The following was sent by Charlie Thun who was a cook in the 16th Company at Deragawa from 1964 to 1965. Charlie indicated that he may have embellished the story but all accounts actually happened. He also indicated that this is the first part of several he will contribute. This installment includes a description of his enlistment and how he came to the 16th.
His account tells a very different story about the 16th than what I experienced from 1961 to 1963. Perhaps it was a sign of the times (troubled 60's) with a combination of completely different personnel. My experience with the 16th is one of mostly good memories and a great group of guys. Although we had somewhat lax discipline compared to Hq in Machinato, we nevertheless operated by military standards. In fact, during my time, there was a move for our company to become more military as we were encouraged to take Airborne training from the 173rd. I considered it but did not much to my regret over the years. Another later member of the 14th Hq, Glenn Kump in fact indicated Hq did go Airborne in 1964 giving personnel the option of transferring. Perhaps the 16th was given the option to remain non-airborne and ended up with all the "misfits" that Hq did not want. What ever the reason this is not the 16th PsyWar Company as I remember.
Pictures Submitted by Charlie
This story is starts in January 1964. It was a turbulent time. The hippy movement was just getting started in California. We weren't yet at war in Vietnam, just furnishing a few unarmed Advisors. At this point Vietnam is still a far off country with only sporadic mention in the news. Since I am writing with only my, imperfect, memory you will have to excuse lapses in dates and chronology. Some of you've served in the military and may be tempted to tell me that these occurrences couldn't have happened. I assure you that the events DID happen. During what was called the Vietnam Era the U.S.
Army was lax in many respects. Where presently it's hard to get into the military, at that time it was hard to stay out. The draft was in effect.
Our country was going from a small peacetime military to a wartime footing.
Organizations like the US Army were growing in size and complexity. The Company sized unit I talk about was only one of many that fell through the cracks as the Army grew. I recently, about a year or so ago, had occasion to talk to someone who had been acquainted with the unit in question. He did not believe me when I told him my experiences. Apparently, it has gotten much more military minded since I left.
I am changing some names and locations although I imagine that I'd be safe not doing so after forty years. Why take a chance. The main character, Charlie, is your very loosely disguised author. I reserve the right to embellish the story although the major issues actually happened. Of course I will take every opportunity to present myself in a good light.
One final note. This is not so much a story as a collection of individual scenes. don't expect continuity. I will try not to have them too disjointed. After all, isn't that the way memory works?
****
I could hardly believe that I was sitting across from my local Army Recruiter. The setting was familiar. I'd recently finished six and a half years in the Army Reserves. It was amazing how the army could transform an old storefront room on the South Side of Chicago into a replica of your typical military office as seen on any Army base. The decor consisted of a plain wooden desk, two three drawer filing cabinets, an old swivel chair, two nondescript straight chairs, and the mandatory 36 inch electric fan. The walls were adorned with the expected army literature and posters.
Uncle Sam needs YOU.
I, of course, sat in a straight chair facing my friendly recruiter. He was a typical sales type with the addition of a Class 'A', formal, uniform. Sgt. Haroldson', spelled out on a name tag over his fickle heart, was expounding on the benefits of joining his male bonding group.
"Listen Charlie." He told me confidentially, "You can't do better than the U.S. Army. You told me that you still haven't found a career." That was true. I'd been involved in a ten month call-up to active duty in the Reserves, finishing my obligation, and moved to Chicago. A rapid succession of jobs had followed, none of which appealed to me. "I can give you many options if you join NOW. They may not be available later." The Sgt, expounded on his practiced spiel. In truth I was thinking seriously about joining or I wouldn't have been sitting in his office. Of course he was aware of that fact. Remember, we were still at peace with the world.
"Well Sarge, I was just passing by and thought I'd check out what you could offer." I told him. "Since I was a corporal in the Reserves, what kind of rank would I have when I went in? And what about basic training?"
I've been through it in the Reserves and wouldn't want to take it over.
Would my reserve time count?"
"You'd have to go in as a Private E-2," the recruiter told me, "but, you wouldn't have to take basic training over. We'd credit your reserve basic." Now that was good in one respect but bad in another. I'd been E-4 when I got out of the Reserves. On the other hand I'd only taken two weeks of basic training. The standard was two months. After all E-2 wasn't as bad as E-1, as privates go. Both were slick sleeves at that time, but the pay was a little higher.
