anyone you want. I haven’t gotten a paycheck for a long time.” The colonel pushed his large leather chair back and stood up.

“Airman, please take a chair outside. I’ll call you back in after I make some calls.”

“Yes sir!” I popped to attention and snapped a very sharp salute, then I walked out into the outer room. I didn’t have long to wait.

“Airman DeLeón!” The master sergeant, now wearing a very different expression on his face called me. “Would you please join us?” I walked back into the colonel’s office. I noticed my empty donation envelope had been placed on the edge of the desk, and the colonel had a yellow legal pad in front of him. The top page was filled with a lot of scribbling.

“At ease, airman,” the colonel said softly. “Have you told anyone about your non-pay status?”

“Well sir, Sergeant Resor, my immediate supervisor, should know. He and my past commanding officer worked out this arrangement after my overpayment was discovered.”

“Yes, I know all about that now. What did you do with the money?

“I sent it to my wife with instructions to send me a little money every month for me to live on, but she never did. She kept the all the money.”

Let me ask you—what have you been living on for the last nine months?”

“Well sir, I’d rather not say.”

“Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist, airman.” He said, a bit sternly.

“I..uh…my friends have been supporting me. They’ve been buying me stuff at the Base Exchange, like soap and such, and have been donating twenty-five dollars a month to me since I stopped getting paid. Also, I wash my own clothes, and one of the Army guys in my barracks gives me haircuts. They also take me downtown and buy me dinner and drinks every once in a while. That’s how.”

The colonel shook his head slowly. “Unbelievable…”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who made the decision to completely cut your pay to zero?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I’m going to find out, that’s for sure. But for now, I’ve ordered the Finance Office to disperse a hundred dollars in cash to you immediately. When we’re done here, you are dismissed from duty for the rest of the day, and you are go to the Finance Office directly. When you arrive, show your ID card and mention my name. If they refuse to give you the funds, I want you to call me immediately.”

Everything was happening so fast I didn’t know what to say…so I just said, “Yes, sir.”

I left the colonel’s office and reported to the control room. I advised the shift officer that I’d been excused from duty, but he already seemed to know. Then I walked the eight blocks to the Finance Office, identified myself, and immediately received ten crisp ten-dollar bills. I walked back out and hailed a base taxi to chauffer me back to my barracks.

***

A few days later, I found out through the grapevine that a civilian employee working at the Finance Office had been terminated, Sergeant Resor and a couple of past and present line officers had all received Letters of Reprimand in their files. Also procedures, which apparently existed but had not been implemented in my case, were to be immediately reviewed by all supervisory personnel regarding overpayments to enlisted airmen.

These procedures stipulated that when an overpayment had been made and was not immediately recoverable, the recipient would be required to pay back the overpayment in equal monthly amounts. However, in no case would the recipient be required to live without a stipend being paid to him by the U.S. Air Force. That stipend, ten dollars, would come out of a general fund and be dispersed to the recipient on a monthly basis until the deficit was settled. At that time, repayment of the monthly ten-dollar stipend would commence until the total amount was satisfied.

Obviously, and in my case, someone either missed or completely ignored, that little procedure.

The Ice Breaks

The afternoon after I’d received my hundred-dollar stipend, Nat came into our room wearing a very concerned expression and asked if I was OK. I told him I was fine but wondered why he was asking.

“Well, word spread like wildfire after that dickhead reamed your ass out over not being able to contribute to the United Fund Drive. After he dragged your ass out, we all figured you were going to get demoted or something. Everything turn out OK?”

“Well, yes and no.”

“Fuck man, which is it?”

“Mostly OK, I’d say—but I’d like to get everyone together tonight, or whenever we can, because I need to share some news.”

“OK, I know Smokey’s off work but I’m not sure about Ramie, Peewee, or Roomie. You want me to check?”

“Could you? While you do that I gotta run over to the snack bar and get a Coke. Why don’t you see if you can get the guys together and then let me know.”

“Will do.” Nat left the room on his way over to the Army side of our barracks, and I headed down to the snack bar.

Because it was still early in the afternoon, the cute and petite, but always angry, Okinawan girl was still working at the snack bar. As usual, she was not behind the counter where she belonged, but instead was sitting at a small table that was supposed to be for paying customers. She was reading a small gray book and writing notes into a ringed memo pad. I walked up to the counter and waited for her to get up and wait on me.

As was her habit, she completely ignored me and continued to read and write on the pad. After a few minutes, I decided to approach her.

“Excuse me, could I get a Coke to go?” She appeared to take greater interest in what she was doing and continued to ignore me. “Excuse me!” Again, no response. She took the short pencil and used the lead end to satisfy an itch that had suddenly come up in her scalp. I noticed that she was wearing her hair in two short pony-tails—each tied off with a rubber-band tie-up, decorated with little plastic daisies. They reminded me of Roomie’s flip-flops. Then I thought I’d try something novel.

“Suminasen? Tetsudatte itadakemasu ka?” (Excuse me, can you help me?)

Her head jerked up and she dropped her pencil. “Nani?!” (What?!) She asked, eyes wide. “Nihongo o wakarimasu ka?” (Do you know Japanese?)

“Sukoshi…” I said, making the “little” gesture with my thumb and forefinger.

“Ahh, sodesu ka.” (Oh, is that so?)

“Yes, I’ve learned just a little bit since I’ve been here on Okinawa. I see you’re studying English. How’re you coming along with that?”

“Mmm, sore wa hijo ni muzukashi, ne?” (Um, it’s very hard, isn’t it?)

That one threw me. “Oh sorry, I’m not that good. I didn’t get that.”

“It’s…vedy haawwd.” She said slowly. I looked at her closely, and for the first time I saw how pretty she really was.

“Oh, hard! Yes, English is very hard. I also speak Spanish, and sometimes I wonder how people who are learning English do it.”

“Eh?” She asked, cocking her head.

“Oh, nothing. Yes, English is hard.”

“Hai…” (Yes…)

“Anyway, can I have a Coke to go, please?”

“Hai!” And she quickly got up from the table and stepped behind the counter. She handed me a can and I gave her a dollar. For the first time since I’d been in the barracks she didn’t throw the change back at me. “Domo arigato.” I said.

“You’re welcome.” She said in return.

When I got back to my room Nat was still gone, so I sat on my bed and pulled Sharon’s letter out again. No matter how many times I read it I had the same thought. The news should’ve devastated me but for some odd reason I felt nothing. Maybe, I thought, I’m still in a bit of shock given all that’s occurred in the past few days.

The door suddenly flew open and the guys came pouring in. Smokey seemed in a particularly jovial mood and immediately jumped on me, putting me in a head lock. Although my ears were partially blocked by his skinny forearms and his bony ribcage, I could still hear Roomie screaming like a girl for Smokey to let me go because he was messing up my hair, and Jesus Christ, he’d just have to fix it up all over again. Smokey finally released me—but not before giving me a good noogie. Handshakes and hugs all around and we finally settled down.

“OK guys, I have some news!” I announced.

“What? Wait, lemme guess!” Ramie said. “You’re gonna go after that little gook bitch in the snack bar, right?”

“What?” I asked, surprised.

“Yeah, I saw you sweet-talking her in the snack bar a while ago. She was actually smiling after you left, you sly fucker.”

To be continued…

Okinawa – Part Three

Okinawa

Part Three

November 1965-January 1966

The Waiting Game

With the letter and the money order for nine-hundred dollars sent off, I concluded that the only thing that was left for me to do was to wait. I knew that eventually the Finance Office would discover their error and come looking for me—but I also knew what I would tell them, having run through it repeatedly in my head for the past few days.

So, for the next few days I stuck with my newly emerging routine: going to work and getting better at my official duties, coming home to the barracks and hanging out with Nat and the guys, and finally, trying to get familiar with the Okinawan people, the local customs, and the language.

Even though I’d been somewhat disappointed by the island when I first arrived, after a few weeks the place began to grow on me. I found myself taking interest in the geography of the island, and wondered how it must’ve been for the World War Two soldiers who had to fight their way from one end of the island to the other.

I learned that we hadn’t been fighting the Okinawan people, but rather the Japanese Army who had taken over the island and brainwashed the locals into believing that the Americans were merciless monsters who would indiscriminately murder the men, viciously dismember children, and rape the women. I discovered that most of the Okinawans were a gentle, hardworking, and gracious people. Even the seemingly hard-nosed bar girls, once removed from their nighttime dog-eat-dog nightclub environment, were incredibly normal and exceedingly polite when out in public.

Most of the people I had contact with during my first few weeks were lower-income: shop keepers, taxi drivers, waiters and waitresses, and of course our crew of custodians who took care of our huge barracks building. I found that at first, they tended to be shy—probably because of their limited use and understanding of English—but as soon as they sensed that I wanted to learn to communicate with them in their language their shyness faded away.

The only notable exception was the petite, pale-skinned girl who worked in the snack bar in our barracks. No matter what approach I used: nice, rude or non-committal, her demeanor never changed. She was consistently ill-mannered, and always gave me and all her other customers the impression that she was angry, short-tempered, and not in any mood to be trifled with. I often wondered how she kept her job.

After several trips over the next few weeks to Naha’s bar district—Naminoue—I found myself getting quickly bored with the same old routine. It was a constant battle fighting off the bar girls who insisted that because they chose to sit next to me I should buy them their drinks. Three or four drinks later one would find himself without funds; after which even the most insistent bargirl quickly lost interest.

Most of the guys outside of my little group, particularly the new arrivals, seemed to believe that if they spent enough money on a bargirl, or two, it automatically entitled them a night of sexual enjoyment. I’m not going to say it never worked, but they would’ve done much better and spent a whole lot less money by just going to one of the “hotels” on the outskirts of the bar district and asking the proprietor for a “naisan short-time”. The going rate ran about two dollars for a “short-time”, or twenty bucks for an “around the world”. An “all-nighter” was almost unheard of, and was probably well beyond most of our salaries. Although most of the girls who worked the hotels were usually not as attractive as the bargirls were, satisfaction was almost always guaranteed.

Soon tiring of the bar scene, on my off days I began to make trips into the city of Naha by myself, usually just walking and not taking taxis. I avoided the bars, and instead spent time checking out the small stores and shops where the locals did their daily shopping.

I discovered some very fine, if not infinitesimally small, eateries where the dishes were not only delicious, but also inexpensively priced, and I found myself visiting them several times a week. At first the proprietors, usually an older married couple, tried to “bum-rush” me out—thinking that perhaps I had mistakenly entered their establishment thinking it was a bar. But, after several explanatory gestures and a couple of Japanese phrases that I’d learned, I would usually convince them that I was there to eat, after which I was warmly welcomed. And once they saw how handy I was with ohashi (chopsticks) all precautions seemed to disappear.

Most pleasing of all, I realized one day that except for those times when I found myself stepping over an open one, I had become mostly immune to the unsettling odors emanating from the benjos paralleling almost every street.

So before I knew it, November turned into December and I realized that I had yet to receive a money order from Sharon. Actually, I hadn’t heard from Sharon at all. And worse, I found that I was just a few dollars short of being dead broke.

***

I quickly penned another letter to Sharon, as I had been doing just about every day, but this time I stressed that if I didn’t receive the twenty-five-dollar money order in the next few days I would be completely out of funds. Since I had not heard from her at all I assumed that the post office, either in Reno or at the military postal center on Okinawa, had somehow messed up the deliveries.

As I finished writing this latest letter I decided that instead of just dropping it in a mail receptacle the next day, I would hand-carry it directly to the military postal center on the base. That way I would ask and maybe be able to find out where the snag in my mail delivery was.

The following day, I left work and walked the ten blocks to the postal center. I waited in line for about fifteen minutes and finally walked up to the window where an Army private greeted me.

“Hi, what can I do for you?” He asked cheerfully.

“Hi, well first I’d like to post this letter to my wife if I could.”

“Oh, sure!” He said, reaching for the letter. “Reno? OK, she should get this in about five days. Anything else?” He asked as he slid the envelope into a slot labeled, ‘Stateside’.

“Oh, yes. Listen, I haven’t received a letter from home and I was wondering if there’s some kind of problem with mail delivery to my barracks.”

“Let me check. What’s your barracks number?”

I gave him the number and he excused himself as he stepped away from the counter. “DeLeón, Right?” He asked, looking over his shoulder.

“Uh, yes. Airman Second Class.”

“OK, hold on.” And he disappeared behind through a door marked “Authorized Personnel Only!”

I expected to see him return with a handful of letters in his hand, but about five minutes later he reappeared empty-handed.

“Sorry, airman. I didn’t find anything with your name on it. Are you sure she’s writing? Did she tell you when her letters were sent?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve yet to receive a letter from her. Not one.”

“Hmm. How long since you’ve been here?”

“I got here in late October…and I’ve written her just about every day. But…I’ve not received any response. You know?”

He kind of looked at me sadly. “Oh, I see. OK look, I’ll send a query back up through Anchorage, then stateside to see if somehow your mail is getting hung up. I’ll expedite it since you haven’t received any mail at all.”

“Oh, well that’s not entirely true. I’ve received several letters from my mom, but nothing from my wife. So…you know…I was…I was thinking that maybe the Reno post office is screwed up somehow because I’m getting mail from Houston.”

“Oh…” He said softly. “OK, look. I’m still gonna send the query, but are you sure your wife has written? I mean…it’s none of my business, but did you guys part on good terms?”

“Good terms? Well…sure. I mean, we weren’t mad at each other—or anything like that. No, nothing like that. It’s just that I sent her some money and I want to make sure she got it OK. But…I haven’t heard.”

“I’ll do the best I can, but in the meantime, you need to contact someone who lives close to your wife to see if everything is alright. You know what I mean?”

“Sure, yes—that’s a good idea. I’ll do just that.” I said, knowing that there was no one in Reno that I could contact. “Thanks for your help.” I said, turning sharply as I walked away.

“Hey! If I find something I’ll get in touch with you, OK?”

“Sure…thanks.” I said dejectedly over my shoulder. I walked slowly out into the bright Okinawan sunshine and started the long walk back to my barracks…the small lump in my throat that had suddenly appeared stubbornly refused to go away.

