The Military Experience, a different way to travel/live

 [Written several years ago]

All our generation probably remembers where they were when President Kennedy was shot.  How many remember the Cuban missile crisis which preceded that?  The Hungarian revolution of 1956?  The Korean War?  All were historic events, but we were too young to have any direct connection with such major occurrences.

Yesterday I was listening to the song ‘Where were you (when the world stopped turning)’ by Alan Jackson.  The song always affects me deeply, renewing my realization about how the world has changed and those specific incidents that bring history to life.  I am sure we all remember where we were when the World Trade Towers in New York were hit on 9/11.  Having spent a career in our military, certain events have provided additional markers making world events even more real.

VIETNAM

Riverine patrol headed out, early morning, for a mission.  Their battles were fought at close range on the feeder canals off the Mekong River; thus, although slow, these vessels relied on their heavy armor.

I spent most of 1967 in the Mekong Delta region of Vietnam.  We were usually upriver in the combat zone, watching patrols go out daily.  I worked in the navigation department of our flat-bottomed repair ship (a converted LST hull) which could handle the shallow depths of the river.  Once we had crossed the Pacific Ocean to Vietnam, most members of our navigation section were rotated out, and I was one of the few remaining.  I kept the charts (maps) and pubs (notices to mariners on navigation changes) up to date.  Calculated tides and currents.  Wound the chronometer and recorded its deviation from the time standard.  Also recorded weather observations to be sent to central forecasting.  Made coffee for the officers and washed their cups.  Cleaned and polished.  When shifting anchorages (done daily to foil enemy planning), I would provide ranges and bearings for plotting our progress and new position.  In the evenings, I would stand signal watches (looking for flashing light morse code from nearby ships) and security watches (using a starlight scope which magnified the ambient starlight to where you could spot movement on the riverbanks).  In my spare time I learned to identify the letters in flag hoists, semaphore signaling and more about celestial navigation.

As you can see, the deck of our riverine repair ship was a jumble of materials, hoists, and machinery for servicing the patrol craft, plus one individual enjoying a noon-time nap.

The ship’s bridge, where I worked is the top deck of the ship.  I had a great view of everything occurring. There was a constant ring of patrol craft encircling our ship, preventing any Vietnamese boats from getting too close, looking for objects (mines) in the water, and sometimes stopping a boat for inspection. 

Some of the riverine landing craft were equipped with helicopter decks; the helo pilot had to be pretty good to land on that small target.  

Our ship, USS Askari, was part of a small flotilla including barracks ships for the troops and supply ships which would come and go bringing parts, personnel, and provisions.  Patrols consisted mainly of heavily armored landing craft, top speed less than ten mph, which would go up the narrow feeder canals and then slug it out in close quarters encounters with the Viet Cong or deliver US Army troops for sweeps.  USS Askari had an extensive machine shop to maintain the craft, repair battle damage, and add bar armor to counter the evolving threat of shaped-charge rockets which could melt conventional steel plate. 

Occasionally, I would see a SEAL team returning at sunrise from a mission in their Boston whalers, shoveling handfuls of expended cartridges over the side of their boat, after ambushing the enemy.  Our Riverine Flotilla was a combined arms force.  We had troops from the 9^th Infantry Division embarked to land and advance across the rice paddies chasing the enemy.  During the daytime, we had USAF air support including napalm strikes.  At night, modified AC130s with multi-barreled miniguns would lay down a curtain of bullets on identified targets.  At 6000 rounds per minute, the tracers looked like a steady stream from a fire hose.

Did we accomplish anything?  As I wrote to a friend at the time, I was watching artillery fire on a hillside that was a repeat of a shelling on the same hillside six months prior.  I saw no identifiable progress in our efforts.  But for our leadership, Johnson and McNamara, winning was never the goal.

One bar after another.  They all cleared out at about 10pm when the curfew went into effect.  Then it was deserted streets patrolled by Vietnamese soldiers with submachine guns.

I watched the Vietnamese people suffer.  On the river, the native boats were kept away from us, but periodically we visited Vung Tau to resupply.  Crippled men with crude crutches or even part of a face missing.  Young women renting their bodies to earn a living.  Soldiers carrying submachine guns on urban patrol.  A few friends and I found a remote off-limits restaurant, Windy Beach Café, run by a single lady.  You had to hike down a deserted dusty road to find it.  We would show up and change into our bathing suits, then entrust her with our clothes and wallets.  After enjoying the surf on this rocky beach, she would serve us lunch and a beer.  We were never overcharged.

This was the main beach area near Vung Tau, called Back Beach because it was several miles outside of the city.  The water was so warm at times that you could feel yourself sweating underwater.  We went here only infrequently.  On one of those occasions, we sat down at a bar with a group of Australian soldiers; along with conversation, they kept ordering rounds of beer until I could not keep up.