"What else can you offer?" I asked. I figured that he couldn't snow me too much. After all, I wasn't totally uninitiated in army ways, "what about schooling?" I asked.
"You'll have to wait until you take our tests before we could determine where you fit in for schooling." He told me. That was only reasonable. "You also have the option, at THIS time of picking your duty station, WORLDWIDE." The Sgt. emphasized the last word. He had me figured out.
"Why don't I make an appointment for you down at the Testing Center?" He asked. "You don't have to sign anything until you've got all the facts."
"Why not?" I answered, "it can't hurt anything." Sucker.
***
Despite some second thoughts, I found myself at the Testing Station. I was currently working at a wholesale jewelers, alone in a little room sans windows, filling orders. I'd been thinking and the term WORLDWIDE was eating at my mind. Ah, visions of islands in the South Pacific. Young, nubile, women with swirling vegetative skirts. Not to mention, specifically not to mention, lust fulfilling tropical nights.
Back to reality. I found that, in contrast to my recruiter's office, The Testing Station was a large area with many bustling people. After reporting in I was hustled to a small partitioned off office and sat waiting for an interviewer.
All was typically military from that point on. I sat for about a half hour watching all the activity in the outer area. It was a large room with booths along the walls and a large open area in the middle. The middle of the room had some desks but was mostly filled with rows of straight chairs. Knowing the army, I wouldn't be surprised if it looked the same today. At least in 1964 the rabid anti-smokers hadn't slithered their way in yet to influence the Army. I could smoke while I waited.
The room was about equally split between uniformed and more contemporarily clothed people. One of the former came into my cubicle and sat across from me. Like most of the uniformed personnel he looked like someone off a recruiting poster. The Army must pick people for these jobs at least partially for their looks. No gruff old Master Sergeants with five o'clock shadows here. Sorry, Sgt. Rock.
"First we'll get you a physical." The Lieutenant, his name was Adams according to his name tag, instructed me with a smile. I'd see a lot of smiles that day. "Then, while we wait for the results, you'll take some skill and intelligence tests. Both of these will help determine your future M.O.S. ( Military Occupational Specialty)."
I was again left alone in the, by now familiar, cubicle with my, by now full, ashtray. Being familiar with military procedure I brought several packs of cigarettes with me. Also a pocket novel to read.
You've all been through physical testing before, even in civilian life, so I won't bore you with a description. There was a big emphasize on pecker checks for Venereal Disease, and distended assholes to weed out homosexuals. It was in most respects a normal physical examination. Sorry ladies, no large cold room full of naked men covered with goose pimples and sporting boners. Those can be added later if someone buys the movie rights to this story.
Well, back to my familiar cubicle. The ashtray was still full with no wastebasket in evidence. I was faced with a difficult choice. I could drop my ashes on the floor or empty the ashtray into my pocket. I compromised by emptying my pack of cigarettes into my shirt pocket, loose. Then filling the empty container with the contents of my full ashtray. I mention the preceding to emphasize why the Army gave me such a good score on the intelligence tests. Cognitive ability.
I wasn't stumped by the problem of a full ashtray. This implied that I could be trusted to make decisions affecting lives later on in my army career, Right? I then flipped the full cigarette package under the desk.
After sitting, ruminating over how I'd ace the coming tests, for only about a quarter hour the Lt. came back into the cubicle. After a few pleasantries I was unceremoniously relegated to a section of seating outside the cubicle. There were a few others like myself, already seated in that section. In military tradition we were to wait until we had a quorum before taking the tests together.
You've all taken the equivalent tests before. Again, I won't bore you describing them. The process took a couple of hours. It was interesting watching some of the guys. One even took out his pocket knife and tried to carve the square pegs to fit the round holes, definitely Officer material. Back in the 60's you could carry a knife with impunity. Someone watching from a distance might have gotten sea sick watching all the bobbing heads and swaying bodies as people tried to see what others were writing down.
I'd taken the same battery of tests when I joined the reserves, although not the same questions of course. I hurried to finish so that I wouldn't have to wait too long to get evaluated. They were taken in to be graded in the order you finished. I was the third or fourth to get to sit in a row of chairs back alongside the cubicles, waiting to get our tests graded.