A couple of days later I spent the last of my money at the base exchange on a bar of soap and a five-pack of razor blades. I was now officially broke, with no hope of being paid for another ten months.

***

The days dragged by one by one, and I became just a little more depressed every time I checked the mail slot and found nothing from Sharon. Mom’s letters, arriving just about every other day, failed to cheer me up and I finally stopped reading them altogether. Seeing the growing pile of colorfully stamped envelopes—my name and rank written in my mother’s familiar child-like scrawl—brought a bitter feeling of despair instead of the joy that was intended.

Two weeks after completely running out of money, I walked into the mailroom and saw an envelope that didn’t look at all like something my mother would send. My heart skipped a beat and I spun the little combination lock hurriedly, anxious to yank the glass door open and pull Sharon’s letter out.

It was addressed to me—but the sender’s name and address was not what I expected: “Military Postal Command, Travis Air Force Base, CA”.

My heart sank.

I ripped open the envelope and read the short message. It explained that in response to the query sent by the Main Military Postal Center at Naha Air Base, Naha, Okinawa, no letters addressed to A2C Frank DeLeón, originating from Sharon L. DeLeón, had been found in the “dead letter” department nor anywhere else. It advised that I should contact the Reno Post Office and request further information about missing letters. Blah, blah, blah…

For a long time, I sat on the edge of my bunk in my darkening room thinking about my future. I thought that maybe I should just go to the Finance Office, confess my larcenous intentions, and beg for mercy. At least if I was thrown into jail I would have my most basic needs met. But my shame paralyzed and overwhelmed me, so I just sat there in the dark for the next few hours. As it turned out, I didn’t have long to wait.

The next day, while on my lunch break at work, I was summoned to meet with Sergeant Resor. He met me in his small office next to the control room.

“Sit down, Frank.” He said, after I reported in. He was holding a sheet of paper that appeared to have only a couple of sentences written on it. “I received this message this morning from our squadron commander, and he in turn received it from the commander of finance on the base. Could you read this and explain to me what it means, please?”

I took the sheet from him and began to read what I already knew it said. My heart was pumping wildly and suddenly all the things I had planned to say completely disappeared from my memory.

“Uh, yeah…” I stuttered, handing the sheet back to him, “it says I was paid nine-hundred dollars in error on my last pay check. It should’ve been ninety dollars.”

“Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“You were given a check for nine hundred dollars instead of ninety dollars?”

“Yes, I was.”

He looked up from the sheet of paper and looked directly into my eyes. “Frank. Do you still have that check?”

“No.”

“What did you do with it?”

I squirmed in my chair and a queasy feeling began to rise from my gut into my chest. I took a deep breath trying to push the feeling back down. “Well…I went to the credit union, opened an account, and cashed it out.”

A look of relief washed over his face. “Oh, thank God! Then you still have the money? So, you cashed the check and deposited it into your new account, right?”

“Well…” I stammered, “well, not exactly.”

“No? Well, what exactly did you do with the money then?”

“I…ah…bought a money order and sent the money to my wife back home.”

“You…what?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. But see here’s what I thought.”

He didn’t seem interested to hear what I had to say, but instead blurted out sternly. “You know you can be court-martialed for this, don’t you?”

My bowels almost let loose. “Oh…I never thought…about…”

“Well, it’s painfully obvious that you didn’t think! My God!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Can you get the money back from her? She didn’t spend it all, did she?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“No, see…she hasn’t written me back yet…so I don’t know.”

“OK! You did this…why?”

“Well, I knew it was a gross overpayment, you know. But I thought that if I played dumb and sent the money to my wife…then…uh…she could, you know, like send me a little bit back each month…well, we could save a lot of it. I was thinking that maybe when I was able to bring her and my boys to Okinawa, we’d have most of that money put away.”

“That just doesn’t make any good sense, Frank! You gambled your Air Force career on no one finding out about this?”

“NO!” I almost yelled out. “I knew that eventually someone would discover the overpayment—and when they did, I wouldn’t get paid anymore until it was made up. So, I asked my wife to send me twenty-five dollars a month, since I was probably not going to be getting paid anymore for a long time. See, I figured that twenty-five dollars was all I would need after they found out—because, well, I get my food and lodging—and all I need over that is a little money for personal expenses. See?”

He stared at me for what seem to be several very long and hard minutes. “I don’t know what to say, Frank. That has to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah…I know. I shouldn’t have done it—I guess.”

“So, you haven’t received any money from her yet? It’s been almost two months.”

“Uh, well…no…not yet. But, I know I should be getting something from her soon. You know, it takes the letters to and from Reno a long time to go back and forth.”

“Do you have any money now?”

“Oh! Money? Oh, sure! I’m good. See…still have some of my travel money, and I’m using that. Yeah, I’m OK.” I thought that sounded better than telling him I was dead broke.

He looked back at the paper and sighed deeply. After a minute or so, he said, “Look, the commander left this for me to sort out. So, I’ll just explain to him that you thought the nine hundred dollars was for travel and you sent the money home to your wife. I will also tell him that you agree not to receive any monthly payments until that amount of overpayment has been paid back; since you will be receiving the money back from your wife on a monthly basis. I don’t know if I can convince him not to refer you to the Adjutant General (military district attorney) for what you did, but I truly believe you didn’t do this with any malice aforethought. I promise I’ll do my best. From what I’ve seen, you’re a good kid and I don’t think you had any bad intentions. You just made a really stupid decision.”

“OK, Sergeant Resor…thank you. And, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, well forget about that for now and let me work with the colonel on this. But I just want to make sure that you will not end up having no money at all. Please tell me that your wife has agreed to this arrangement.”

“Oh yes! I mean, I’m sure she has. It’s just that I haven’t heard back from her yet. But when I do I’ll for sure have the first twenty-five bucks. But see, I told her there was no real hurry since I’m still good. So, it may be a few more days before I hear from her.” My lie was so convincing that I almost believed it myself.

“All right. Let me work this out with the boss. I’m confident the issue will stay in our squadron since he doesn’t want a black mark on his career either. Court martials tend to be messy and have been known to cause a lot of collateral damage—particularly to general officers’ careers. OK, you’re dismissed.” He got up and quickly left the room.

I don’t remember getting up from the table or walking out of the room, but I know that I spent a good amount of time in the men’s room. I wasn’t sure whether I needed to sit on the pot or kneel in front of it.

Roomie Creates a Style

In a matter of days, the issue had been resolved. Sergeant Resor asked me to sign a document that said that was agreeing to the fact that I had received ten month’s pay in advance in one lump sum, and that I understood that the Finance Office would make no further payments until the nine hundred dollar deficit had been satisfied. In short, for the next ten months I would not receive any pay. If I agreed to those terms, then the military would take no further action against me.

Still believing that the monthly twenty-five-dollar stipend would soon be arriving from Sharon, and assured that a court-martial was no longer in play, I happily signed the document.

My upbeat mood was short-lived considering that I was now completely out of money, so as I returned to my room, I sat down and began to do some long-range budget planning.

For starters, my trips to Naha would have to stop. With no money for taxis to transport me from and to the base, and I could no longer afford the luxury of eating or drinking out. Since I could no longer afford to send my uniforms out for laundry and dry cleaning, I scouted out some makeshift laundry facilities in my barracks and found that the small room with a deep sink that the janitorial crew used to rinse out their mops and wash rags should do nicely. Surely, they would not even miss the small amount of detergent that I would be using to wash my uniforms and underwear about once a week. In addition, my roommate, Nat, had an iron that I was sure he would be more than happy to lend me should I need to use it.

What seemed to be a bigger problem was that of my personal hygiene; i.e. blades for shaving, deodorant, bath soap and shampoo, and those pesky little haircuts that the military required us to get once every couple of weeks. After checking my supply of toiletries, I found that I had a few blades left in a cartridge, one bar of soap that should last me about a month, one can of aerosol deodorant that was almost new, and about half a bottle of shampoo. So if I didn’t hear from Sharon soon it looked like I would be OK for the next few weeks—except for haircuts.

With my tentative plan in place, I resumed a greatly altered lifestyle. I regularly turned down my friends’ invitations to go downtown after work, excusing myself by telling them that I was too tired or wasn’t in the mood. Instead, I became a three, and sometimes, four-meal-a-day regular at the chow hall. I began checking out books at the base library and devoted my after-shift hours and days off to reading and sleeping—and of course, playing my guitar.

On my weekends, having noted that it was when the custodians were least likely to be using the deep sink, I took to hand washing my clothing. Because I didn’t have any, I couldn’t starch my fatigues like I preferred to, but I made sure to iron a set just before my shift started so they’d look fresh.

One Friday evening, after turning down yet another invitation to accompany my buddies downtown, Roomie came bouncing back into my room.

“Hey gorgeous! What’cha doing?” He cheerfully asked.

“Oh nothing,” I said, rolling off my bed and marking my page in a book of Edgar Allen Poe short stories. “Just catching up on some reading. How about you? Why aren’t you with the guys down in Naha?”

“Aw shit, you know. All they want to do is barhop and flirt with the naisans hoping to get laid. And you know Ramie, he’s just a cockhound, trying to keep his stable of bargirls in line. Boring!”

“Yeah.”

“But, the real question is—why are you all of a sudden doing this ‘intellectual act’? Reading and shit. What’s up? You’ve been acting like your dog died. Wife dump you?”

“Naw, nothing like that. You know, I just need to slow down a little bit…and…well, save a little money. Christmas is coming up and…you know…stuff like that.”

“Bullshit! Look buddy,” Roomie said, pulling out the chair from under our solitary table and flopping down. “For the last couple of weeks you’ve been avoiding all of us—eating like a porker at that god-awful chow hall, and turning into a fucking monk. And…what the hell are you doing sneaking into the gooks’ mop closet at all hours? I thought I saw you washing clothes in there in the middle of the night! What the fuck is going on?”

I wasn’t prepared to spill my guts right then and there, so I continued to dance around the issue.

“Oh, that! Well, you know how the laundry is, so I just thought I’d do my own clothes. Hell, when I was in Alaska I used to have my own little laundry service. Made a pretty good chunk of change too!”

“Yeah, well this isn’t fucking Alaska. And, you ain’t doing anyone’s laundry but your own. So what the fuck’s going on?”

I put my book down on the bed and stared at the floor.

“And further,” Roomie continued. “No one else may have noticed, but I got an eye for hair—and yours is getting a tad shaggy, buddy! What? You can’t afford a dollar to go get your head massacred by Joe Chink and his slope-headed pals at the base barbershop?”

“Well…I didn’t think…”

“Look amigo. Look at me! This is fucking Roomie talking! If you’ve got money problems, girl problems, or…shit…even dick problems, I’m here to listen. That’s what friends are for. Get it?”

“Look Roomie, I…I…don’t think you can help my situation, OK?”

“Well fuck that! No—I can’t, if I don’t know what the hell’s bothering you, now can I? So ‘fess up bitch! What’s grinding your ass?”

It seemed that Roomie was not going to leave me alone until I spilled the beans. “Well…OK. But this has to stay between just you and me, OK?

“Sure, whatever. What’s eating you?”

“I guess it started when I got overpaid a few weeks ago.”

“You…got…overpaid? Shit, why would that be a problem?”

“Well…”

“Oh fuck! Don’t tell me you went down to Naminoue and blew the whole fucking wad on some gook cunt? Is that what happened? Now you have to pay the fucking money back, and you’re broke? Is that it?”

“No, that’s not really it.” And with that, I began to tell Roomie the entire story of my overpayment, the decision to send the money to Sharon, and my fear that she’d left me high and dry—and thirty minutes later I was done.

“Well fuck, buddy! That was a dumb fuck thing to do, wasn’t it?

“Yeah, you got that right.”

“But, lucky for you, I got your back—at least for one of your problems. Tomorrow morning I want you to take your shower around nine o’clock. I’ll be here in your room at nine-thirty sharp, and we’ll take care of that mop on your head. I need to stay sharp anyway—and boy, do I have some ideas on what to do with your hair!”

“Roomie, I don’t need you to give me free haircuts. I can make do.”

“So what? You want to go all shaggy and shit? Na-huh, boyfriend! Not on my watch you’re not. I’m going to make you the most beautiful boy in this barracks by eleven tomorrow morning! You watch!”

“No, Roomie!”

“You ain’t in no position to refuse, OK? And don’t go all macho on me—that’s just so…gauche! So, be ready to get all prettied up tomorrow morning. I can’t wait to get my hands on that black-haired mop of yours! Yum!! Oh! And be sure to shampoo all that greasy shit out of your hair, and please leave it wet. If you need some good stripping shampoo stop by my room on your way to the shower and I’ll let you use some of mine.”

“Uh, no thanks.” I wasn’t sure what “stripping shampoo” was, but I was sure I didn’t want to use it.

“Oh, and wear something that you won’t mind getting some hair on and getting a little wet. I don’t have a hair cape so we’ll just have to improvise!”

So with that, Roomie leaped off the chair, pulled me up by the shoulders and planted a big sloppy kiss on my cheek. Before I had a chance to complain he bounced out of my room and was merrily skipping down the hallway, singing at the top of his voice a verse from one of the songs from the movie musical, ‘West Side Story’:

“I feel pretty, I feel pretty, I feel pretty and witty and GAYYYYY!”

***

By the following morning, word had spread throughout the large barracks that Roomie was going to “style” some Air Force guy’s hair. I was almost sure that Roomie himself had started the rumor just to make sure he had an audience and to maybe as a way to start a customer base. This was 1965, and aside from a select group of people in Southern California, male “hair styling” was still in its infancy and almost unheard of.

As I was finishing my shower, I overheard a couple of Army guys making remarks regarding that “fag” from SoCal doing some other “fag’s” hair on the lower floor. They wondered aloud what the world was coming to when someone else commented that they’d spied Roomie early this morning buying hair spray at the Base Exchange.

I wondered if maybe agreeing to Roomie’s suggestion that he cut my hair might end up being a serious life altering experience for both of us. However, I decided to soldier on.