 

Windy Beach was our more common beach destination.  Off limits, almost private, and very relaxing.

In the town of Vung Tau, I made acquaintance with a young girl, 10-11 years old, who was always there selling carved pineapples (the outer peel removed).  We would always greet each other.  One day when I brought no money, just planning to go to the main beach, she gave me a pineapple saying that I could pay her next time we met.  Of course, I honored that concession.  Whatever happened to her?  Honorable people eking out an existence in a war-torn country with an uncertain future.

Seeing all this creates a deep appreciation for life and all that our country has to offer.  Not to be taken for granted.

Locked in the confines of that 325-foot-long ship for months, you get to know fellow sailors well.  There was a group of bigtime gamblers.  There were drugs: marijuana, and opium.  You learned who to trust, who to discount, who to respect and who to not loan money to.  Shipmates came from all walks of life.  The ship was small enough that we knew each other as individuals; where you came from, or your ethnic heritage was unimportant in our relationships.  If you have seen a WWII movie with military from all walks of life, this was the atmosphere.  Although few if any crew on this ship were drafted, the presence of a draft certainly served as encouragement to enlist for some.  I had joined the US Navy Reserves at age 17, when I was a junior in high school.  The extra money might be helpful for college.

A SAILOR'S TALE

Mike L. came from Ventura, California.  He was a handsome, athletic, friendly guy.  I first noticed him when he approached the ship’s gangplank when we were loading supplies in Oakland, CA.  He looked truly lost.  Mike had joined the US Navy Reserve out of high school.  He got a summer job in Yosemite NP for the summer and stopped attending Reserve meetings.  The Navy sent him a letter warning that if he didn’t attend meetings, he would be kicked out of the Reserves.  Mike had lost interest in the Navy and was ready to quit the Reserves, so he ignored the letter.  What he didn’t understand was that he would instead be placed on active duty.

Thus, Mike stood there at the Askari gangplank with his seabag full of uniforms but knew nothing about the US Navy.  Didn’t know how to wear the uniform; didn’t know the rank structure; had never been to basic training or been on a ship, but now he was on his way to Vietnam.  A few friends and I took him under our care and schooled him as we crossed the Pacific Ocean.

Coming off the ocean and approaching the Vietnamese coast, our first visit to our new homeport of Vung Tau, the ship was at high readiness.  All stations manned and ready.  And there was Mike L.’s mother waiting for us on the dock!  His parents had divorced early.  Mike stated that he and his sister had pretty much raised themselves; both parents had gone on to other relationships.  Mike’s mother was an attractive blonde contract executive assistant in Saigon.  She had a senior Army colonel boyfriend who had learned where the ship would dock and flown her down in a helicopter to greet her son.  The Askari captain was stunned.

Mike was athletic; he could walk on his hands and encouraged me to learn how to do it.  (A skill I was able to maintain until I broke a bone in my shoulder while skiing, Lake Placid, age 55.)  So, he volunteered for SEAL training.  Imagine that, in Vietnam trying to be a SEAL and never attending boot camp!  He was sent to a location in the Philippines for preliminary testing but lacked the will to stay with it, carrying a log on his shoulders every morning while running on the beach.

Next, Mike got into drugs.  He wasn’t the only one, and it ultimately came to the attention of the officers.  A surprise inspection was held.  All suspects were held in one room and then their lockers and bunks were inspected one-at-a-time for drugs.  Mike asked to go to the bathroom and had a moment to remove the large box of marijuana from his locker, setting it on the deck, then quickly returning to confinement.  When it was his turn for inspection, the inspecting officer kicked the offending box out of the way to access his locker.  No drugs were found!

Even though no drugs were found, Mike and others were sent home, separated from the Navy, and given general discharges.  (A general discharge, while less than honorable still allows benefits.)  Mike was first sent to Saigon, packing with him his large box of marijuana.  While in Saigon awaiting further transportation, he was approached by a Vietnamese man offering a deal:  If Mike would buy him a refrigerator in the US military PX, the man would also pay for a new stereo system for Mike.  Mike agreed to the arrangement.  Mike replaced the packing material in his stereo boxes with his stash of marijuana.  It was all shipped back to the US.

The result was that Mike was back in California, separated from the military, had GI bill benefits for college, and had a new stereo and a large amount of marijuana for personal use.  How is that for punishment!  Months later, when my first Vietnam tour was complete and I was assigned to Long Beach, I visited Mike and met his sister, a nice looking blonde.  Mike knew the area, had friends, and was someone to hang out with when I was off duty.  He had access to a private swimming pool where we could take dates and have an outdoor picnic.