After a while my Lt., he must have been assigned to me since he was the one I always dealt with, came and guided me to my same familiar cubicle. Lt. Adams was smiling again. "You did extremely well in the tests." He told me. "You can pretty much choose your M.O.S." (Note. I told you I'd make myself look good.)
He told me that I could either choose a school OR a geographical assignment, not both. Uh, oh, mark down one for the recruiter. Since I'd been a cook in the Reserves, it wasn't a bad job in itself, and I didn't want to be Infantry, I decided to stay a cook.
I mentioned before that the South Seas were calling. "How about the South Seas?" I asked him. The Lt. checked his clipboard, with a serious expression, and said that he thought there was an opening in Japan.
"That's close enough." Was my reply.
Never having been outside the United States it was all the same to me. After further investigation we settled on the island of Okinawa. Okinawa is an island south of Japan proper. It was, at that time, part of the spoils of war and under the administration of the United States.
"I need to give my employer two weeks notice." I told the Lieutenant. Sensing that he had made a sale, he then offered to give me an advance on my leave. "To settle my affairs before leaving." He told me. I could borrow up to thirty days a year of leave. "Why not just wait two weeks before signing up and keep my leave time." I replied.
Two weeks later I was back in the Army and on my way to The Oakland Army Terminal at Oakland California. Back in the saddle again. It didn't occur to me until later that from the time I first entered the Testing Center until the time I left it was assumed that I'd join. They were professional salesmen.
***
My first sight of the island of Okinawa was from the window seat of a Boeing 707. The plane circled the island before landing and from the air the island looked much the same as a city. I saw solid clusters of mostly white lights both steady and flashing. I'd heard it was mostly jungle. The island is about 60 or 65 miles long and, I think, 26 miles at its widest. The northern part of the island is mostly jungle but it was, at least at the time, the most heavily populated island in the world.
I was hit by both the heat and the humidity when I stepped out of the airplane . This was now January or the first part of February. The heat hit me like a physical blow. Kadena Air Base, where we landed was
familiar. Wherever you go in the world military bases look basically the same. After we left the plane we were formed up in ranks on the tarmac. Once the ground crew had unloaded our baggage we had a mad rush to identify and claim our own bags. This was fairly simple since most of our bags were standard issue duffle bags with standardized id printed on them. The field was well lighted. In army fashion, after taking so much trouble sorting out our bags they were then thrown into the back of a truck, to be sorted out again at the other end of their journey.
After the standard wait we were loaded onto the back of trucks and transported to the replacement company. That was my first night in a barracks in years. I'd flown directly from Chicago the day before, landing at the San Francisco Airport. A bus ride to the Oakland Army Depot to get uniforms and process some paperwork, then back to the airport. After a few hours wait, straight to the 707 and Okinawa. It was rare efficiency.
We were quartered in Nissan Huts. They're like Quonset Huts except with square sides. Bare metal roofs that made them like an oven in the near 100 degree heat. The bunks were standard, stacked two high and formed in two rows about 4 feet between bunks. After being shown to our luxurious quarters we were told that our units would pick us up the next day.
We weren't allowed to go to town. Back then most army bases required a lower ranking enlisted man, me, to receive a little card that gave permission to leave the base, We weren't to be given any of these little
cards so, presumably, we'd stay on base, There was a day room with comfortable chairs, television and inside toilets, electricity and all the amenities. I was surprised to see an episode of 'Dobie Gillis', a popular show at that time, on televison. It was in Japanese. There were no English language stations on the island. We did have an Armed Forces
Radio station in English.
Being a bourgeoning alcoholic and a dirty old man waiting to get old, I headed for town sans pass card. I went by taxi with some of the permanent party from that base. Surprisingly, there were such things as taxis and buses. The island was more modern than I'd been led to believe.
I have always had a preference for small dark haired girls and this place seemed to have millions of them. We went to a town that I later learned was also named Kadena, the same as the base.
It's hard to describe my first impression of the island. The atmosphere could best be described as 'alien'. Except for a few other GIs there weren't anybody but small, dark haired people walking the streets and filling the open fronted shops. The streets themselves contained nothing but small, and often three wheeled, vehicles. By three wheeled I mean that there was only one wheel at the front of the car or truck, which was steered by a lever over that wheel.