I was relieved to find that Roomie had not arrived at my room yet, and even more relieved when I saw that Nat was gone. I assumed he’d decided to get some late breakfast and I hoped he’d be gone for a while. I quickly dressed in a pair of swim shorts and a T shirt, hoping that he wouldn’t ask me to change.

Roomie showed up a few minutes later, sounding out the “shave and a haircut—two-bits” rhythm rap on my door. To my ghastly surprise, he was standing there wearing an outfit that I had never seen him, or for that matter any other male, wear before. Around his head, a tuft of blond hair popping up over the top, was a flowery silk scarf—tied off high on his forehead in an oversized bowknot. A tie-dyed T shirt, chopped off four or five inches above his navel rode high over the most garish looking skin-tight aqua-colored capri pants. On his feet, he wore a pair of pink flip-flops with a couple of large pastel-colored flowers attached to the toe straps.

“Hi-ho! Your nine-thirty appointment has arrived, bitch! Get ready to be beautified!” And he, for lack of a better word, “sashayed’ in.

He was carrying a large cloth bag that he dumped on my still unmade bed. It contained a can of ‘Aqua Net’ hair spray, various combs and brushes, and a couple of wired appliances—one resembling an air gun.

“OK!” he said joyfully, “let’s get this show on the road.”

He pulled the chair from under the table and after looking around, made a pile of several of my books and put them on the seat.

“There, now I can see what I need to do. Come on, upsy-daisy.” He said, motioning for me to sit on the books.

This turned out to be a haircut like I’d never had before. Having gotten used to ones that lasted four or five minutes tops, this one took most of an hour. He scissored, brushed, combed, buzzed, and scissored again. Then he spritzed my hair with some warm water and did it all over again. I felt as though I was being clipped bald.

Finally, he dug out the apparatus that looked like some plastic gun, plugged it in to a wall outlet, and began to blow my head with hot air. After a while, he switched to another gadget, which he also plugged into the wall, which resembled a short-round sabre.

“OK, now we’re going to shape your hair with this hot iron, so don’t fidget or I’ll burn your scalp!”

“You’re going to do what?”

“Oh, shut the fuck up! You’re a bigger sissy than I am. Stop it!”

And he began taking sections of what hair I had left, putting it in the iron and pulling it through. Lastly, and to my relief, he told me to close my eyes and began to spray my head with the can of Aqua Net.

“There! Now don’t you look so pretty!” He pulled a round mirror out of the cloth bag and held it in front of my face. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

It seemed that every hair follicle on my head had found its rightful place, and styled straight back, Roomie had blow-dried a small pompadour across my upper forehead. Although I’d felt as though he’d clipped my hair right down to my scalp, the image that was reflected from the hand mirror showed my head with more hair than I’d ever seen. It was immaculate.

“Holy shit, Roomie!”

“Nice, huh?”

“Well, yes—it’s unbelievable.”

To my complete surprise, and embarrassment at the same time, the audience—that had grown from three or four guys to about a dozen—broke into wild applause and loud cheering. To my horror, Roomie turned to the crowd, now spilling out into the hallway, and curtsied! And I mean a full-blown lady-to-queen-type curtsy.

“I’ll be taking appointments right after I get back to my room, you hairy savages.” He lisped in full gay mode. “But I can’t promise to make you all look as beautiful as Frankie here—sometimes I need more than hair to work with. And looking at some of you—well, it would be a challenge.”

Everyone laughed and the mood was sheer Hollywood. Roomie was absolutely beaming. I finally worked up the courage to break into his magic moment.

“Roomie! Hey, thank you so much–but, I do have a question.”

“Oh Frankie! You’ll never be able to pay me! You owe me too much.”

“No, that’s not what I was going to ask.” Hoping he was kidding. “How am I supposed to fix my hair this way every day? I don’t have brushes, hair spray, or those tools.”

“Ce n’est pas un problème, mon ami…” He said in perfect French while waving his arms dramatically. “I will come to your room to repair the damage before you go to work.” This elicited a chorus of hoops and jeers from the group. “As time goes on you’ll learn how to style it on your own.”

“But I don’t have either of those things!” I said, pointing to the hair dryer and curling iron.

“You can borrow my hair dryer, but you won’t need the curling iron.”

And with that, he turned and began to pack his stuff back into the cloth bag.

“Oh,” he said, suddenly remembering, “I’ll leave this can of Aqua Net with you for touch ups.”

The crowd around my door poured out into the hallway as Roomie exited my room.

“Come on boys! It’s going to be first-come, first-served at ‘Chez Roomie’.” And he disappeared—the crowd of guys eagerly following close behind.

I was left alone in my room with only my roommate Nat, who was sitting on the edge of his bed.

“So what’cha gonna do with your hat? Once you jam that baby on your hairstyle is gonna be all dicked up.”

“I looked at myself in my small shaving mirror and wondered the same thing. “Hmm, I don’t know. I guess I’ll just have to be careful.”

“I guess. Now you see why I keep my hair buzzed.”

Friends With Hearts

I spent Christmas alone in my room. Most of the base activities had been sharply curtailed due to the holidays, and I had been granted Christmas and the following three days off. The guys and most of the barrack’s population had all left to celebrate at the Airmen’s Club, or downtown Naminoue, leaving the barracks building mostly deserted. Nat and Roomie had asked me repeatedly to join the group but I resisted—saying that I thought I was coming down with a touch of the flu.

Although I had been maintaining some hope that I would eventually receive a letter from Sharon, that hope faded with every day that went by not hearing from her. My plans for the first twenty-five-dollar money order that I should’ve received by now had been to buy the boys a couple of toys that I’d seen at the Base Exchange a few weeks earlier. However, without any money I couldn’t even send them a Christmas card.

I counted the stamps that I had left since arriving in Okinawa and found that I had written Sharon about eleven letters and my parents, six. In return, I had received over a dozen letters from my mother and none from Sharon. As the Christmas holiday wound down, I finally came to the depressing conclusion that Sharon was not going to write. She had taken all the money that I had sent and apparently didn’t have any plans on sending anything back.

As darkness descended on me that first Christmas at the end of 1965, I lay on my bed wondering what would become of me. Even though Roomie had graciously volunteered to cut (style) my hair whenever I needed it, I worried that eventually I would run out of stuff to maintain my personal hygiene. I had less than a half a bar of soap left, three blades, and my can of deodorant was now almost empty. On the bright side, I had an almost brand new can of Aqua Net hairspray, but I doubted that it would do me much good anywhere other than on my head.

I fell into a shallow and troubled sleep—a feeling of bitter sorrow just a breath away.

***

I went back to work a few days later and I found that my duties helped keep my mind off my immediate troubles. After lunch, Sergeant Resor approached me and asked how I was doing. I drummed up my best smile and told him I was as right as rain.

“Have you heard from your wife yet?” He asked, concern showing in his eyes.

“Oh, yeah—I sure did.” I lied.

“So, everything’s OK then? Your plan, I mean.”

“Well, she hasn’t sent any money yet, but that’s fine. I still have some travel money put away, so I’ll be fine.” More lies.

“Ah, good. Well I see you got your hair all styled up. Sure makes you look different. You didn’t get that on the base did you?”

“No, the base barbershop only does haircuts. You know…military cuts. No, I got this from one of the Army guys in our barracks. He used to style hair in LA before he was drafted.”

“Hmm, looks good. Completely different from the way you used to wear it. I like it though. You gonna keep it that way?”

“Thanks! Yeah, I guess I will. As long as the Base Exchange doesn’t run out of hairspray.”

“Yeah, well don’t let that get around. You’ll be tagged as some kind of queer.”

“For sure. No, I’ll be OK.”

Our little chitchat went on for a while, and I began to feel as if he was somehow interrogating me. He asked what my plans were for New Years and I told him that I didn’t have any plans but would probably go downtown with some guys for dinner and a few drinks. He seemed satisfied, and didn’t realize what I’d just told him was what I really wanted to do, and not what I would probably end up doing.

I worked the early shift on New Year’s Eve, 1965, and was back in the barracks by three in the afternoon. Evening chow didn’t start until four so I decided to take a little nap and maybe head on up around five. Just as I was settling in and getting the first real snooze that I’d had in days, the door to my room flew open and all of my friends poured in.

“Look at this fucking slug, would you?” Smokey screamed, his eyes bulging even bigger than ever behind his horn-rimmed Coke bottle lenses. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Scared half out of my wits, I rolled out of my bunk—pulling the sheet up over my shoulders and almost falling on to the floor. “I’m trying to sleep before I go to chow!”

“Sleep?” Peewee screeched. No sleeping on New Year’s Eve, you slack fucker. Get up!”

Ramie, elegantly dressed in his blacks, coolly strolled in. “Get the fuck up, Pancho! We’re headed downtown to eat, drink, woo some bitches…and, of course, bring in the New Year!!”

“Fine,” I said, now a little irritated. “Go celebrate and leave me the fuck alone. OK?”

“Listen to this bitch! Un-fucking-grateful!” Roomie chimed in, faking mock anger. “Come on, get up!! I need to fluff that mop up so you’ll look like a real Romeo! I have a reputation to maintain!” He was carrying his brush and hair dryer.

“NO! Leave me alone!”

“We’re not asking, shit-head!” Peewee said impatiently. “We’re telling you to get your ass up, let Roomie fix your hair, so we can head on downtown. Come on, man—we need to catch a sukoshi cab ASAP!”

I wasn’t sure what I was hearing, and I sure didn’t want to say what came rolling out of my mouth! But, out it came anyway. “Look! You fucking guys know what my situation is. I don’t have any fucking money to go anywhere! That damn ship sailed a few weeks ago. Now get the fuck out of my room and leave me alone!”

Smokey elbowed his way past Nat, Peewee, Ramie and Roomie. His eyes looked like they were going to bulge right out of their sockets and the veins on his skinny neck were pulsing.

“Who the fuck said anything about money, you stupid ass?” He looked around the group. “Huh? Who the fuck said he needed money? Anyone?!” Everyone looked at each other but no one said anything.

A few seconds went by…and I finally found my tongue. “OK, look guys. Thanks for thinking about me, but I can’t do this. You expect me to join you on New Year’s Eve as you go downtown to eat and drink? And me with no money to my name? Give me a fucking break! I can’t do that! I can’t accept charity.”

Roomie slid by the group and sat next to me on my bunk. “Look Frankie. We don’t care about you not having money, and this is not charity. We’re your friends, you understand? Even if you are a flyboy in the fucking Air Force!”

Smokey and Ramie made some nasty sounds, and Smokey said, “Fuck you Roomie, you ground-pounder.”

Roomie put his arm around my shoulders. “Listen dummy. We love you, and we’d be some kind of nasty dirtbag friends if we didn’t help each other out. So, tonight is going to be on us. We’ve already talked about it and we’ve all agreed, so don’t give us any more shit. You’re our bud, and buds look after one another. Now come on, get your skinny ass up so I can work on your head. Time is wasting away!”

I didn’t know what to say, but I started to realize that they were not going to take no for an answer.

“OK, look,” I said, finally resigning myself to the inevitable. “I don’t really feel right about this, plus, I don’t have anything ready to wear.”

“Oh fuck! Put on some damn jeans and a white shirt, vato.” Ramie said. “And if you need a nice jacket I got a black one you can borrow.”

And that was that.

Thirty minutes later we all piled into a base taxi and were on our way towards the main gate to wave down a couple of sukoshi cabs. There was a group of about forty or fifty soldiers, sailors, and airmen crowded around the gate, and a line of cabs stuffing as many as each could fit for the ride to Naminoue.

It was a night that I will never forget. We ate, we drank, we sang, we caroused, and I had the best time of my young life. Sometime later, in a crowded and smoky bar, surrounded by a group of equally inebriated naisan bar girls, we gleefully welcomed in 1966. Soon after, and over Ramie’s loud objections, we shed ourselves of the girls and staggered into our favorite late night restaurant, “Jack’s Steakhouse”. Although crowded even at that time of the morning, we found a table and each ordered Jack’s special Kobe Beef sandwiches and Japanese beer.

After wolfing down the incredibly tender beef sandwiches and washing them down with mugs of ice-cold Asahi, we headed back to the cab stand for our return ride to the base. As Nat and I drunkenly helped each other up the long flight of concrete stairs to our quad, behind us the golden-soft Okinawan sun quietly broke the New Year’s dawn and shone brightly over the shimmering green horizon of the East China Sea.

To be continued…

Okinawa – Part Two

Okinawa

Part Two

October 1965

Alone Again, Naturally

After checking in and presenting my orders inside the terminal, I left the Naha Airport in a blue Air Force bus reminiscent of my old Lackland Air Force Base days. The passengers on my flight had been a mix of service members from all the armed forces, since Okinawa was home to bases from all the branches; but by far the Air Force had the most representation, as there were two bases: Kadena Air Force Base, and Naha Air Base.

I’d been instructed to look for the blue bus with “NAHA” on the destination window, otherwise I’d end up at the wrong base. It was a short ride to the barracks, long bunker-like buildings—each three stories tall. They were situated in groups of four, arranged in a giant diamond shape.

When I’d checked in at the terminal I’d been given a barracks number of 1203, located in what was referred to as the “Northwest Quad”. After a few minutes, and having driven off the airport, I heard the driver yell out the name of my assigned quad, and I, along with three other airmen, got off the bus.

The four barracks buildings were located atop a large hill, and to reach them we had to climb the equivalent of about four stories of concrete stairs. By the time I’d reached the top, dragging my duffle bag and dressed out in my wool uniform and overcoat, I was completely exhausted.

My instructions had been to locate the administrative office, on the first floor and in the center of the barracks building, and check in for my room assignment. When I finally found the right room, I thought I was about to faint.

After checking in with the orderly I was assigned a room, thankfully on the first floor, and told that my roommate’s name was Nathaniel Dorman. He’d arrived on Okinawa a couple of weeks before, the orderly advised me so, “unless you get yourself hitched up to some little gook bitch, you will be roomies for a while.”

“I’m married.” I informed him.

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?” he asked sagely, giving me a quick once-over.

I didn’t seem to have an answer to that so I just kept my mouth shut.