From there, I was sent back to Vietnam a second time.  On the new ship, there were also shipmates secreting drugs onboard prior to our departure.  You could find these individuals furtively sitting in clusters on remote corners of the deck at night, staring up at the stars above the open Pacific, and saying things that they thought were profound, but were really rather obvious (or nonsensical) to the unaffected.  We stopped at Hawaii, Midway, Guam, and Subic Bay PI, as well as underway refueling on our Trans-Pacific voyage.  Destroyers are faster and thirstier for fuel than the Askari repair vessel of my previous voyage.

During our stop at Subic Bay, I was assigned Shore Patrol duty.  This meant that, instead of drinking with shipmates, I strapped a Gov't .45 pistol to my waist, stayed sober, and watched fellow sailors making sure that they did not get into trouble while drinking.  Interestingly, that evening I had a chance to talk to one of the barmaids, Teresa DeGuzman, who told me she had a college degree in education but could make more money serving drinks to US sailors than if employed as a schoolteacher.  Such was the economy of the Philippines.

After arrival, we cruised the Gulf of Tonkin guarding aircraft carriers, and our destroyer’s six 5-inch guns were used for coastal fire support.  I was discharged from the US Navy at Treasure Island, San Francisco, one day before college classes began at UC Santa Barbara and immediately took a bus south to meet my new housemates at Goleta.  I had no vehicle, was extremely committed to my new environment, and I did not see Mike again for years.

The story gets worse from here, as recounted by Mike.  Mike didn’t stop the drugs.  One night he passed out at a party and broke two front teeth.  He ultimately lost his job, was kicked out of an apartment, and dropped out of school.  He moved to Hawaii for a while where he worked construction.  Five years later, Dawn and I were living in Sonoma County (northern CA), and she was working in a medical office.  A young man came in seeking care for suspected scabies.  When he stated his name, she started asking if he had been to Vietnam and knew a guy named Wayne Grabow.  It freaked him out because he had never met Dawn, but she had heard me talk about Mike.  It was Mike L.; he was living in a cabin in the woods in NorCal.

 

Mike L. working on the deck crew painting our ship.  Lower left is Irwin T., another California boy, serving his time on the ship.  Irwin's wife sent him an enticing calendar featuring pictures of her to keep him monogamous.  (It worked, and, no, he didn't share the photos.) Irwin eventually was a student at UC Santa Barbara with me, although he had to improve his grades at a State College before being accepted.

PANAMA

Summer of 1979 our family was assigned to Fort Gulick on the Atlantic Coast of Panama.  Carter was President, and it had been decided to give the US-built Panama Canal to the country of Panama.  The Canal Zone had been there for generations.  People born and raised there were called “Zonians”; the government and culture they knew was about to disappear.  The Canal Zone was prosperous, efficient, and well-maintained.  Panama was a grubby, backwards country run by the dictator, Torrijos, who died in an unexplained plane crash in 1981 and was replaced by Manuel Noriega.  Noriega had received his military education at the US-led School of the Americas on Fort Gulick where we lived.  It was agreed that there would be a one-year transition period.

During the transition period, US buildings were refreshed to be in good condition prior to a Panama takeover.  The preschool our children attended was deemed not adequate for turnover and was closed for renovation.  For law enforcement, joint patrols between Panamanian police and those in the Zone were initiated.  The Canal Zone police were good at catching criminals, and the Panamanian police dealt out harsh punishment.

Noriega ruled by force and corruption.  In our three years in the Zone, Noriega never visited the Atlantic coast.  It was rumored that he feared being killed if he were to visit the neglected town of Colon. We experienced the entire transition.  Once the Canal Zone was gone, the US flag was not allowed to be flown unless the Panama flag was flown above it.  Thus, we had a base ceremony in which the US flag was lowered at sunset and then a small explosive charge was detonated to bring down the flagpole.

We have visited Panama twice in recent years.  The home we lived in is still there, part of a civilian neighborhood now.  The broken swing on our neighborhood playground is still broken.  The clinic I worked in is now part of a resort hotel complex.  The buildings that the US renovated are now abandoned with the roofs caving in and the interiors ruined.

Panamanians have a favorable opinion of the United States.  Many have US connections.  English is widely understood.  They remember that the US came back later and deposed Noriega the dictator in 1989.  The US dollar is still their standard currency.  However, Panama is trending to leftist influence and return to strongman government, like other countries in the region.