I didn't see any buildings over two stories; most shops were open in front. Signs and advertising were in both English and strange characters (Kanji). There were a lot of gaudily colored army vehicles, now owned by native civilians.
Even late at night a lot of shops were open. There was a predominant smell suffusing the air. It was partially furnished by the open sewage ditches stretching along the storefronts. They were covered by concrete slabs, many busted or missing. Don't get the impression that the place smelled like sewage. It wasn't that the odor was unpleasant as much as that it was unique to my experience. There were no department stores, large gas stations, fast food joints or large stores of any type. Only strings of small shops, usually open fronted, hotels and bars.
Add to the above a constant babble in a language I was completely unfamiliar with, and the hot humid January weather. Being tired from my flight didn't help much but, because of the time difference, I was feeling tired but not sleepy.
Needing a drink, I noticed that there were a lot of bars. After we paid the taxi driver about 30 cents, it was a fairly long trip that cost fourteen cents a mile, we went into a bar called the 'Blue Moon'. In retrospect, I wonder it there exists a G.I. town in the Far East without either a 'Blue Moon' ,'Texas', or 'Playboy' bar.
Before we get into comparing prices I should point out that in 1964 prices were in general much lower than at the present time. Okinawa prices were, in most respects, about 20 to 30 percent of U.S. prices at that time. The American dollar was standard currency on the island although Japanese Yen was also accepted.
Items or services that were predominately sold to Americans could be a lot more expensive. For instance 'Playboy Magazine' cost 50 cents in the U.S. and 2 dollars on Okinawa, and that was in used condition with pages missing.
Prices depended to a large extent on where you shopped. If you went to a predominately native area or section of town you could save a considerable amount of money. For instance, the services of a prostitute varied from 2 dollars for a short time and 5 dollars for all night in the G.I. sections, to 50 cents for a short time and 2 dollars for all night in native sections of the island. The Military Government, in all its wisdom, put large sections of towns and the island Off Limits. Quite often at the request of the natives. Sorry Mama, sometimes little Johnny gets drunk and is not a perfect gentleman.
To add to all this confusion there were, in many places, deceptive pricing practices. Near 'White Beach Naval Base', which was the home base for the Seventh Fleet at the time, prices would double when a large ship came in.
Many stores had two prices listed on each item or on signs. One in English and the other in Japanese Characters. I bet you can't guess which one was higher?
Meanwhile, back to the 'Blue Moon' bar. Stepping through the entrance we were accosted by a blare of music from the juke box. Rock and Roll hadn't taken over yet so the music was big band, or country and western. It was a large room that resembled a small lounge in the States. The room was filled with cheap bright colored booths and tables, with a long bar along the side wall. About a half dozen soldiers were there in civilian clothes. The distinguishing feature was the plentitude of good looking small dark haired women. There were about twice as many girls as men in the place.
We sat at a table, the four of us, and were immediately confronted with an equal number of girls. Of course, they wanted us to buy them drinks. Also, of course, we complied. I was introduced to the local saki' or to be more specific a saki seven", saki and Seven Up.
I found out later that I was the recipient of a local custom. This saki wasn't made out of rice but sugar cane and had a mild demeanor. If you weren't used to it, it would go down smooth and taste like a light wine, a light sixty proof wine. You'd trick someone into drinking it quickly. At a certain point the individual would suddenly get glassy eyed and you'd know that he was under. He was blanked out and wouldn't remember anything from that point on. I've played this same trick on several people myself.
My girl said her name was Hatsuko' and almost immediately got personal. I had to remove her hands from me and place them back on the table. In between kisses and drinks, both for the girls and ourselves, I was filled in on the island. It seemed like a paradise for a single unmarried man.
Among other things, the weather was perfect all year long. Hot but not too hot, some rain but I'd learn to keep my money and papers in a plastic bag. The rain would dry in a few minutes so you could just let it fall and your clothes would dry on you after it stopped. When I was new there I tried carrying a rain coat but soon gave it up. You'd, at first, feel a couple of drops. A few seconds later a deluge would fall, completely soaking you. No time to protect yourself. Then it would end just as suddenly.
Due to the circumstances I mentioned above, the next thing I remembered was waking up in my bunk back on base, pockets empty of money. Being not entirely stupid, and having come from Chicago, I knew enough not take all my money with me the night before.