Although the barracks buildings were huge, the rooms were not that large. Measuring about ten feet deep and twelve feet wide, by the time you figured in the two beds on each side and the writing-table at the end, there was just enough room for each of us to get out of bed and not run into each other.

As usual, there was a large latrine at the main center on each floor. The bonus was that the entire barracks building was kept clean by a team of Okinawan men and women, who seemed to be on cleaning duty twenty-four hours a day. It didn’t seem to matter what time of day or night I emerged from my room, or walked in from working any of my shifts, the cleaning crew was working. The floors, made from some type of polished concrete were always gleaming, and the bathroom (latrine) was always spic-and-span.

There were four large rooms on either side of the latrines where the cleaning crews stored and washed out the various mops, and in the center of each was a very large deep sink. In due time, I would become very familiar with this particular type of plumbing fixture. More on that later.

Each floor had around twenty, or so, rooms on each side of the latrine, and I was surprised to find out that the barracks rooms were shared by Army and Air Force personnel alike. In fact, a couple of the rooms actually had one Air Force and one Army soldier as roommates.

When I got to my room I found it was empty, but I saw that one of the beds was neatly made up while the other was pretty messed up. I assumed the made-up one was mine so I claimed it as my own.

There was a built-in closet with locking doors on either side of the entrance door with enough room and drawers for more clothes than I owned; so after emptying my duffle bag into it there was still plenty of room for more clothing.

After changing out of my sweaty uniform, I decided that what I needed was a nice relaxing shower. As I got down to my shorts I realized that there were no bath towels in the room. I thought maybe there might be a pile of clean ones in, or near, the shower room in the latrine, and as I started to turn the doorknob, I heard a loud knock on the door.

Standing behind the door as much as I could I slowly pulled open the door and saw a very short, very old Asian woman standing in the hallway with a stack of towels in her arms. She was wearing some type of yellow bandana around her head, and had on a greatly oversized khaki shirt (sleeves rolled up) and a pair of equally large khaki pants, also rolled up to mid ankle. And on her knobby little feet she was wearing a pair of straw-looking flip-flops.

Her face looked like it’d been through at least a couple of world wars, and when she smiled the teeth that weren’t missing were pure gold.

“Hey!” She yelled, “You new GI boy—this room?”

“Uh, I’m…yeah! I’m the new guy.”

“So…this you towels…is four…you use this week and next week I come bring four more! Wakari-masu? (do you understand?)”

I thought I understood what she was trying to tell me, so I smiled and said, “Thank you.”

With fresh towel in hand, I proceeded to take a very refreshing shower. When I returned to my room, I saw that my new roommate was in. Apparently, he’d just come off duty and was still in uniform.

“Hi,” I said, holding my towel up around my waist. “My name’s Frank. I hear you’re Nathaniel”.

“Call me Nat.” he said, walking over to shake my hand.

Nate was about three inches over six feet, short reddish-blond hair, and a face full of freckles. He was thin, but not skinny, and looked like he could be a starting guard for any professional basketball team. Hailing from Philadelphia, he’d been in the Air Force for two and a half years, and Okinawa was his second assignment.

“Where you from?” he asked as I turned my back to slip into my white boxer shorts.

“Houston.”

“Ah, another Texan.”

“Oh? Are there a bunch of Texans here?”

“No, but my roomie at my last base was from Texas. Guess I’m just destined to have you guys as roommates.”

“Sounds like it.”

“How long you been on base?”

“Just got here.”

“Oh, great! When do you report to the ADC (Air Defense Center)?”

“Well, the orderly that checked me in said that I would be off duty until Monday. So, I guess I’ll just hang out until then.”

“So why’re you putting on a uniform? You’re off for the next four or five days. Get some civvies on and I’ll introduce you to the guys.”

***

So off I went to meet the characters with which I would be spending the next eighteen months. I followed Nat out of our room and down the hallway past the latrine. Just past the showers, there was a large door to the right of the hallway that opened onto a large recreation area. There were several pool tables, Ping-Pong tables, large couches and overstuffed chairs all upholstered in leather, but what blew my mind was a small, but well stocked, snack bar.

Standing behind the counter was a very small and petite Asian girl. I would later come to learn that an Okinawan company contracted by the Armed Services managed the snack bar. They sold all sorts of toiletries, soft drinks, popcorn, and hot dogs to the inhabitants of our building. Open from seven in the morning until seven in the evening, it was staffed in two shifts—one, by a thin dark-skinned boy with a wild crop of black hair and crooked teeth, and the other by this girl. Although very cute, she was anything but friendly. She always seemed very bothered when someone walked up to the counter to order something, and she would always be very careful not to let her hand touch yours or her eyes meet yours, when returning change—preferring to slam the coins down loudly on the counter and rudely yell out their total.

Nat walked over to one of the pool tables and called out someone’s name. He ushered me over to a card table and within a few seconds, several young men appeared, pulled out chairs and sat down. He went from person to person, introducing them by their names and service designation, followed by their hometowns.

I would soon become part of this very close-knit group and would come to learn almost everything about each of them:

Frank Ramírez (Ramie), Air Force. Puerto Rican and from Brooklyn, he was a dark-skinned budding lothario who had trouble keeping his ample stable of Okinawan girlfriends straight. They were mostly bar girls who usually gave their ‘not too intimate’ favors to whomever had the most money when Frank wasn’t looking—but that didn’t seem to dissuade his ardor in any way. He loved them all. His trademark was that he didn’t own any civilian clothes that weren’t black. Shirts, pants, shoes, socks, and T-shirts—all black.

Ronnie Strayer (Roomie), Army. A professional hairdresser from Los Angeles, California, he was so openly gay that at first I found it hard to believe that no one had ever reported him to the base commander. But as soon as I got to know him, I grew to understand what his appeal was. He was just hard not to like! Friendly, hilariously funny, caring, compassionate, and most of all never denying to anyone who he was. But, the secret of his success was simple: he kept his intimate relationships out of the barracks and strictly off base—usually picking up or liaising with Asian guys in one of the many bars in Okinawa.

Henry Peterson (Hank or Peewee), Army, was barely the minimum height and weight to be accepted for military service. From Phoenix, he loved to drink and sing—and did more of the latter when he over imbibed the former. When sober, he was a “nervous nelly”, often refusing to accompany the group to places he’d not previously visited, worrying that something or someone might cause him to pull and use the six-inch switch blade he religiously carried in his boot.

Finally, Steven Driscoll (Smoky), Air Force. From Minnesota, he wore black horn-rimmed glasses with lenses so thick they magnified his clear blue eyes to almost monstrous proportions. Frightfully skinny, with ears that stuck out like catchers’ mitts, he wore his hair in a tight flattop and chain smoked constantly. Fearless, easy to anger and quick to use his fists, he was handy to have by one’s side when drunkenly wandering the dangerous Okinawan bars in the wee morning hours.

Although there were easily more than a hundred residents in our three-level barracks building, this peculiar group of individuals was destined to become my closest friends and confidants, but mainly each of them ended up being my personal protectors during my many stressful months on Okinawa.

Naminoue

After I was introduced to the group, it was Smoky who suggested, “We should take Frank to Naminoue (Na-me-new-ee) and pop his cherry.” Not too sure what he meant, I laughed nervously and nodded first in the affirmative then in the negative.

Everyone thought that going to Naminoue was a great idea and soon we all departed the rec room and headed to our respective rooms to get ready. Since I was already in civilian clothes I sat on my bed while Nat changed.

“So, what’s a Naminoue?” I asked curiously.

“Oh, it’s a small town a couple of miles outside the gate. Lots of bars, restaurants, and…you know…entertainment. You’ll like it.”

I wasn’t sure I was up to this as I was beginning to feel really tired. Since I’d never been out of the U.S., or crossed so many time zones all at once, I had no idea I was coming down with a giant case of jet lag.

“I’m not really hungry right now…” I managed to say. “And maybe I should get some rest before I go anywhere.”

“Rest my ass!” Nat said. “Son, you need to work that jet lag off! Worse thing you can do now is go hit the rack. Shit, you’ll sleep for a fucking month, then wake up at two in the morning feeling worse than you did when you went to sleep.”

“Really?”

“Yup! We’ve all been through it. See, right now it’s about three yesterday morning stateside so your body is ready to shut down. Now’s the time to teach it what time it really is!”

Now I was confused. “OK, I guess you’re right. So, how do we get to this place?”

“Easy! We’ll take a base cab to the gate and then find us a “sukoshi” cab. (Small…skó-shee)

“A what?”

“Sukoshi cab! See, the base cabs are like old American cars…Fords, Chevys, and what-not. But they’re expensive. To drive them on the base, the gook drivers have to have all kinds of fucking insurance and stuff. However, off the base, the sukoshi cabs are what the locals take. They’re little bitty cars, Toyotas and Datsuns (now known as Nissans) mostly, and you can get to wherever you want to go on the island for less than a buck—where on the base it’s just a dollar to get to the gate.”

“Oh, OK. Well, I guess if we don’t stay out too late it’ll be OK. I have to get back to the room to write my wife a letter telling her I made it OK.”

“Wife? Yeah…whatever.”

***

About twenty minutes later our group headed out of the barracks and on our way down the hill to wave down one of the base cabs.

Since the cab was a full-sized car we were all able to pile in—albeit a little too snugly, but once we walked through the base gate and I got a view of what the sukoshi cabs looked like, I doubted that even three of us could get in comfortably. Turned out we needed two cabs altogether.

As we pulled away from the base, I noticed a stark change in the geography of the land, the architecture of the buildings, and a definite change in the air. The smell that had hit my nostrils when I disembarked from my flight several hours hence once again rode in on the breeze that came blasting through the open windows of the tiny four-door Datsun automobile. The driver, reed-thin and dark-skinned, and wearing a beat-up Yankees ball cap, drove the little car like it was some giant Sherman tank—oblivious to the armies of smoke-belching buses, humongous dump trucks, and the occasional Army transport truck. Using his horn, rather than his brakes to out-maneuver the crisscrossing traffic at impossibly congested intersections, we bounced and rolled along streets no wider than a normal sidewalk—sometimes coming so close to other vehicles that I felt I could literally reach out and touch them.

“Phew!” I exclaimed, after sucking in a generous whiff of the air.

“Yeah, you’ll get used to it.” Nat said. “It’s the ‘benjo ditches” you’re smelling.”

“Benjo ditches?”

At this, the taxi driver twisted his head back to where I was in the rear seat. “Ah—hai! Benjo!! Stinko…neh?” He said, displaying a grand but toothless smile. “Ha ha! You no like, neh? Takusan stinko!!”

I wondered just how long he was going to keep his eyes off the road.

“What the hell’s a benjo ditch?” I asked no one in particular.

Smoky, who’d had a cigarette glued to his lips since we’d left the barracks, finally answered me. “See those little troughs along the side of the road? They look like little gutters. See them?”

I looked out and did see them. “Yeah. I see them.”

“Well,” Smoky said, the cigarette bouncing up and down in his mouth as he spoke, scattering ash to the wind, “the gooks have these little gutter things go right up to their outhouses where they shit and piss. Then it runs out and along these benjos down to their fields to fertilize their crops. Cool, huh? I wouldn’t recommend you eat any of their fresh fruits or vegetables though. Not sure how well they wash them off.”

“Yuck!” I responded, making a mental note of this very pertinent information. “How come they don’t have sewers and running water?”

“Oh, some of them do…mostly the richer folks and the hotels and bars.” Peewee answered. “But there’s a lot of the poorer people that still live in hooches and have outhouses.”

I saw the taxi ahead of us with the rest of the group slow down and pull to the side of the road. We came to a screeching halt and we piled out of our taxi.

After settling up, the cabs took off and I found myself in front of what looked like a restaurant, but all the writing on the glass windows was in Japanese. But what really caught my attention was that instead of having a copy of the menu prominently displayed, there seemed to be actual dishes of food placed and displayed behind the large window. Underneath each plate was a small cardboard sign describing the dish in both English and Japanese, and displaying the price.

I found out later that these were not actual plates and bowls of food, but very well done plastic copies. They looked entirely realistic; so much that if one had been placed in front of me at the table I know I would’ve tried to take a bite.

The restaurant was busy, but a short Asian man soon put a couple of tables together and seated us. He didn’t seem to have a very good command of the English language, and none of us, especially me, could communicate in Japanese. So, after a lot of pointing and head bobbing by all concerned he seemed to be satisfied and shuffled off in the direction of the kitchen.

“What did we order?” I asked.

“Oh, the normal stuff we usually get here.” Nat said. “Steamed rice, some egg rolls, teriyaki beef, and some tempura. Is that OK?”

Except for the rice, I had no clue what he’d just said. “Uh, I don’t know what any of that is, but I don’t like rice.”

“What? What kind of Mexican are you that you don’t like rice?” Ramie said loudly.

“I don’t know. I’ve hated rice all my life. When my mother made it I refused to eat it.”

“Christ! Anyway, look, the way the gooks make this rice you may like it. You gotta try it anyway.”

“I doubt it.”

“How about saki? You like that?”

“What’s saki?” That set everyone at our table to laughing loudly.

“Holy shit, Frank. Don’t you know anything, do you?” Smoky said, lighting a new cigarette off his old one.

Before I could answer, the waiter showed back up carrying a medium-sized aluminum pot. He set it in the center of the table and removed its lid unveiling a steaming mountain of white rice. Another waiter followed soon after, walking behind our chairs and setting small bowls down in front of each of us. He made a second round, this time leaving a couple of long white plastic looking sticks. I stared at the sticks and wondered what they were for.

Peewee piped up, “Hey Frank, do you know what those are for?”

“No.” I picked pair of sticks up and looked at them closely. There seemed to be what I assumed was Japanese writing on them.

“Those are chopsticks! Know how to use them?” Peewee asked.

“No.”

“You use them to eat your food.”

I looked up at the steaming white rice and wondered how I was supposed to pick that up and eat it. “Uh, you think I could ask the waiter for a fork?” I asked innocently and the table erupted with loud laughter.

“Hey waiter-san!” Ramie called out. “My friend wants a fork to eat his food!”