 

GERMANY

We arrived in Germany in summer 1988.  After accepting new leased quarters in the small town of Elsenfeld, I needed to buy a second car because I would be commuting to Aschaffenburg, some distance away.  I visited the local German Ford dealership, happened to strike up a conversation with the owner, Hans Schafer, of the dealership, and we became friends.  He found me the perfect car, but we also developed a social relationship, visited each other’s homes, met his wife Ursula, dining out, and some holiday gifts.  The Soviet Union was breaking down.  Hans and I had discussed the dissension occurring in the Soviet Union, but we were both surprised when the Iron Curtain collapsed so quickly.  I was incredibly busy at that time, but Dawn was able to take advantage of this historic passing.

She visited Prague both before and shortly after the borders opened.  Great shopping for porcelain and crystal.  The difference was striking.  The streets of Prague had been silent (everyone with the sense of being watched by secret police), then the streets and central plaza became the site of celebration. Dawn also took our children out of school and drove to Berlin where the three of them witnessed the Berlin Wall being toppled.  We still have souvenir Wall fragments stored in our basement.  The children also experienced passing through the East German border guard process (still functioning at that time) with the entry to the guard station, showing of passports and strict questioning.

When the Iron Curtain guard gates had completely been abandoned, we were able to take the entire family on a day trip to East Germany, about two hours away.  The differences were striking.  They had crude heating systems, smoke billowing from chimneys; thus, all the homes were drab and sooty.  The cars, i.e., Trabants & Ladas, were pathetic little boxes with smoking exhaust.  When such vehicles ventured onto the autobahn, there were instances where they were run over by much faster cars who didn’t see their tiny dim taillights.  This is what communism/socialism gets you.

 At the end of our Germany tour, we booked a cruise for the entire family, Venice-Dubrovnik-(Yugoslavia)- Athens-Rhodes-Crete-Corfu-Venice.  We were about the only Americans onboard.  The US Marine barracks in Beirut Lebanon had been bombed only a few years ago (1983), and terrorism against Americans was still occurring (Achille Lauro cruise ship hijacking, 1985).  A Lebanese couple approached us while dining and said, “I hope you are not afraid.  Beirut is actually a very nice city.”  We were most impressed with Dubrovnik, which was amazingly beautiful with the same tall fortress walls present for centuries.

 

NETHERLANDS

Summer 1991 we moved to a new assignment in southern Netherlands.  My dental clinic was located at Schinnen, our home was a nice civilian rental home in Hulsburg.  This was a much more relaxing assignment than Germany.  But war broke out in Yugoslavia!  Our Dutch acquaintances asked us, “What will the United States do about this?”  My answer: “This is a purely European conflict.  Why doesn’t Europe take care of this?  The US is always criticized for getting involved and now we are criticized for NOT getting involved!  What do you want?”  Of course, the US did get involved.  America is both expected and criticized as the world’s policeman.  Dawn and I wondered; what will happen to beautiful Dubrovnik?  That conflict raged from 1991 to 1997.

We made a road trip to Prague, Terezin, and Dresden.  It was my first visit to Prague.  The atmosphere of celebration there was evident.  I watched a sword swallower perform in the open city plaza.  We stayed at what today would be an Airbnb, an apartment where the occupants stayed elsewhere during our visit. Terezin had been a model Nazi prison camp shown to the Red Cross to give the impression of fair treatment for inmates.  (Inmates were shipped elsewhere for extermination.)  In Dresden, we stopped at the tourist information office and were treated as if it was still a communist dictatorship.  Instead of being given information on various accommodation choices, they dictated to us where we were to stay and what the fee would be.  Our reaction, “No thanks, that is not how we live.  We are leaving.”  We got back in the car on the autobahn and drove home, arriving after midnight.

Years later, 2016, Dawn and I revisited Dubrovnik and Croatia, renting a car, and driving from Zagreb to Montenegro.  In Dubrovnik we visited two museums of the war (one in the city itself and the other atop the overlooking mountain) and are happy to report that although the city received significant damage, it has been rebuilt to its original magnificent self.  A young server at a restaurant there explained to us how the war had taken away the enjoyment of his teenage years.  Many of the defenders of the city were simply young men who took up arms with little or no military experience.  When we stayed in a B&B at Plitvice, the family told how they fled to Italy for those seven years and came back to find their home destroyed by those who had been their neighbors.  Such reasonable and educated people with yet profound ethnic grievances.

The Bay of Kotor, Montenegro.  We came from the north and Kotor is on the south side of the bay.  There is no bridge; you take a ferry to get from one side to the other.

Kotor, Montenegro, is a beautiful site on a large, protected fiord.  Unlike Croatia with its tourism-inspired private economy, Montenegro is a socialist country with government ownership.  It is very welcoming to Russians (signs in Cyrillic).  In Dubrovnik, shopkeepers are out early each morning to sweep and wash their store entry and sidewalks.  By contrast, Montenegro was dirtier and more neglected.  Parking was poorly organized and out of control.  Socialism takes away incentives for personal pride and excellent customer service.  When you make something a group responsibility, that means no one person is responsible.  Why put out extra effort?  Let the 'other person' to do it.