My first army meal on the island was in the cafeteria of a modern army hospital. The hospital was down the road a few blocks from our barracks. I guess the Reception Station didn't have its own mess hall at the time.
From a distance the hospital shown like a concrete gem set in a prosaic background of small temporary metal huts and wooden buildings. Unlike the average mess hall, the cafeteria was large and modern with a wide choice of breakfast items. They even had a fountain of free beer. Unfortunately the beer was turned off at breakfast. After breakfast we got our belongings together and waited for our rides.
***
My ride consisted of a sharply dressed private driving a clean newly painted jeep. I mean that everything about him and the vehicle consisted of sharp corners. A blocked fatigue cap on top of a creased and pressed uniform. He looked like he was screwed into a corner of a vehicle that was made up of sharp angles and joints; I was afraid I'd be cut getting in.
The driver asked, sharply, for a "private Truman." Fearing he meant me, I gingerly climbed in beside him. I was thinking that I must have gotten into a very strict Unit.
It turned out that he was the Colonel's driver with the Colonel's jeep and had been pressed into this duty unexpectedly. He wasn't representative of the Unit in General, just in Colonel. Sorry, a little Private joke.
I was dropped off at Headquarters Company which consisted of a large modern concrete building among a forest of the same. The sign out front said Headquarters Company, 14th Psychological Warfare Battalion'. My new home for the next year and a half. I shouldered my bag and stiffened my back for the brief journey into the looming Womb, or was it Web, of my new home.
Soon I was standing at attention in front of my new Company Commander, after placing my paperwork on his desk. "Private Thrun. Reporting for Duty." I iterated in standard protocol while saluting and waited at attention for his attention. A chubby little man in khaki class "A" attire saluted me in return from his seated position, and picked up my file. Briefly perusing it he welcomed me and instructed me to "wait outside."
Taking a seat in a straight chair in the outer office, in the company of a large burly First Sgt, and a timid looking Company Clerk, I waited his judgement. Soon the First Sgt. was called in for a confab of some sort and I was left to wait some more. They were in there what seemed like an inordinately long time and I was starting to fidget in my hard wooden chair. At one point the First Sgt. opened the door and looked reflectively at me. I was getting nervous in that this was a break in normal procedure.
Much later I found out that they had suspicion that I was a spy from the dreaded C.I.D. or Criminal Investigation Division. It was well known that the army planted operatives to spy on sensitive units. I'm not sure why, probably the venerable "Purposes of National Security" or some obtuse reasoning. In any case I was a 21 year old private with six and a half years service and no, or little, Regular Army history in my file, not even basic training listed. I seemed suspicious to them. However, at this point, I didn't know why they were taking such a long time to study my records and was getting nervous. I'd have walked a mile for a camel.
(current cigarette brand at the time.)
Finally, the First Sgt. came back out with a scowl on his craggy face.
"Jackson," he told the clerk, "get him some bedding and a room for tonight." He turned to me, "Jackson here will get you processed in and you'll go to the 16th tomorrow with the mailman." Finished with me, he went out the door.
Corporal Jackson (Not his real name. Few of them are real.) had me sign papers and then got me fixed up in a room by myself, although it had a spare bunk. I didn't bother unpacking, just took a shower, shaved, and went in search of the Mess Hall. Being a cook, I figured it was a good place to ask questions and maybe get a sandwich or something. Cooks usually got along with other cooks. I found two of them, in white uniforms, sitting at a table while civilian KPs cleaned up the kitchen. There was also a Mess Sgt. sitting in a small glassed in office in the back of the room.
"Hi, got a cup of coffee or a sandwich for me?" I asked. They both
looked at me, and my slick sleeve.
"Dinner's over. You'll have to wait until six." One of them told me, snubbing me. I could see a couple of Sergeants sitting in a corner with coffee.
"I'm a new cook assigned here." I replied, causing a shift in attitude.
Thinking me a co-worker, one going to take some work off their shoulders, they got friendly.
"How about roast beef and cheese?" One asked, getting up. The other one pointed at the coffee urn. While we talked, I casually asked about the 16th, where it was and what it was like there. It cooled my new buddy off somewhat. Probably from the knowledge I wasn't going to be working with him. As the other cook was returning with my sandwich, the Mess Sergeant called him into the office for something.
