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 15th, 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, “1st 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…