NEW YORK

Summer 2001 found us assigned to Fort Drum, New York.  Naturally, we took the opportunity to visit New York City.  Washington, DC, is the most economically and racially polarized city I have experienced, but New York was different.  We experienced people patiently queued in lines with no one trying to cut in.  We saw young people on buses get up to offer their seat for older people.  When in the subway station, people would notice us looking at our route map and would come over and offer to help us.  Riding the subway, people from very diverse backgrounds would strike up conversations together.  The restaurants were not as expensive as expected.  We took a tour of the World Trade Towers; standing on the roof looking out over the entire city was breath-taking.

We were readying for military retirement at that time.  September 9, Dawn returned from a trip hunting for our future retirement location.  Two days later, I was treating a patient when the word came on the TV that an aircraft hit one of the Towers.  Instantly we knew it was not an accident.  Our whole world had changed.  On her trip of just two days prior, Dawn was able to practically walk on to any waiting flight with no hesitation or interference. That world was gone.

New York City shortly after Sept. 11, 2001.  Smoke still rising from the city and the World Trade Towers are gone.

NY City fire station with flowers and photos of the firemen who died.

The areas of worst damage were blocked off to allow crews to work undisturbed by onlookers.

Statue of Liberty with a US Flag flying.

Not long after, we re-visited New York City with our two children. Remnants of buildings, piles of rubble, memorials with bouquets of flowers, cranes and other construction equipment still sifting through the wreckage.   It was hard to fully realize the enormity of the consequences.

Back on base at Fort Drum, a few people suggested that I may not be allowed to retire.  As the dental representative, I attended the initial meeting of base command staff to plan the 10^th Mountain Division’s deployment to Afghanistan.  They would be the first major unit to be sent.  The meeting was nothing like Hollywood would envision it.  Instead, the meeting had a business-like atmosphere.  History, geography, culture, climate, previous Soviet experience; they were all discussed in a very fact-based manner.  There was no ego-based intonation.  Very calm and thorough.  Sequencing of necessary logistic preparations was begun.

Shortly after, we began processing the troops for deployment.  I remember one young soldier telling me, “We understand that we may die on this mission.  Our main hope is that, if this happens, our lives will not be wasted.”  These outwardly ordinary individuals accept a set of solid values which they are willing to die for.  Our service members have more respect, discipline, and commitment than most civilians.  I couldn’t increase their pay or provide better base housing, but I tried to give them the highest quality dental care possible.

 

CIVILIAN TRAVEL

Dawn and I continue to travel to foreign lands and get a sense of what life is like there.  There are good people everywhere with most of the same concerns we have here in America.  Watching people live in the corruption and inefficiency of Third World countries is educational, but not particularly pleasant.  In a sense, we are all neighbors. We want everyone to share in a life with progress and hope for the future.    

A Flashback: Vietnam to Japan, a 1967 R&R adventure

This is not a new article.  I wrote this many years ago, but it was published in my other blog, concerned with boat building (developable-surface-boat-designs.blogspot.com).  It is perhaps more appropriate as a travel entry.

Carl Nixon and myself at Windy Beach, near Vung Tau, VN.  This beach was off limits, you had to walk some distance down a hot dusty road to find it.  We never encountered any other military there.  There was a cafe where we could leave our belongings and have lunch and a beer.  The woman who ran it was always honest and fair, as were all the Vietnamese I encountered.  It was our favorite destination.

Isla Archinard near Windy Beach.  If you look closely, you can see a concrete fortification (I am guessing from WWII).  Carl and I decided to swim out to it one day and discovered that there was a strong current present carrying us out to sea from this peninsula.  The swim was much harder than anticipated; you can't slow down because the current will not.

Sunrise on the Mekong River; I could also have included a sunset.  We spent many days on its mile-wide expanses.  Each day we would shift anchorage to a new location to avoid enemy targeting.

Maintenance on the heavily armored Riverine boats.  Russian B40 shaped-charge projectiles could penetrate those round turrets.  Notice below the bar armor 'cage' which was installed to cause the projectiles to explode prematurely before encountering the main armor plate.  These craft, with troops onboard, would enter narrow side canals from the river where they were subject to ambush, slugging it out in the close-quarter confines of those canals with the Viet Cong.

Downtown Vung Tau where many bars were located and enlisted military relaxed when off duty.  Officers frequented the Grand Hotel, nearer to the beach.  After the evening curfew, these streets were patrolled by Vietnamese military with submachine guns.  One evening we spent too much time at an establishment and had to scurry like mice to avoid the patrols and find a hotel.