"You're lucky, what did you do though? That's where all the fuckups and freaks get assigned, the ones they don't want around here. Not all, some just have certain MOSs, but most. It keeps them out of the company area."
Ho'boy, I though, I hadn't been around long enough to be a fuckup. Maybe they had found out about the night before. I had been blanked out and might have done or said something. Now I was getting worried.
A minute later the other cook came back with my sandwich. Looking back at it, he must have signaled my new buddy or something, because the conversation became more guarded. Oh, they were still friendly, but didn't seem as outgoing.
I stayed there until after supper, not having anywhere else to go. Later, tired after the activities of the night before and the long trip, I just watched television for a while and went to bed.
***
In the morning, I woke to the sounds of activity in the hallway. I got dressed, shaved, and turned in my bedding. I thought about checking with the Orderly Room but just went to breakfast instead. My cook buddies were still busy when Corporal Jackson came to get me. My ride was there. I stopped to pick up my bag and dropped it in the hallway outside the Orderly Room.
A Spec-four was talking to Jackson when I got there.
"You Thrun?" He asked. I noticed he had a mail bag over his shoulder.
"Yeah." I answered simply.
"Take your stuff out to that 3/4 out back. We'll go in a few minutes."
I went out and threw the bag in the back of a dusty 3/4 truck, the only one there. I noticed what looked like a large horn on one front fender. One hell of a difference from the jeep I'd ridden there in. I started to get in the passenger seat.
"You the new guy? Get in the back." Another guy stood with a coke in his hand, "my name's Peters, Pete for short." He didn't offer to shake hands, just got in the front of the truck. I climbed in the back, with what looked like an inch of dust, and sat on a folding seat along one side. There were some packages on the floor.
"What's your job?" Pete asked through the square hole in the canvas cab, "we weren't expecting anyone, you must be one of the fuckups. What did you do to get to the 16th?" Damn, I thought, and wondered what was going on.
"Where is this place?" I asked, "oh, my names Charlie. And I have no idea what's going on. I just got here yesterday. I'm a cook."
"Yeah, sure." He answered cynically. After a few seconds, "We're in a little mountain village near Tairagawa. You'll like it there, we're pretty independent up there, you'll fit right in."
The other guy came out, I found out his name was Cecil, and we left for my new duty station. I learned that it was a Voice of the United Nations Command' transmitter site. About 30 men were stationed there, some married and living with their dependents off post. The place tight beamed propaganda to communist countries in the native languages. Parts of the site required a security clearance.
As the two told me, the place was very informal. Just be careful when someone was there from other units, like the 14th. They didn't seem to think much of Headquarters. I heard the 16th wasn't authorized their own mess hall, but had one anyway. It had come with the place, built by the Air Force. We were supposed to be trucked down to Headquarters for meals but it had been arranged to cook our own instead.
"You're lucky, Charlie. We get out of a lot of that military bullshit." Cecil yelled back over the sound of the engine.
While I sat back in the canvas enclosed truck, I watched the roadside racing past my view though the rear entrance. Most of the cars were small compacts, and looked much the same to me. That was in the mid-sixties when American cars were sporting large tail fins and fancy grills. Some of them looked strange, with only one wheel in front.
Like the cars, the people also looked almost identical: small, mostly stocky, and black haired. The women looked good to me, most with long straight hair, my favorite style. The scenery was far different than where I had come from. There were palm trees, not known in Chicago or Ohio, a lot of strange greenery, and strange oddly stunted trees.
The buildings were mostly one or two stories, some concrete block, others made of wood. The stores were mainly open in the front, with strange complex writing on the walls and fronts. Most people wore familiar clothing. In all, it looked like a different world. To me, just coming from a wintery US mainland, the heat was oppressive. Although there was a good cool breeze coming off the ocean, it didn't intrude into the back of the 3/4 ton truck. I was suddenly shocked out of my inspection.
"Get the fuck out of the way!" A loud voice blasted, then laughter from both a loudspeaker and the cab of the truck. "Beep! Beep!" The loudspeaker blasted. (The thing I had seen on the fender was a loudspeaker, sometimes connected to a tape recorder for use in their work, but also useful to clear slow traffic.)
We turned onto a bumpy dirt road and went through yet another town. This one had roadwork going on near one end. I noticed a lot of native workers in the ditches on both sides of the road.