The waiter turned and joined in on the laughter. “We no have fork here. Only chopstick! You eat,” making a scooping motion with two fingers towards his open mouth, “very good!”

I stared at the two sticks as my friends used theirs to shovel rice from the pot into their bowls. When it came my turn, I mimicked them as well as I could. Nate tried to explain how to hold the two sticks in one hand without dropping them, then pushing them under a lump of sticky rice and depositing the white mass in his mouth.

While fumbling with the sticks I looked over to the next table where a pair of Okinawan men were sitting quietly consuming their rice. I noticed they were holding the small bowls in their left hand, palm up, three fingers cradling the bottom, with the thumb tightly clamped to the top edge. With each shoveling motion of the sticks, held in the right hand, they moved the bowl close to their mouths and, more or less, shoved a lump of rice in.

I noted how they positioned the sticks in their hands: again, palm up, one stick placed on the third finger and the other on the middle finger, with the thumb gently resting over the two sticks and the index finger serving as a stabilizer. The sticks were manipulated by simply moving the middle and index finger slightly, and towards the third finger. This caused the stick’s tip to move toward the tip of the other stick, which remained motionless. I also noticed that the hand gripped the sticks near the top, whereas my friends’ hands were very close to the chopsticks’ business end. This seemed to provide more leverage and greater arc of movement for the one stick that moved.

I picked up the chopsticks and mirrored the Okinawan men’s technique. Almost miraculously, I found that I could not only hold and maneuver the chopsticks, but with my first effort at eating the white rice, I achieved instant success.

Ramie was the first to notice. “Will you look at that rookie fucker? He’s a fucking natural!”

All heads turned toward me.

I continued to move the bowl up and down with my left hand, each time scooping and depositing a load of rice into my mouth. Because I’d been too busy trying to correctly manage my chopsticks, I hadn’t bothered to notice that for one who’d hated rice all his life I was quickly emptying the bowl—and loving it!

Within a few minutes, the rest of the food came and I found that I absolutely loved every dish. I found that I didn’t care too much for the warm saki, but I quickly developed a taste for the green tea that the waiter had brought as a complement to the meal.

By the time it came to ask for the check I had mastered chopsticks and formed a lasting fondness for the piping hot olive-green beverage the Okinawans called, ‘ocha’. (Green tea). Before we left the restaurant on my first day on Okinawa, I had already learned and memorized several words: Hai (yes), neh (that’s right, or isn’t that so), domo (short for domo arigato—thank you), and mata neh? (see you later).

***

Predictably, our next stop was at one of the many bars in Naminoue. They seemed to be everywhere—literally side-by-side for blocks on end. Glitzy multi-colored neon signs announced their just as glitzy names: “Bar Tahiti”, “Shanghai Club”, “New York, New York”, and “The Hula-Hula Club” were just a few.

Outside of each bar there were always at least two or three Asian girls—and they were dressed to kill. Hair all done up in the latest styles, make-up immaculately applied, and extremely long eyelashes that seemed to flutter in the benjo-scented breeze.

As we walked along the narrow street the girls tried to outshout each other, inviting us to come in and join them in a couple of drinks. Listening to their pleas, I thought that they were very friendly and apparently hungry for our company.

“Hey,” I called to the group, “Why don’t we go into that bar?” I said anxiously, motioning to the very active group of extremely attractive females literally jumping up and down to gain our attention.

“Cool it, DeLeón, they’re not after your pecker! They want your money, son!” Smoky sagely said.

“Are they prostitutes?” I asked.

“Uh, no Frank. They’re just bar girls. Let’s keep walking—I know where to go.”

We finally got to a bar that was just a degree less glitzy than the rest, but still pretty lit up. There were only three girls standing outside, and their pitches and pleas seemed a little less enthusiastic.

“See?” Smoky said. “They recognize us and know we’re not pushovers. Well, at least not all of us. I ain’t too sure about you Frank.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean!” I said, in a haughty and mocking voice.

As we walked in the door the ambiance changed from benjo to stale beer and old vomit. Raimi led the way and we settled into a semi-circular booth. It was dark, but the bar area was brightly lit with flashing neon signs announcing “Schlitz”, Pabst Blue Ribbon”, and “Ashahi” beer. There was an area at the center that looked like it could be used as a dance floor, and in one corner was a brightly-lit juke box that was screeching out one of the Beach Boys’ latest hits.

The three girls walked with us only partially into the bar saying things like, “You want drink, G.I.?”, “You want buy me drink, please? Me so horny.” That last question and declaration led me to wonder what one had to do with the other.

Smoky all but waved them off and we ignored them until we found our booth. Eventually the girls drifted off and went back outside.

In a few seconds an older Okinawan woman appeared and began wiping down our table with a raggedy dishcloth. “What you G.I.s want to drink?” Smoky started off by ordering a Pabst, Peewee wanted a Schlitz, Raimi ordered a whiskey water, Roomie wanted a Mai-Tai, Nat asked for a scotch, and after some thought I ordered a hot pot of ocha.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” Smoky yelled at me. “Jesus, you’re an embarrassment. Ocha? Seriously?”

“Well…” I stuttered. “I liked it at the restaurant. Besides, I don’t want to get drunk and I don’t have a lot of money left after I paid for my meal at the restaurant.”

“FUCK!” Smoky said loudly, smashing his smoldering cigarette into the flimsy looking metal ashtray at the table. “Order some fucking booze for Christ’s sake, will you? This is a fucking bar!!”

“OK, okay!” I said. “Don’t blow a gasket.” I looked up at the amused bar woman. “Okay, I’ll have a scotch and water.”

“Scotchee wata! OK G.I. You joto funny, neh? (joe-toe: plenty, or a lot).

“Yes…I am…funny.” I looked around the table and everyone was staring at me like I had a case of leprosy. “Hey, I was kidding, OK? Jesus!” I lied.

While we were waiting for our drinks a couple of girls materialized from somewhere out of the darkness and raided our booth. They were yelling, “oh, handsome G.I.…you so fine…I think I love you already.” They literally climbed over Smoky and Ramie and ended up sitting on either side of me.

“Now see what you did?” Peewee asked. “They’re quick to spot the new-new…and you’re it!”

They looked good, smelled good, but most of all they felt good. Each one conspicuously put her hand firmly on each of my thighs…just inches away from my crotch.

“Oh, you so handsome! Where you from? New York? Hollywood? You movie star?”

“Uh no.” Each time they spoke, their fingers seemed to crawl within millimeters of my privates. “I’m from Houston.”

“Oh shit, Frankie…” Roomie lisped, “You screwed the pooch now.”

“Oh!! Whoston is my very most ichi-ban place!” (itchy-ban: number one). The girl on my left schmoozed into my ear—making sure her nose rubbed my lobe generously. “Now, you buy me drink? Yes?”

“Uh, how much is your drink?”

OK! That’s fucking it!!” Smoky literally exploded. “You—naisan! (sister-girl). Get the fuck away from us right now! No, he no buy you drink. He not horny. He just arrive Okinawa…you wakarimasu?!” (waka-ree-más: understand).

The girls’ hands suddenly left my thighs, and they all but flew over the table and out of the booth.

“OK, dumb shit! Here’s the scam: when you buy them a drink the bar gives them a chit. At the end of the night they turn in the chits they earned and the bar owner pays them a certain amount of money for each chit. Usually a quarter. When you buy a drink for yourself it costs about a buck. Each of their drinks will cost you four bucks! You’ll be out of money in no time and once that happens they’ll suddenly lose interest in your dick and leave! WAKARIMASU??!!”

“Oh.”

“Oh Frankie,” Roomie cooed, “you are so deliciously dumb. But, loveable.”

“Stuff it Roomie!” Nat said. “He’ll learn.”

We spent the rest of the night bouncing from bar to bar—the scam always the same and the girls’ dialogue identical. I wondered why they kept doing this over and over when the chance of someone falling for it was so slim.

“Oh, they make plenty.” Peewee said. “Mostly sailors just coming off a long cruise and shipping out the next day or so, or new arrivals who venture down here by themselves.”

“Yeah,” Roomie said. “Lucky you! You have us to watch out for you!”

As the hours slid by I found myself falling asleep, almost as soon as we climbed onto a bar stool or slid into a booth. I had never felt so tired in all my life.

The next thing I remember is waking up in my room, jolted awake by Nate’s booming snores. I was stripped down to my shorts, and the clothes that I had worn the night before were hung neatly next to my closet. I felt drugged but not as tired as before, and when I looked at the clock I saw that it was four-thirty in the afternoon. I later found out that we had gotten back in at two-thirty in the morning and I had collapsed on my bunk. The guys undressed me and made sure I was tucked in.

I rolled over and slept until noon the next day. Oh, and I was dead broke.

The Windfall and High Hopes

Although I had spent all my remaining travel money during my ill-fated trip into Naminoue, I wasn’t worried. I didn’t need to buy anything over the weekend since my meals were free at the chow hall, and I still had several clean uniforms to wear. Further, when I checked in at the airport on my arrival, the sergeant there informed me that temporary subsistence funds would be issued on the following Monday to hold me over until my paycheck caught up.

I spent the next few days hanging out with my new friends and shooting pool in the rec room. As promised, I penned a letter to Sharon filling her in on my new assignment and my experience with Japanese food and Japanese utensils, but wisely leaving out the part about my trip to Naminoue.

While I was writing, I was overtaken with a great sense of sorrow and regret, and wondered if we would ever be able to patch things up once she and the boys arrived on Okinawa. I vowed to her that from this moment on I would do everything I could to make up for my past behavior if she could find it in her heart to forgive me and let bygones be bygones. I posted the letter hoping that her answer back would be positive. The last thing I wanted to do was to spend my time so far away wondering if we still had a future together.

On Monday, after an early breakfast at the chow hall I walked the half-mile to my new assignment: The Naha Air Base Defense Center. It was a large building located adjacent to the air base’s busy airport, but before I could enter my work area, I had to get fingerprinted and photographed. My prints would go to the FBI in Washington, D.C., and the photographs were cataloged and filed away in my security file. One copy of my picture was glued onto an ID card that I was required to wear whenever I was on duty.

After being escorted into the Control Room, I was introduced to my crew chief, Technical Sergeant John Resor. A Mormon from Utah, he was freckled-faced, tall and thin, and spoke with a very quiet voice. My crew members told me that although he never raised his voice when something displeased him, they warned against crossing him too often.

An airman first class who had worked for Sergeant Resor for over a year told me, “He may not say anything to you when you fuck up, but you may suddenly find yourself working a few extra evening and midnight shifts, or being relieved less often for breaks. Oh, and don’t cuss in front of him…he doesn’t like it.”

None of the friends who I’d had met at my barracks, except for Nat, worked in the Control Room—although they shared my same job description and were assigned to the same building. Smoky worked in the Crypto Room; Roomie was assigned to Communications; and Ramie and Peewee were Runners (delivered confidential messages).

My job was similar to the one I’d had in Alaska, except I was now required to wear dress tans during the day shifts; fatigues were allowed during the evening shifts. I was assigned to work on a dais overlooking a large electronic board that depicted live aircraft in and around the island of Okinawa. Instead of having plotters behind the board drawing the route and heading of aircraft, all the information was displayed electronically. I sat next to several high-ranking officers whose responsibility it was to authorize our interceptor jets to fire on unknown, rogue, or hostile targets. My responsibility was to assign each radar target a classification based on flight plan information that had been provided by flight dispatchers on the island and from any aircraft carriers in the immediate area.

On that first day, when my lunch hour came up Sergeant Resor told me to eat my box lunch in the break room, and instead of reporting back to my duty station to go to the finance office. There I would be given a small amount of money for subsistence, and told the amount and when to expect my first paycheck.

I hurried and finished my lunch and headed out to the finance office. My subsistence was given to me in cash, but to my surprise, my paycheck was also handed to me in a sealed white envelope. After signing several forms authorizing and directing most my monthly pay to go to Sharon and the boys, and opening an Air Force Credit Union account, I was informed that I would be receiving a total of ninety dollars a month.

The clerk tapped on the sealed envelope and said, “This is your first check for the month of November, and it’s for ninety dollars. After deductions and the allotment to your wife, this is what you can expect every month. All your following checks will be deposited in your Air Force Credit Union account between the first and third of each month. You can take this check directly to the Credit Union now, show them the paperwork proving you have opened an account with them, and they’ll cash and deposit the check. At that point, you can withdraw whatever amount you want to take with you. Understand?”

I assured him I did.

Elated that I got subsistence along with my paycheck, I asked for and quickly got directions to the Credit Union. After discovering that it was a few miles away, I flagged down a base taxi. After all, I thought, I can afford a cab ride now that I have some extra spending money.

Settling down in the back seat of the fairly new Datsun sedan, I ripped open the envelope containing my check. I look at the numbers several times but still could not understand what I was seeing.

Instead of the check being issued for ninety dollars, it read: “Pay to the Order of, A2C Frank DeLeón, the amount of…$900.00!

I couldn’t believe my eyes! I kept looking at the numbers repeatedly to make sure my imagination wasn’t playing tricks with my eyes—but no matter how much I looked at it, the numbers never changed. The check had definitely been processed for nine hundred, instead of ninety dollars!

I was blown away!!

All too soon, I arrived at the Credit Union but was still in a state of shock. What should I do? My first instinct was to tell the cab driver to reverse course and take me back to the Finance Center where I would tell the clerk that someone had made a very big mistake. On the other hand, a voice deep inside kept telling me there had to be a better way. After all, for the last couple of years all I had been experiencing was a load of bad luck, so maybe this was fate’s way of balancing the scales.

I walked away from the cab and found a bench just outside of the Credit Union’s main entrance and sat down, trying to analyze the situation.

By now, I had pretty much decided that I wasn’t going to return the money. I also realized that eventually someone would find the error and come looking for me. Therefore, the tricky part was how to keep the money and not be punished for not notifying the Air Force of the error.

Within a few minutes, I had formulated a plan.

I strode into the credit union confidently and waited my turn at the cashier’s window.

“Good afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?” the attractive young Asian cashier said pleasantly.

“Yes ma’am. Here’s my signed form for opening up a savings account here, and a payroll check to cash.”