A South Vietnam patrol boat; no armor, simply an adaptation of a native craft.

Wayne (me) on duty on the ship's bridge wearing my usual duty uniform.  To the left of me is a signal light.  We could send flashing light messages between ships using Morse code.

 A dental clinic coworker learned that I am a Vietnam veteran and asked me for information.  That started me thinking about long past events, and I decided to write down one of my most memorable experiences, a trip out of the war zone to Japan.  I have included photos from Vietnam to give some context to our R&R respite from the war zone.  

September 1966, I entered active duty with the US Navy.  After attending basic navigation school, I reported aboard the USS Askari, ARL-30, and was immediately assigned to help load armor plate and other supplies for our mission in Vietnam.  We left San Francisco in early December, stopping in Hawaii (*1) and the Philippines (*2) along the way, toward our new homeport of Vung Tau, Vietnam.  Most of 1967 was spent in the Mekong Delta.  I then returned to Vietnam aboard the USS Preston, DD 795, during the summer of 1968.  It was an important point in my life when I was on my own, deciding what was important and who I wanted to be.  No one cared whether hours were spent in a library or a bar; each person chose their own path.  It made for interesting observations and experiences.

*1 [USS Askari stopped at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, at Christmas for added supplies and preparation.  My parents had a longstanding friendship (dating from my father's Navy service in the Pacific) with a Chinese couple on Oahu, Clifford and Ella Wong.  The Wongs were having dinner with their friends, US Senator Hiram Fong & his wife.  I was invited to join them for the evening.  I doubt that any of the officers on the bridge believed me when I mentioned dinner with the US Senator from Hawaii and family on the previous evening.]

*2 [We stopped at Subic Bay, P.I. as a last stop before Vietnam.  Just off base was the infamous town of Olongapo, an endless strip of bars and brothels where sailors unleashed their desires and frustrations.  Each bar seemed to have its own theme and cater to a specific clientele: Country, Motown, Hard Rock, bar girls, strip shows, or whatever.  It would be easy to get into trouble there.  An overriding local mafia was in control with an occasional US Navy Shore Patrol providing a veneer of legitimacy.  Friends and I spent a few minutes in each bar sampling the atmosphere, then we had dinner on the Navy base before our departure.]   

When you were stationed “in country” in the combat zone for an extended period you would eventually qualify for “R&R”, rest and relaxation outside Vietnam. A friend, Carl Nixon, and I both qualified for R&R in June ’67 and both chose Japan as our destination. You were given permissive orders for the period.  “Permissive” meant that you were to find your own way from our ship upriver on the Mekong to Saigon to catch a flight and then find your way back upon return.  We got a ride downriver on a supply boat to the coastal town of Vung Tau.  As soon as we arrived, we made ourselves scarce until the scheduled flight to Saigon had departed; then we reported in at the airfield.  That gave us an extra day on our own.  At Vung Tau, we often would walk some distance to an off-limits beach in a rocky cove served by a single café.  There we could eat lunch and play in the waves which were sometimes big enough for body surfing.  Later, we had dinner and a few drinks in town and, in the process, were joined by another Navy man who was headed to Saigon.  With curfew time approaching, the three of us visited a local hotel to get a room for the night.  The entry to the hotel featured a line of young women waiting along the corridor.  Carl and I politely declined companionship for the evening, but the other fellow bought dinner for “his girl” and she spent the night with him.

The next day we took a twin rotor Chinook helicopter to Saigon; it felt like a flying bus. The military had leased an entire hotel with a barracks-type configuration for transient personnel in Saigon.  We didn’t wander far from the hotel that day, saving our funds until we reached Japan. We were anxious to get started and happily boarded a leased aircraft the next morning.  Arriving at Tachikawa AFB near Tokyo, we were given barracks-type beds & lockers.  This would be home base.  We relaxed and took a swim in the base pool.  Carl and I had lost our fellow Navy man, but picked up a crazy Marine on R&R.  Why do I say crazy?  This man had been in Vietnam for several years on back-to-back tours in the region of the North Vietnam border.  Every time his tour of duty was up, he would volunteer to stay longer.  Why would he do this?  Because soldiers don’t fight for their country; they fight for their buddies.  If he went home to the US, in his mind he would be abandoning his “band of brothers”.  At this point his unit had sent him on R&R, and then he was mandatorily being sent back to the States.  They would allow no more extensions, and we could sense why.  He spoke casually about killing the enemy, had done it multiple times, and the enemy was anyone who would harm a US Marine.  It was questionable to us how he would re-adapt to civilian life.