They included both men and women. I was surprised to see women in the ditch alongside the men. Some of them even had babies tied to their backs while they swung pickaxes and shoveled dirt. Men and women, young and old, worked like a swarm of insects, with little in the way of modern machinery to help. I could see a long line of them, passing rocks along from the ditch to an open truck.
We traveled a little ways on the winding dirt road. My view being only toward the rear, I didn't know why when the truck stopped and heard someone talking outside. From my position, I saw a few houses, including a stone wall on my left. Going to the tailgate, I could see some other houses behind and to the right, including some sort of open fronted business with a couple of natives standing in front with sodas.
The truck started up and I could see a native man in uniform closing a gate behind me. Some sort of guard?
A few seconds later, the truck stopped and the guys in front got out. Taking a hint, I shoved my duffel bag to the rear and jumped over the tailgate.
"You can leave your bag, nobody's going to steal it." Cecil told me, hoisting his mail sack. "Come on, I'll show you the Orderly Room."
I looked around before joining him. I was facing a low one story concrete block building, painted white. Some sort of square wire arrangement could be seen stretched on poles above and behind it. Near the left corner I
saw something that looked like a helicopter landing pad, or a plug or something, eight or ten feet wide; I never did find out what that was for. There was a building extension on its right side that was obviously a Mess Hall, complete with a whitewashed coal bin used to store garbage cans.
Also on my right there was a wire fence with a low stone wall stretching along the other side. It looked like a long low one story civilian house. On my left, down a long grassy slope, sat a large Quonset hut with a wire fence beyond it. Behind me I noticed a dirt parking lot with several military vehicles parked along one side. I didn't see any personnel walking around.
We stepped inside, greeted by an old mongrel dog barking at Cecil's leg.
It was cool inside, at least cooler than outside. A long hall extended into the distance with doors, some open and some shut, along both sides. As we walked down the hallway, I looked in several doors to see sleeping rooms, containing two small beds and a table. I noticed that some of them were decorated in strange ways. Murals on walls and one had a tall waterfall built under a window, with water circulating and falling to the bottom. Peace symbols were abundant in another room we passed.
The Orderly Room was installed in the last room on the right before a little lobby. It looked to be the middle of the hallway. I think it was the fourth or fifth room on the right from the side entrance we had used.
As we entered I could see the Mess Hall through the window. It looked to be attached to the main building.
The Orderly room was pretty much normal, though a little cramped. A large desk took up a good deal of the space. A large man sat behind the desk, SFC Smith' according to the sign on his desk. He was the First Sergeant of the 16th Psy War Co.
Cecil the mailman gave him my 201 file and the mail then left. I was left standing in front of the desk, in an at ease position, with hands clasped behind my back and legs apart.
While the FSGT looked over my file, I looked out the window to see a good looking young girl, nicely stacked and wearing a white dress, watching me from outside the door of the Mess. Scratching her ass and smiling, she turned, shook her tush, and went back in. It looked surprisingly like a come-on to me.
"Sit down, Thrun." Sgt Smith told me. After I sat down he told me abou the 16th. That it housed a transmitter used for propaganda broadcasts, that everyone was kind of informal but to learn damn quick what was and was not accepted. About the houseboys, KPs and laundry women.
(We paid the head houseboy $5 dollars a month for their services, which covered KPs and laundry service. The way it worked was that we got up in the morning and went to work or whatever. Houseboys would pick up our old clothes, make the beds, clean the rooms and common areas, and all the rest. They would take our dirty clothing to a place in the village where they would be cleaned in a small lake nearby, by pounding with rocks.)
"You don't have to take the service, but would be a damn fool not to," was the way he put it. I was also told that the transmitter building was off limits without a security clearance. The FSGT then showed me a room to
use. It was the first one on the left from the side entrance I had used before. "Get yourself settled in and check in at the Mess Hall." He told me and left me to my own devices.
I went outside and got my duffle bag, which was propped right outside the door. The dog had been outside and followed me warily back inside. He had been sniffing the bag when I got it. I wondered if he would have marked it if I had waited another minute or two.
I found the room had a large wooden locker built on each side of the entrance. One was empty that I figured was mine. It was strange in that there was an electric light bulb at the bottom left side. It was to keep down the moisture from the heavy sea air. The locker had a lot of space and even a row of drawers behind a double door, with a padlock hasp on the outside. Much better than the normal metal lockers I had come to expect.