She perused the form carefully and briefly glanced at the check. “Excuse me for just a few moments please,” she said, and slid off her high chair. She looked at me momentarily as she walked away, disappearing behind a set of glass doors.

I grew a little nervous. What if she’s checking with the Finance Center because the check is so large? What if she’s calling the Air Police so they can come and arrest me for theft? What if…what if? My mouth was getting a little dry.

After what seemed hours, the glass doors flew open and the cashier stepped through…still looking down at the check. She slid onto her chair, put a small stack of papers on the counter and laid the check on top.

“Sorry about that. For a check that large I had to get the assistant manager to sign off on it,” she said. “How much of this check do you want to deposit? Some, or all of it?”

“Uh…well…what I’d like to do is…well…maybe deposit part of it and then buy a money order with what’s left. Can I do that?”

“Of course. How much do you want the money order for?”

“Nine hundred dollars, please.”

“Excuse me. Nine hundred dollars?”

“Yes, please,” I said, trying not to have my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth.

“Well sir, I’m sorry but you can’t do that. That’s the entire amount of the check.”

“Oh? Why not? The…the check is good. I mean…it’s all my money…you know…”

“No, I don’t mean to suggest that it isn’t. It’s just that for you to open and maintain an account you must keep some of the money in the account. See what I mean? If you cash out and take all the money, you’ll have nothing to put into your new savings account.”

“Oh. How much do I have to keep in?”

“Well, for your account to remain open you must have at least five dollars in there.”

“Oh, but I wanted to get a money order for the entire nine hundred dollars.”

“Well, you can still do that, but it will have to be only for eight-hundred and ninety-five dollars because you have to deposit at least five dollars into your savings account.”

My mind was racing, but suddenly I saw the solution. “Can I give you five dollars’ cash to deposit into the savings account, and then have you make out a money order for nine hundred dollars?”

“Of course.”

I dug out a wrinkled five-dollar bill from the several bills the finance officer had given me as temporary subsistence. “Here you go.”

“Perfect! I’ll make you out a receipt for the five dollars, and then deposit it in your new savings account. Lastly, I’ll go and make out a money order for the nine hundred dollars. To whom should I make that out?”

“My wife. Sharon L. DeLeón, please.”

***

With the money order in my hand, I flagged down another base cab and asked the driver to take me back to the Air Defense Center. I spent the rest of the afternoon nervously staring at the large entrance doors just waiting for them to be thrown open by an angry squad of Air Policemen racing to put me into handcuffs and drag me off to some dark Okinawan jail.

Mercifully, my shift ended uneventfully.

As I was completing the relief briefing for my evening shift replacement, Sergeant Resor came up behind me.

“Did you get all your finances taken care of?” he asked softly.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Will the subsistence be enough to get you through until you get your first paycheck?”

“Uh…well…yes.”

“You don’t sound too sure.”

“Oh no! I mean, yes! I mean, I’m sure.”

He looked at me a bit strangely, but apparently satisfied, he turned and walked off.

I couldn’t wait to get back to the barracks to put the money order into an envelope and send it to Sharon.

A couple of hours later after deciding to skip chow, I sat down at the little desk between the beds in my room and started writing a letter to Sharon:

____

Hi My Love,

Hoping this letter finds you and the boys in good health. I am doing well, and am trying to get used to being in a foreign country. I can’t wait for you to join me here so we can restart our life together again. I’ll write more about that in my next letter. But now I have some really good news.

No doubt by now you found the money order that I have included in this letter. Yes, you’re seeing the amount correctly—it’s for $900! So let me tell you what happened and what I think we can do with this money.

I am sure that the Air Force Finance Office here on Okinawa meant to cut this check for $90, but somehow someone mistakenly added an extra zero. It was, and is a mistake. At first, I thought that I should return it and have them reissue it for the correct amount. Ninety dollars is what I will be getting every month after deductions and your monthly housing allotment. But then I came across a better idea that I believe will end up helping us save some money in the long run.

There’s no doubt that the Air Force will soon realize their mistake and call me in to return the money. When that happens, I plan to tell them that I’ve already sent the money home. At that point, they’ll probably just tell me that I will not be receiving a monthly paycheck until the $900 is paid back—that will amount to ten months of not getting paid. And that will be fine with me, if you agree with my plan.

So, what I’m asking you to do is to open a savings account in Reno and deposit this check. Beginning the first of next month I would like for you to begin withdrawing $25 dollars and having the bank convert that into a money order. Then send it to me.

See, I did some figuring and I found that I don’t need $90 a month to live on over here. I eat free, the laundry for my uniforms is really cheap, and stuff like soap, blades, and deodorant can be bought at the Base Exchange for almost nothing. I would just end up spending the $90 every month anyway, so why not sacrifice a little and end up saving $65 every month. Imagine! At the end of the ten months, we’ll have $650 in the bank!

Tell me what you think of this idea. I feel that it was a stroke of good luck for us to get this money, as it will force us to start and build a nice little nest egg. I’m just hoping I don’t get arrested and charged with theft.

OK, I think that’s all for now. Please give my boys a big hug and tell them Daddy loves them and misses them very much. Also, remember that I love you very much too and miss you terribly.

Love you,

Frank

P.S. I plan to start the paperwork in a couple of months to get our names on the housing list. Very excited!

____

I re-read the letter several times, and when I was satisfied that it said what I wanted it to say, I put it in an envelope with the money order folded neatly inside the letter. I was very nervous, since I was only assuming what the Air Force’s reaction would be when they discovered the payment error. I was counting on being able to talk my way out of going to jail—or worse.

The next day, during my lunch break, I made a trip to the base post office and posted the letter certified mail. That way, I was sure that it would get to Sharon promptly and safely.

I went back to work feeling confident that my plan would end up working out for both of us. I would have never guessed that what I believed was a well thought-out plan would ultimately end up failing due to one very small and completely unexpected detail.

To be continued…

Okinawa – Part One

Okinawa

Part One

September-October 1965

A Bad Decision Gets Worse

When I broke the news to Sharon about my receiving orders to go to Okinawa unaccompanied, she barely batted an eye. Like me, she was so accustomed to bad news that when it arrived she accepted it like someone would accept the return of an old and annoying, but very familiar recurring ache.

Even after I told her that after serving six months she and the boys would probably be able to join me after being assigned to military housing, her demeanor remained sullen and brooding.

“Where’s the housing going to be? On the base?” She asked, looking over my orders.

“I don’t know, but I doubt that it would be on the base. The transportation officer told me that unless you’re an officer or a senior NCO (non-commissioned-officer), housing would probably be located off-base. Somewhere in the surrounding village, or town, or whatever.”

“Oh great. What language do they speak over there, anyway?”

“You know, I don’t really know…maybe Japanese?”

“Wonderful.” She said sarcastically, handing me back my stack of orders. “You expect the boys to grow up around a bunch of foreigners who don’t even speak English?”

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe it would be a good experience for them to get to know people from another culture.” She stared at me hatefully.

“Just like you to make things sound so cheery. Do what you want, I don’t care.” And she walked away from me to go into the kitchen.

I wasn’t in the mood to argue or to try to convince her to look at this in a positive light. Ever since our near fatal encounter our relationship had understandably reached a new low and nothing I did could change that now.

Violent arguments between us had ensued a few days following that incident, after which we had both retreated to our respective corners to lick our wounds, renew our resentments, and plan new verbal attacks on each other. Soon we both tired of exchanging the same old accusations and issuing the same old threats so we finally both just gave up.

It had been weeks since we’d effectively communicated with each other—and any affection that we’d once felt for each other was now just a wistful memory. We went through our daily rituals like zombies, each of us playing the role of victim, and whenever the occasion arose heaping loads of culpability on each other.

Shortly after the incident at the gas station I called Billy and told him what I’d seen. I issued an ultimatum—insisting that if he didn’t fire Randall I would quit. He was sympathetic, but in the end refused to fire Randall. His reasoning was that regardless of what he’d done with my wife, it was my problem; and anyway, Randall’s job performance was still satisfactory. I told him to prepare my final paycheck as I would not be returning.

Later that day I spoke to John and told him I would not be playing with the band any longer. He said that without me they would have to break up because I was his lead vocalist and there was no way he could find a replacement in time for our future booked gigs. I apologized but insisted that my decision was final and used my pending reassignment as the reason. The truth was that although we desperately needed the money I could no longer stand working at the gas station and I had suddenly lost all desire to play my guitar and sing music.

Further, I was still hugely resentful of Sharon’s behavior with Randall, and it felt as if a dagger was being driven through my heart every time my memory replayed the scene that I and my friends had witnessed that night at the gas station. What hurt the most was not what she did–I deserved that; it was that she chose to take my sons along when she did it. I felt that at least Ricky was old enough to understand what was going on.

At work at the Air Force detachment, I pretty much stopped speaking to anyone unless it was mission related. Every time I caught one of my coworkers eyeing me surreptitiously while taking a break, the shame and embarrassment rose in me, and unless I was working the radar I would wordlessly just get up and leave.

Of course, in Sharon’s eyes it was me and my bad habits, one of which was not staying home and behaving like a faithful husband, as the prime cause that had forced her to seek comfort and understanding in the arms of another man.

And, of course, she was right.

I was racked with guilt, anger, and regret, and just couldn’t figure out what I could do to right our sinking ship.

***

So if there weren’t already enough problems affecting our relationship, one bright sunlit morning, a new one arose—this one regarding the legal ownership of our Dodge Dart.

When I’d bought the car from Lou Werner he’d promised that he’d mail me the registration and a copy of the title as soon as the loan went through at the bank. He’d suggested that I transfer my Texas plates from the Chevy that we’d traded in for the Dart, and when they expired I’d have the Kansas paperwork, so all I would have to do was to register the car and get my Kansas plates.

Well, I did get the payment book from the Empire State Bank in Kansas City in about a week, but the rest of the paperwork never arrived. I tried to contact Lou several times by phone but all my calls had gone unanswered.

Changing my tactics, I started making repeated calls to the bank, asking and leaving messages for the Auto Loan officer whose name was on the coupon book. They also went unanswered and unreturned. In time, and with my hectic lifestyle, I gave up and soon put the whole issue out of my mind. Besides, I recall thinking, my Texas plates were still valid so unless I wanted to sell the car I wouldn’t need to have proof of registration.

But now, with my impending departure from the states to a foreign destination, I suddenly realized that I couldn’t do anything with the car without the proper paperwork. Sharon had stated that she wanted to go back to Nevada to live close to her mother and sisters during my deployment, and if she took the car there my Texas plates would expire within months. That would leave her with an unregistered and non-titled car, with no legal way to get either.

In a near panic I put a renewed effort into contacting Mr. Werner and/or the bank loan officer but had no luck with either. Almost out of options, I suggested to Sharon that we’d just have to show up at the bank in person without an appointment and confront the loan officer, demanding that he produce and deliver the required paperwork.

After discussing our limited options, one of the few times we actually communicated, I told Sharon that we would just have to take a trip into Kansas City and pay a visit to the bank. So, on a Wednesday I took the day off work, and after leaving the boys with Hilda, we set out for the drive to the Empire State Bank of Kansas City. On the drive up, we were absentmindedly listening to a local station on our car radio when the music was interrupted by a news bulletin. The name, “Lou Werner” immediately caught our attention.

We listened with rapt interest as the announcer stated that a ‘Mr. Lou Werner, from Kearney, Missouri, had just been arrested by the FBI at his home and charged with multiple federal counts of interstate motor vehicle fraud and embezzlement of bank funds’. Along with Lou and other bank employees, the Executive Vice President, Ben Leimgruber, was also under suspicion for conspiracy to defraud, embezzlement, money laundering, and racketeering. Some other names were also mentioned, but by that time we were both almost in shock due to what we were hearing.

The announcer breathlessly declared that the bank was presently being raided and would be closed until further notice, pending a federal investigation. Further, he said, the FBI had suggested that anyone having any auto loan dealings with this bank should immediately retain legal counsel to determine the legality of the ownership of any vehicle purchased or financed through promissory notes through this bank. The announcer then resumed the music program, but not before assuring his listeners that any further updates would be made as soon as they were received.

Sharon and I looked at each other with genuine surprise.

“You think that means us?” she asked innocently.

“I would say that it means us for sure,” I responded, now looking for the nearest freeway exit to reverse our route.

“Shit!” Sharon spit out. “If we can’t get a title or a registration for the car, what are we going to do? We can’t drive this thing to Nevada without some type of legal ownership—that’s for sure.”

“Let me think about it. Although we don’t have the money, I’ll have to see about hiring a lawyer, I guess.”

“How’re we gonna do that? Of course, we don’t have any money, and we sure as hell don’t know any lawyers.”

Since we were already almost into the city, I suggested that we continue towards the bank just to see what was going on.

As we turned the corner where the bank was situated, we noticed no real activity outside. We found a parking space on the curb and decided to walk to the bank to see if we could still talk to the loan officer. When we approached and pulled on the large front doors, we discovered that they were locked. Peering through the glass we noticed a lot of activity inside the bank, but none of the people milling around seemed to be customers. Most of them were male, dressed in dark suits and white shirts.

Walking back to our car I happened to notice a small office at the end of the block with a sign that announced, “Law Office”. Looking at each other we shrugged and silently decided to go on in.

The office was small, wood paneled, and there was no receptionist at the empty front desk. Three of the four wooden chairs were lined up against one wall, but our interest was centered on a closed frosted glass door at the back of the office with black lettering that said “Private”.

Before we had a chance to decide whether one of us should venture forth and knock on the door, it opened, and a small mustachioed man wearing a brown vest and tie came walking out.

“Hi!” He said cheerfully. “How can I help you?”

“Well…” I stuttered, “I don’t know if you can, but I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, if that’ll be OK.”

He eyed us as he approached and I noticed that he was walking with a very perceptible limp. It seemed that his right leg was significantly shorter than his left.

“Well, that depends on the question, doesn’t it?”

“Yes sir, I guess it does.”

“OK, ask away.”