Our Marine wanted to hire a taxi and go to Yokohama (20 miles away) to drink Black Russians at a bar he knew of.  Money meant nothing to him.  We decided to go with him and show him how to use the train system, saving considerable funds.  We found the bar, and drank a few Black Russians, but not enough to keep us from finding our way back.

The next day Carl and I set out again on a train to explore the area.  While on the train (think metro commuter line), I noticed a man reading a newspaper section which had a picture of a person water skiing on the back cover.  We asked where the picture was taken, and, although communication was limited, we were able to ascertain that the water skiing was at Hayama Beach, on the ocean southwest of Tokyo.  Looking at the train schedule, we realized that we could make the last train to Hayama that night.  Arriving at Hayama Beach well after dark, we walked down to the beach and discovered a party for college students was taking place.  We were immediately invited to join the party with the incentive, “We have more beer than we can drink.”  They were very friendly and spoke fluent English. We learned that water skiing was offered in late morning sessions and that a college music festival was taking place for the next few days. A little before midnight we rented a bamboo shack on the beach to sleep in.  Being in the Navy on a regular watch schedule I had developed an 'internal clock' and was able to awaken at an early hour to get us on our way.  We needed to get up early to take the train back to our home base to clean up and get bathing suits and fresh clothes.

We arrived back in time to sign up for water skiing. This consisted of all participants lining up for mandatory exercises; then being transferred by boat to a covered platform moored in the bay.  The ski boat would come by the platform, each time picking up a new participant for a short period of skiing.  Water skiing was apparently a very new sport in Japan.  I watched people struggle to get up and then wobble around for a few laps before collapsing in the water.  This was the ocean, and waves were present, so their difficulty was understandable. Growing up in Nebraska, I had been skiing for 5-6 years using our family boat.  When it was my turn to ski, I quickly kicked off one ski to slalom and was able to perform enough tricks that a photographer was called out to the platform to take pictures of the action.  He had questions for my friend, Carl. The photographer couldn’t speak English, and Carl knew no Japanese, but they discovered that they both were fluent enough in Spanish to discuss water skiing.

[Carl was an interesting guy.  Out of high school, he was accepted and enrolled at the US Naval Academy.  After a short time at the Academy, he decided he didn’t like it and requested release. His request was refused until he contacted his Alabama Senator, who was on the Armed Forces Defense committee. He then quickly got his release from the Academy, but it wasn’t a release from military commitment. He was ordered on enlisted duty on our ship, the USS Askari, in Vietnam.  Carl and I were released from Navy active duty at about the same time.  At a later date, we shared a Grateful Dead concert at Filmore West in San Francisco.  You could get high just from the air in that venue.  I also visited him in Alabama and later in Mexico.  Carl eventually moved to Morelia, Mexico, where he graduated from medical school and became a primary care physician in rural Mexico.]

After skiing, we discovered that a dance would be held that night.  Carl and I went to a local communal bath house to freshen up.  Do you take a shower before stepping into the hot pool or afterwards? We may have done both. That evening we went to the dance. The music was almost exclusively familiar American rock & roll songs.  As we walked in, all the girls were in clusters along the far wall, and the boys were along the near wall to our left.  The dance floor was uncrowded. Adults were at tables toward the rear of the room to our right. We were the only Caucasians present. What do you do in such a situation?  If you are on R&R from Vietnam, you ask a girl to dance.

My attention was drawn to a girl standing on the edge of a group (pretty, relaxed, not engaged in the group chatter), and I approached her with a request for a dance.  After several dances she, Tamea, asked me to meet some of her relatives, who were seated in a booth toward the back of the room.  I learned that Tamea’s extended family rented one floor of the Hayama Beach Hotel each summer for several weeks.  Tamea was a student at Tokyo University.  Later that evening, Tamea and one of her female friends took Carl and me for a drive to show us the area.  We sat in back with a white-gloved chauffeur driving our dark limousine-type car and drove to a lookout point for a view of the surrounding bay area illuminated by thousands of lights along the shore.  After such hospitality, Carl and I requested that we treat the girls (okay, young women) to dinner the following day.

The next day we spent the afternoon listening to the music festival and talking with Tamea and her friend; one subject was explaining the lyrics and their context for American songs.  That evening we had reservations for dinner in a private room at the hotel.  As an E-4 in Vietnam, I was paid maybe $300 per month, but the exchange rate was 360 yen to the dollar, and we were on vacation.  We wanted to show our appreciation.  However, toward the end of the dinner, Tamea’s brother walked into the room.  Carl and I knew that was a 'bad' sign.  Sure enough, they would not let us pay for dinner!  Look, we are enlisted US warmongers from Vietnam!  Why are you treating us so nice?