“Well,” I started out, and pulled the bank’s coupon book from my back pocket. “We bought this car…”

“Oh God!” he said, suddenly reaching out and snatching the book out of my hands. “Don’t tell me—you got a loan from that bank.” He pointed in the direction of the Empire State Bank, “On a car, right?”

“Yes sir, we did.”

He took the coupon book from me and leafed through it. “Is this all you got?”

“Yes sir.”

“No other paperwork, forms, things like that?”

“No sir. I did sign some forms but I didn’t get copies because we were told they’d be mailed to us. They never were.”

“Figures. OK, come on in and tell me the whole story.” He turned and limped back to the office from where he’d emerged. “Tim Fogerty’s the name! Attorney at law!” He stopped just as he crossed the door’s threshold. “And you are…” He squinted at the coupon book. “Frank DeLeón! Right?”

“Yes sir.” Sharon, following close behind, almost ran into me as I came to a sudden halt. Fogarty stretched his hand out and shook mine enthusiastically.

“Come on in and entertain me!” He turned and limped back behind a large wooden desk, strewn with papers all over its surface. “You and that pretty lady pull up a couple of chairs.”

We sat down and waited patiently as he leafed through the coupon book, squinting through a pair of rimless spectacles that he’d had resting on his head.

“It doesn’t say here anything about a car. It just says you owe the bank sixty-dollars a month for twenty months. Is that right?”

“Yes sir.”

“So, no other paperwork, right?”

“No sir. Like I said before, I signed some papers when I bought the car but never got copies.”

“Hmm. Typical. OK, before we go any further I will require a retainer of one-hundred dollars if you want me to represent you! You got that much?”

“Well…no sir. Not on me. But I can write you a check. That is…if you don’t cash it until next Monday. That’s when I get paid.”

He looked up from the book and pushed his glasses down to the end of his nose. Looking over the lenses, he said, “You don’t have the money now?”

“No sir, sorry.”

“OK, tell you what. It’ll take me about that long to figure out what’s going on here, so I’ll trust you. Start writing the check. I got a pen here somewhere.” He pushed papers back and forth on his messy desk until he found a fat black fountain pen. “Ah, here it is.”

While I was writing out the check, he got up and pulled a large volume from an oak bookshelf on the back wall. Leafing through the onion-skin-like pages he pushed the glasses back up his nose. Finding what he was looking for, he slipped a paper marker on the page, closed the book and wrinkled his brow.

“What kind of car is it?” He mumbled.

“Uh, it’s a 1962 Dodge Dart.”

“Blue? Big engine? Fat tires?”

“Yes sir.”

“Humph, same old gig. Son, he sold you an old police car. That’s what he did.” He peered up over his glasses. “Didn’t he?”

“Yes sir, he did. We found that out later.”

“Yup. Who was it? A guy named Eddie? Eddie Robbins?”

“No sir, Lou. Lou Werner, out of Kearney, Missouri.”

“Ha! That’s what he told you his name was! Dollar to a donut it was Eddie Robbins.”

“Oh.”

“Well, never you mind for now. Let me look at this and do a little investigating, and I’ll get back to you. In the meantime, and for now, I’ll need you to fill out some paperwork that’ll assign me as your attorney. And I’ll be sure to give you copies before you leave.”

After filling out several forms he stood up and ushered us out of the small office. “It shouldn’t take me too long to see what you’ve gotten yourself into, and how I can get you out of it. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

“Thank you very much, sir. We really appreciate it!”

“Hell boy, don’t thank me now. I don’t even know if your check is good. And if it ain’t I may have to sue you to get my hundred dollars, eh?” He slapped me on the back. I didn’t think that was funny.

“Oh no! I’ll make sure the money’s in the bank on Monday. Honest.”

“We’ll see. Now, here—take my card so you’ll know who to say’s representing you if that should ever come up. And, lastly, if anyone from the bank contacts you and starts asking questions, the first thing I want you to do is get my card and give them my name and phone number. Do not…and I repeat…do not answer any questions or volunteer any information. From here on out I’ll do all the talking for you. Understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“And that includes the FBI. Of course, if they contact you I want you to call me ASAP! You got that?”

“Yes sir.” That frightened me, and I could tell Sharon was also shocked. At the mention of the FBI she reached out and grabbed my hand. When I squeezed her hand gently she just as quickly pulled it back.

OK, now off with you. I got me some work to do.”

He escorted us out the door, and we walked back out into the blazing sunshine.

***

The call came on Friday while I was at work. I walked into the break room and picked up the receiver laying on the table next to the phone’s base.

“Hello?”

“Frank?”

“Yes?”

“This is Fogarty…your attorney!”

“Yes sir!” My heart jumped and skipped a couple of beats.

“OK, so before I start, are you somewhere private? I don’t want this call being overheard.

“Yes sir, it’s OK. I’m in a break room but there’s no one here.”

“OK then, here’s part of what I found. Do you own land in Pawhuska, Oklahoma?”

“Paw…what?”

“Pawhuska, Oklahoma!”

“No sir!”

“Humph, I didn’t think so.”

“Excuse me sir, but what does that have to do with my car?”

“Everything son, it has to do with just about everything!”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, it’s pretty complicated and I can’t go over this completely on the phone. Can you come into the office this afternoon?”

“Sure! Does my wife need to be there also?”

“No son. Just you. This is all about you. See you…say…around four?”

“Uh, sure. I’ll be there.”

I called Sharon to tell her what the attorney had said. She didn’t seem too impressed.

“I should be home around five or six. I hope this turns out to be good news.” I told her.

“Whatever…” was her response, and she hung up.

***

“Here’s what the scam was.” Fogarty said, pulling a chair close to mine and throwing a stack of papers on his already messy desk. “This guy Eddie, or Lou…borrowed twelve-hundred dollars in your name from the Empire State Bank, and leveraged the loan against some real property that you allegedly own, or owned, in Pawhuska, Oklahoma. Then he pocketed the money and pretty much just gave you that car.”

“What? OK, so that’s the money that was financed for the car. So, then when I pay back the loan in full, the car will be legally mine?”

“Um, not so fast. He gave you a 1962 Dodge Dart that he bought for two-hundred and fifty dollars from the Kansas State Police at auction. Only problem is, that car had a salvage title that expired thirty days after he bought it. He was supposed to part out that car…that is tear the car down and sell it for parts. Once it was all parted out, it would no longer exist. So, the car you’re driving now does not exist on any tax rolls, or registration lists. It’s a ghost.”

“What?”

“Yeah, most likely after he bought it he just had a body shop do some cosmetic work on the car for maybe a couple of hundred dollars—you know taking off the red light, the antenna…stuff like that, then spruced it up for sale and tried to get rid of it before the thirty days was up.”

“Oh yeah. That’s what the service guy told us.”

“Service guy? Look, tell me—have you had any trouble with the car? Mechanical trouble?”

“Well, yes. Shortly after we bought the car the transmission blew up and I had to get it replaced for six hundred dollars. That’s how I found out it was an ex-police car. The guy who replaced the transmission told me so.”

“Well, there you go. Sold you a real bill of goods, he did. Did that Lou guy offer to make good on the repairs?

“No sir. I could never reach him again by phone, and I didn’t want to have to drive all the way to Kearney and find that he was not home. So, we just kind of absorbed the expense.”

“You had six hundred dollars to blow on a car that you’d just financed for twelve hundred? Excuse me son, but that don’t make any sense.”

“Well, I’d just reenlisted in the Air Force a week before the car broke down, and when the car broke down, I had to spend all my reenlistment money on the transmission.”

“My God! That’s sad. Anyway look, here’s the rest of the story. He and his buddies at the bank cooked the books to show that the twelve-hundred-dollar loan was written up as a chattel mortgage, securing the loan, the twelve hundred, with that same property in Oklahoma.

“So now the bank has paid out the money as a personal loan secured by a chattel mortgage in your name, on the property that you don’t own in Oklahoma. And that money was immediately pocketed by Billy, or Lou. Since there was no mention of a car in any of the paperwork, and the loan was written up as a chattel mortgage that you signed off on, you are out a car, and twelve-hundred dollars.”

“What?”

“Oh, and the best part is this: The payments you’re making every month to pay off the loan are going directly into an account co-owned by Lou, or Billy, or whatever he’s calling himself now, and the loan officer at the bank. On the bank’s books, the loan is probably delinquent and a lien will be issued, if it hasn’t already, against the property in Oklahoma that you don’t own.”

“So, when I bought the car a loan was made in my name based on property that I supposedly owned—and that money was split by Lou and the bank guy?”

“Right! That’s the first part of the scam.”

“OK, so now when I pay my monthly sixty bucks, that payment is going to the same two guys?”

“Exactly! You were sold an almost worthless car, with no title or registration for twelve hundred dollars, which was pocketed—and now you’re paying another twelve hundred dollars to the same two guys for the car. Bottom line is that they made twenty-four hundred dollars on a car that they bought for a couple of hundred dollars at a police auction. And so, the best part, or worst part, depending on your take—is that the loan at the bank is not being paid off by anyone. But because the loan is so small they’re counting on getting all the money from you before the bank notices.

“So I think what’s probably going on is that they’re putting your sixty-dollar payments into an escrow account at the bank—that way if the scam is noticed before you pay off the loan, they can produce the money if asked. Chances are they were betting that no one would notice until you paid your last payment. Then, they would’ve absconded with the money and say you never made any payments.”

“What happens when the bank finds out no one is paying back the twelve hundred dollars?”

“Well, the bank will send you a letter demanding you pay back the loan or they’ll place a lien on your property in Oklahoma. By the time the bank figures out that you don’t have any property in Oklahoma, they’ll file papers on you, demanding you pay back the loan plus penalties and interest. If you don’t, then then they’ll threaten a lawsuit or even jail for defrauding them. One of those papers you signed probably had you verifying that you were putting that property up as collateral.”

“Oh God. So, I guess the best thing for me to do is to stop paying the monthly payment and come clean with the bank. But then, what do I do with the car?”

“Whoa! Not so fast! You, I’m afraid are not off the hook. Because the original loan of twelve hundred dollars was taken from the bank—and because you signed a chattel mortgage in the amount of twelve hundred dollars with the promise to make twenty payments of sixty dollars—you are still required to make payments—regardless! That’s the only thing that may save you in the long run—proving you’ve made goodwill payments all the while and have not tried to defraud anyone.”

“But…the payments I’m making are for the car! And the bank’s not getting the money! So, if I don’t own the car, and the money is not going to the bank, and I can’t get the car titled or registered, then why should I continue to make payments?”

“Unfortunately, the bank won’t care about any of that. See, they are out twelve hundred dollars—taken from them under fraudulent conditions. Now, the guys responsible are probably going to go to jail…or their case will drag on for years in the courts…and the bank will not wait that long for their money. The easy fix for the bank is to turn to you and have you continue to make payments on this chattel mortgage. You have about six or seven hundred dollars left on the note, right?”

“Yes, something like that.”

“So, at least the bank will think that they will recover that much of the original twelve-hundred-dollar loss. They won’t care that you have a car that has no title and ain’t worth spit. That’s not their problem.”

I sat there staring at the stack of papers without really seeing them. I was crushed and didn’t know what to say.

Finally, Mr. Fogarty reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m going to tell you something, but if ever asked I will deny that this conversation ever took place. Understand?”

“I…I think so.”

He pushed his spectacles up onto his head and pulled his chair even closer to mine. “If this were me…that is, if I were in your situation…this is what I would do. First, stop making any more payments. It’s going to take the bank months, if not years, before they get to the bottom of this. By the time they figure out the chattel mortgage thing and tie it to you, you should be long gone. You’re in the service so I’m sure you’ll be reassigned somewhere in the next year or so.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I’m being transferred to Okinawa in October.”

“Perfect! You won’t even be in the U.S. How long you gonna be gone?”

“Probably a couple of years…maybe three.”

“Well, there you go! That’s your out. OK, the second thing I would do is drive that car somewhere secluded, and leave it. Take all your possessions out of it and walk away. Whenever it’s found the police will run the VIN, but they’ll find nothing—because there’s no title. That will also take a long time for anyone to figure out, and by the time they do you’ll be out of the country.”

“But what if they find me and file some kind of charges for me to face when I come back to the U.S.?”

“All that takes money, son. And a lot of time and effort. For six hundred dollars, the bank will likely just drop the matter in the end. Besides, they’ll have the car, once they figure out that they do. Besides, they’ll have bigger fish to fry, believe me.”

I walked out of Mr. Fogarty’s office even more confused and more depressed than ever. So now I was out another hundred dollars that I couldn’t afford to lose; the car I was driving didn’t belong to me even though I’d been making payments on it faithfully; and, now I would end up with no car for my wife to use when I left for Okinawa. On the drive home, I thought to myself, ‘If I’d just kept the Chevy none of this would be happening.’

***

I was depressed and confused and truly embarrassed. Sitting in the car I decided that what I didn’t want to do was to go home and face Sharon. So I didn’t go home, but I should have. Instead I made a rash and most unfortunate decision that had to rank as one of the worst decisions of my life.

I headed for the Anchor Inn.

As soon as I walked in Butch must’ve seen that I was not in much of a mood. He waved me over to a corner of the bar and poured me a scotch and water.

“What’s up kid? Feeling OK?”

“Not really…”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Got it. As soon as you’re ready I’ll pour you another one. You look like you really need it, so it’s on the house.”

“Thanks.”

After having three or four drinks in quick succession, instead of feeling better, my mood darkened even more. One minute I was angry, the next I was full of sorrow. Thinking that the more I drank, the better I would feel was not working out for me.

After pouring me yet another scotch Butch pulled up a stool and put his arm around me.

“OK son, listen. I know it’s none of my business, but I heard about what went on with your wife and that guy at the station, and I can only imagine how you feel. That had to be a rough deal for you.”

“It’s not just that Butch. There’s a lot of shit happening that really has me down right now, and I just can’t figure a way out of it.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I know that you’re also being transferred and having to move your family to Nevada, and I know that’s really weighing down your mind. But look son, this isn’t the end of the world. You’ll pop back up again. Shit, look at me: three fucking ex-wives, a stint in the Navy brig, and see where I landed. It could be a lot worse.”

That didn’t make me feel any better.

“OK, look on the bright side: you won’t be stuck out in the middle of the fucking prairie anymore. You’ll have a whole new country to explore and a lot of those geisha girls to chase while you’re there!”

“Butch, I know you’re trying to cheer me up, but what I need right now is some quiet and more scotch.”

“OK, coming up. Sorry, just trying to cheer you up.” And he heaved his huge frame off the stool heading for the other side of the bar.

Later, a few more of my friends wandered into the bar and headed over to greet me. That was not what I needed, nor was it what I wanted. I asked Butch what I owed him and he just waved his hand dismissively. I walked back into the cool Kansas evening, shading my eyes against the quickly sinking autumn sun and got back into my car.

I sat there for a while wondering what I should do next. But what I really wanted to do was to go home and hold my wife tightly, tell her how much I loved her, and more than anything else, beg for her forgiveness. I wanted to assure her that as hurt as we both were, our love would help us get through this very rough patch, and even though I was leaving, I was going to do everything in my power to bring her and the boys to Okinawa. But deep in my heart I knew that all this was way too late—and that thought made me sadder still.

Firing up the engine, I turned the car towards I-35 north and headed for Kansas City.

After parking the car, I made the rounds—visiting the clubs where my friends, Joy and I had spent a lot of time and money. Instead of feeling better listening to some of my favorite musicians and seeing the people there laughing, dancing, and having a good time, I descended into a much deeper and darker place.

Sometime in the late evening, or very early morning, I found myself back in the car, racing south on the freeway heading back to Gardner. I’d never opened the car up to its full potential, and noticing that there was very little traffic, I thought this would be a great time to do that. After all, I thought, in a few days I’d be gone, and the car would be on its way back to the bank. So…why not?

I reached down and found the lap belt that the Kansas State Police had installed in all their vehicles, and secured it around my lower waist. I heard the reassuring click as the buckle on the right belt locked onto the metal tongue of the left.

Just after the College Street exit the freeway straightened itself out and became three lanes of unimpeded gray concrete a full three miles until the Santa Fe Street overpass. I pushed the accelerator all the way down to the floor. The four hundred and thirteen cubic-inch Ramcharger engine instantly responded with a deep-throated roar and I was violently pushed back into the seat.

A few seconds went by and I noticed that the front fenders and hood were beginning to vibrate. I glanced at the speedometer and saw it nudging past the 100 MPH mark. Since it only went to 120 MPH, it was my intention to pin it there and see how much faster the car would continue to accelerate past that mark.

A type of euphoria filled my chest, and for a few moments I felt almost invincible. Even though the steering wheel felt extremely light and the car was hardly responding to even moderate pressure left and right, I felt absolutely no fear of losing control.

In what seemed seconds, I saw the Santa Fe Street overpass come into view in the distance—its illuminated elevated guard rails shimmering against a backdrop of total darkness. That’s when I noticed the huge circular concrete pillars supporting the overpass.

There were three sets. One set to the right side of the three southbound lanes, the second set to the left of the northbound lanes, and the third set directly in the middle of the overpass rising from the grassy center median separating the northbound from the southbound lanes.

A wispy thought, in the form of a question and articulated by a soft dark voice rose up into my consciousness from somewhere deep in my mind:

Do you know what would happen if you aim the car directly at the set of pillars on the right side of the freeway?

Without a discernable pause and not waiting for me to answer, the response arrived:

Why, everything would just go black, that’s what. And all you know, and all you fear would just cease to exist. That’s what would happen.

Then, another question—this one from a lighter voice—my conscience.

But, then what would happen to me?

Nothing. The dark voice answered. Peace and quiet, and eternal darkness. No more pain. No more regret. Peace, forever.

Yes…peace. And forgiveness? The light voice asked.

Of course, forever and ever.

Then, my own mind’s voice interceded. “But, what about my wife and my boys? What will happen to them?”

Ah, them. They’ll finally be released from your destructive influence, the dark voice answered self-assuredly, and they will be looked after by others who are certainly more worthy than you. So don’t worry—just turn the wheel a bit to the right and the peace you desperately seek will come.

Then, quiet.

I recall marveling at just how quickly the gray concrete pillar was moving towards the front of my car. I glanced to the right and my headlights illuminated the edge of the emergency lane and then a bed of soft gravel.

The roar of the engine and a deep rumbling as the tires on the right side of the car dug into the gravel jerked my attention back to reality.

“NOOO!!” I heard myself scream. “NO! NOT THIS WAY!!!”

And I jerked the steering wheel to the left!

The car seemed to float—the front-end veering sharply to the left—the force pushing me to the right on the smooth plastic seating. The seat belt dug into my midsection and I hung on to the steering wheel, desperately trying to find the brake pedal with my right foot.

I saw the large overpass pillar flash off to my right, and then almost instantly reappear on my left. It flashed across the front of my car and quickly disappeared off to the right.

The car was in a violent three-hundred and sixty-degree spin. Then, another. And another. And another.

Dust rose from the inside of the car and got into my eyes and nose. I hung on to the steering wheel until I thought my fingers would be torn from my hands.

I was thrown against the driver’s side door and my left shoulder screamed in pain as the door handle dug into my flesh. My head hit the closed window glass causing my vision to black out momentarily. Then I was back.

The lanes of the highway came and went…from left to right—and finally and slowly, the car’s gigantic tires reestablished their grip on the concrete surface.

The spinning had stopped, and now the car was traveling backwards slowly, but straight. And my right foot found and depressed the brake pedal. I saw the Santa Fe Street overpass through my front windshield when I should’ve been seeing it in my rearview mirror.

The car drifted to a stop—the acrid smell of burning oil and rubber wafting up through the floorboards and stinging my nose and eyes.

And I took a deep breath.

A violent shudder shook my body and I wanted to vomit. I pulled my left hand off the steering wheel and rubbed the rising knot on the side of my head. I felt a trickle of warmth run down my arm and I noticed my sleeve was torn.

Slowly I turned the still running car to the right and brought the front end to bear in the right direction—southbound.

I eased over to the emergency lane and shut off the engine. I disengaged my lap belt, opened the door, and stepped out.

The cold autumn night air flowed into my lungs and helped calm my churning stomach. I walked around to the back of the car and leaned back on the trunk. My hands were shaking, and in my mind I could still hear the echoes of the contradicting voices. I squeezed my eyes tightly and tried to force them out of my head.

In the redness of the rear tail lights the sleeve on my left arm looked purple and moist. I popped the trunk open and found a not-too-dirty shop towel and held it to my upper arm. My shoulder ached and my head was pounding.

After a few minutes, I realized just how cold I was, and on shaky legs walked back to the driver’s side, holding the towel tightly against my arm, and got back into the car.

I drove the remaining few miles to my home in Gardner, my mind blank…all the while staying well under the speed limit.

***

There had been no one else on the freeway. Had there been, they would’ve seen the small blue Dart sliding and spinning from the far-right side of the freeway, across three lanes and literally flying under the overpass. I had executed at least four and a half three-hundred and sixty-degree spins, remaining completely level. The police car’s heavy-duty suspension, tuned to accept extreme lateral forces, and the car’s low, wide stance had kept the oversized tires mostly on the roadway preventing the car from losing its lateral balance and rolling over. A less sturdy suspension and skinnier tires would have surely failed, and the car would not have been able to stay level and would have rolled violently. Both I and the car would’ve been destroyed as the inertial velocity spent itself out by turning the car into a rolling missile—disintegrating itself, and me, on the super-hard highway surface.

The Long Goodbye

A decision had to be made about what to do with the car and how to get Sharon and the kids back to Nevada, and our options were severely limited. Sharon’s attitude was that since I was the one who had gotten us into this situation, I would have to be the one to dig us out. So, every day for about a week I played and replayed the scenario in my head, and in the end, only one solution seemed viable.

First, I made a trip to the Payroll Office at the base and submitted a formal request for an advance on my travel funds. The check that I’d written to Mr. Fogarty had put a big dent in our almost non-existent funds, so the advance would help us with the expense of moving Sharon and the boys to Nevada and helping them with rental money for a couple of months.

The payroll officer warned me that when the travel funds were issued in advance, there would be no money to draw on for any expenses I may incur when I reached my destination base.

The payroll officer cautioned me, “Your first paycheck will probably be delayed for about a month after you get there, so that’s why we recommend that you leave something in the travel money fund for unexpected expenses once you get to Okinawa”.

Against his advice I requested and received, the entirety of the travel money that was afforded for my travel. I then used part of this money to purchase one-way airline tickets for us from Kansas City to Reno; then, a single ticket for me from Reno to Oakland, California. From there I would travel by bus to Travis Air Force Base where I would stay for a couple of days before boarding a military charter flight to Naha, Okinawa.

I gave the rest of the money, minus about twenty dollars which I kept for myself, to Sharon for her and the boys. I told her that since I would be eating in military chow halls and wearing my military uniforms on my trip overseas, I would need very little money. Further, I assured her that I had set up an allotment with payroll, assigning eighty percent of my pay, after taxes, to be sent to her monthly once I reached my base. She expressed very little, if any, emotion—and only seemed interested in finding out when she could expect to receive the first allotment payment.

Finally, I came to a decision on the Dart. Heeding my lawyer’s advice, I decided to just leave the car once we departed Kansas City. However, since I didn’t feel comfortable with his suggestion that I just drive it somewhere and abandon it, I instead opted to do something a little less sinister.

The night before we left our apartment for the taxi trip to the airport, I sat down and wrote a letter and addressed it to the Empire State Bank of Kansas City.

To Whom It May Concern:

Enclosed please find a “Monthly Payment Coupon Book, nine (9) money order receipts, and a set of ignition and trunk keys to the 1962 Dodge Dart, a used automobile which I “purchased” from Lou Werner of Kearney, Missouri, late last year.

To the best of my knowledge, I applied, and was approved, for a loan from your bank in the amount of twelve hundred dollars ($1,200), to be repaid in twenty (20) equal installments of sixty dollars ($60) per month, until the sum of the loan was completely paid. Each monthly payment, made with U.S. Postal money orders, submitted to your bank was to be accompanied with a coupon from the enclosed booklet.

As you will note, there are eight (8) coupons missing from the booklet, and eight (8) corresponding money order receipts; each representing a cash payment to your bank; and each in the amount of sixty dollars ($60).

I was recently advised by my Attorney, Mr. Timothy Fogarty, Esq., Attorney at Law, that due to some illegalities that have occurred within a certain department in your bank, I am not, nor will I ever be, the legal owner of the 1962 Dodge Dart, which I assumed was financed by your bank.

I was further advised that the monies that I have paid to your bank for almost a year never went to satisfy the “loan” or “note” that I assumed was put in place for me to legally purchase the aforementioned automobile.

Subsequently, I have discovered that since I hold no interest in, nor do I legally own, this vehicle, I am unable to register, nor am I able to title it in Kansas, or in any other state. I have also been counseled by my attorney that any time I drive this automobile, I am doing so illegally.

Therefore, I would ask that, at your discretion, you dispatch representatives from your bank to recover said automobile, which is located at (residential address inserted). The vehicle has sustained no body or engine damage since I took delivery of it, and at this time the doors and trunk are locked and secure.

Finally, please be advised, and I hereby Declare, that I will no longer submit monthly payments to your bank since I do not legally own this vehicle; Nor do I accept the responsibility of paying off a “loan” or “note”, which when “satisfied”, will not result in my legally owning said automobile.

I remain,

Respectfully,

Frank De León

I placed the letter, car keys, coupon book, and money order receipts in a heavy manila envelope, and after printing the address of the Empire State Bank of Kansas City on the front, packed it in my briefcase. I planned to deposit the envelope into a Postal receptacle when I arrived at the Kansas City Airport the following day.

As the taxi pulled out of our small driveway at the apartment in Gardner, Kansas, the driver turned to me and said, “Wow, what a great looking car. You own it?”

“Nope.”

***

So, ten months after I reenlisted in the Air Force and committed to serve my country for another four years, I was rewarded by being given orders shipping me out of the country and forcing me to leave my family alone again for an indeterminate amount of time.

The reassignment came at a very difficult time in our lives; a time when Sharon and I were not only going through a very difficult time in our marriage, but also at a time when our children needed to have both parents present in their lives.

Although I had finally come to the realization that the majority, if not all, of the blame for the damage to our marriage was directly attributable to me and my loutish and selfish behavior, I had also promised myself that I would do everything in my power to atone for my foolish misdeeds. If I had learned anything from the devastation that I had created in the last year, it was the stark realization that I loved my wife and children very deeply, and was profoundly remorseful for the hurt and pain that I had caused.

However, now that I was being sent thousands of miles away, and with no way to directly communicate with, or to demonstrate to Sharon my willingness and determination to repent from those grievous transgressions, I slowly began to accept the possibility that all may well be lost.

Several times, on the long plane ride to Reno, I desperately attempted to engage Sharon in conversation leading to a discussion regarding our shaky marriage, but after several rebuffs I realized that this was not the time nor the place. By the time we disembarked the flight I was convinced that our life together was all but lost.

A few days later, having traveled from Reno to Travis Air Force Base in Oakland, California, I boarded a military chartered Boeing 707, bound for Naha, Okinawa…over twenty hours away.

After touching down in Anchorage, Alaska, and Tokyo, Japan for refueling, the plane finally arrived at Naha Air Base, in Naha, Okinawa, twenty-two hours later.

The weather had been in the high thirties when I’d left Reno so I had dressed out in my Air Force winter blues, complete with a dark blue overcoat. As I descended the mobile stairway from the silver Northwest Orient Airlines jet onto the tarmac at Naha, I was met by a suffocating high level of humidity and an air temperature in the high eighties. The stale breeze carried a noxious and lingering odor of raw sewage that did nothing to quell my already slightly upset stomach. By the time I reached the check-in desk inside the terminal still clothed in my overcoat and wool blue uniform, I was soaked in sweat and hoping I wouldn’t throw up.

It was Wednesday, October 27^th, 1965, and I was now on an island sixty-five miles long and five miles wide, located in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, almost seven thousand miles from the West Coast.

To be continued…