I had agreed to shop for some speakers for a friend’s stereo system back on the ship in Vietnam before we went home (to Askari).  The week ended quickly.  Before leaving, I got Tamea’s address and learned that her father’s name was Dodan Kuruma. He was President of the Tokyo Buddhist Federation.  They lived in a suburb of Tokyo (Toshima-ku).  Her father had traveled extensively, to the US and Europe as well as throughout Asia, as a part of his responsibilities.

Tamea and I exchanged several letters during the next four months.  When I was notified of the November end date of my Vietnam duty and realized that I would be passing through Japan on my way to the States, I let her know, and she invited me to visit at their home in Tokyo.  Carl Nixon was given the same return date; we would be flying back together.  Again, we were routed to VungTau, Saigon, and on to Tachikawa AFB, where we would lay over for a few days awaiting our flight to Travis AFB, California.

As soon as we arrived at Tachikawa, Carl and I headed for a train to Tokyo.  Another previous shipmate, Steven Quade, asked to be included.  Tamea had met Carl, but I was hesitant to impose on the Kuruma family with three of us.  Quade was from the south side of Chicago (“the baddest part of town” according to Jim Croce’s song).  He didn’t have college aspirations like Carl or me, but he was a fairly polite and decent guy so we couldn’t refuse.  We had the commuter train directions figured out, and the three of us had little trouble making train transfers to arrive in Toshima-ku.

Stepping out on the street of this busy neighborhood, we wandered for a while before giving up on finding Tamea’s home.  We enlisted the aid of the local police precinct station.  A helpful policeman escorted us to the Kuruma home.  No wonder we couldn’t recognize the home!  OMG!  It wasn’t a house; it was a compound encompassing an entire (small) city block.  A tall, black, wrought-iron fence enclosed the entire block.  The entry gates were closed; behind that were trees, bushes, a garden, and the home.  The policeman was able to rouse one of the house staff to open the gate and notify the family of our arrival.

They quickly invited us into their home, more family members arrived, and we enjoyed a warm welcome.  We were invited to stay for dinner.  The dinner table was only about one foot above the floor, but we discovered that the tablecloth disguised a foot well built into the floor under the table.  We tried our best to use chopsticks and be polite guests, but I am sure we transgressed some unfamiliar Japanese custom.  They offered us the option of forks to use and were forgiving of any shortcomings.  After dinner, various conversations sprang up around the table, lubricated by ample servings of wine and sake.  When we said our good-byes for the evening, Tamea’s brother escorted us to the train station to ensure that the sake’s influence didn’t mislead us.  We were invited to return the next day.

Upon arrival the following morning we were introduced to Tamea’s older sister, Masayo. Wow! Tamea was a very pretty young woman, but her older (and taller) sister, Masayo, would have been appropriate on a magazine cover.  They offered to show us downtown Tokyo.  We took a smaller vehicle, Masayo (driving) and Tamea in the front seat, and us three sailors in back.  It was amusing to watch these two gorgeous women maneuver their way through heavy traffic.  With the car windows open, they would smile and wave out the window, and the nearby cars would move aside to let them pass.

We parked in front of the Imperial Palace and walked the area, peering through the surrounding fence at the extensive landscaped gardens.  Tamea’s father, Dodan, met us at Chinzanso restaurant for lunch.  This is an internationally known eatery where we were served, outdoors in a garden, by a chef preparing our meals at our table.  Later we went to a playground/park with adult-sized swings, slides, and such items and walked, talked, and played on the equipment.  Tamea and I went down the slide together (my arms around her).  For dinner, we rode an elevator to the top of a skyscraper in downtown Tokyo to the Suehiro restaurant.  The entire restaurant rotates as you dine so that you enjoy a 360-degree skyline.  Another famous eatery: no, we were not allowed to pay for ANYthing.

The following day, Carl, Steven, and I boarded our non-stop flight to Travis AFB, near Sacramento.  I passed through Tachikawa again in September 1968, coming home from my second tour in Vietnam, but was only there for a few hours.   I continued corresponding periodically with Tamea for about 1-1 ½ years afterwards until I mentioned in a letter that I had a girlfriend.  Carl and I kept in contact until he graduated from medical school.  I always considered Tamea as a “pen pal”.  She was obviously very attractive, educated, and congenial.  But there was a huge economic, cultural, and geographic separation to consider, and I was only a college student financially on my own.

I have never forgotten my visits to Japan because what we experienced was so exceptional.  It seems like a dream with events bigger than life.  What motivated this wealthy, high class family from a vastly different culture to treat us with such openness and generosity?  Is this the Buddhist influence?  Carl and I were junior enlisted sailors from a war zone; nothing notable about us.  Wouldn’t most people have brushed us aside?  How did this all happen?