I hung up the few new uniforms I had, as well as the civilian suit I had worn when joining. It and my heavy civilian coat looked out of place in that warm climate. It was hard to believe that a week before I had been struggling through a foot of Chicago snow.
After unpacking my bag, I looked out my window at the Quonset hut down the hill and smoked a cigarette. Looking around the room, I noticed it didn't seem lived in, just had that kind of atmosphere about it. Things were a little too neat on the other guy's side. Boots, straight and shined but dusty. No ashtrays or personal items on the table or walls. His locker was propped open with uniforms ready for inspection. Just too damn neat for someone living there.
I shrugged and stepped out the side door again, putting out my smoke by flicking the coal off the end and putting the butt in my pocket. I headed toward the Mess Hall to see my new boss.
Why not? I thought, I might as well go in through the back. I opened the screen door behind the kitchen and stepped in. It slammed shut behind me, so much for any surprise. I saw a meat slicer and a large electric mixer
on my right as I entered. A large industrial refrigerator and a freezer on my left. On the far left side of the sectioned off kitchen were the sinks, with work tables in the middle and a serving line of two steam tables across the end of the kitchen section. The dining room extended for the length of the long room.
As I walked through an empty kitchen, I saw a pantry on my right, just before I got to the steam tables. Pausing at the end of the steam tables, I could see a double door on my left and a long string of picture windows on my right side, extending the length of the dining room. The fence and large civilian house past a strip of grass, maybe ten or twelve feet wide, were visible on the other side of the windows. Near the other end of the dining room two plywood panels with flowers on top separated a couple of tables and a desk from the rest of the room. Another double door was visible at the left rear of the room. The dining room itself looked to be about fifty feet long and maybe twenty feet or so wide.
There were two Okinawan girls sitting at a table folding napkins. A man in a white cook's uniform was sitting at the desk at the rear of the room. I could barely see his head over the separator from where I was standing.
Country and western music filled the room, emitting from speakers spaced around the ceiling.
The girls, apparently hearing the slam of the screen door, were looking at me. One smiled seductively, the same one I had seen before. The other looked back down at her work, ignoring me. I smiled back and walked to the rear to see the cook.
He looked up as I approached. When I got to the separators I could see the flowers were artificial, and that half the double door was open, showing it led outside. I noticed that there weren't any stripes on his sleeve or collar, which didn't really mean anything. He certainly looked old enough to be the Mess Sgt.
"Hi, my name's Charlie Thrun, I'm a new cook. Just got here." I told him.
"Jackie," he answered, "sit down. You sure? Sgt Pepys didn't say we were getting any?"
"Don't know about that. They just sent me up is all I know."
"Can never have enough, glad to have you." He shrugged, "The Mess Sgt is gone right now. He'll probably be back later, or not. Since he got religion, you never know."
(It turned out that Sgt. Pepys was a recovering alcoholic and gambler. He had recently lost most of his assets and quit both. Where before, he pretty much stayed drunk and left the cooks alone, now he spent a lot of time there, getting in the way. The cooks preferred him drinking. I later found out that he had also gotten religion from his experience. I'm an alcoholic with no religious tendencies, so he pestered me continually until he finally rotated.)
Jackie introduced me to the two KPs. There were four at the time, three women and one man, two per shift. (The smiling one was named Yoshiko, and she was quite a tease. She had a habit of coming on to every new man, culminating with saying she would meet them at a restaurant downtown. She would get a good laugh watching them sitting and waiting, but never show herself. The other was named Hatsuko. Off duty at the time was Yukiko, called Minnie, and a man (I can't recall his name).)
It turned out that Jackie was nominally my roommate. I say nominally because he lived in the village of Huantabaru, just outside the gate. (It was also known as Deragawa for some unknown reason. Probably a mistake by the Americans.) That was why the room didn't look lived in and, of course, gave me the idea to do the same. The idea wasn't new to me. While on active duty with the Reserves, I had lived by myself off base. I have always valued my privacy.
Not knowing when I was to go to work, I sat drinking coffee for awhile, until my new roommate took pity on me and showed me various places around the kitchen where he had stashed booze. Another alcoholic, he had it hidden everywhere, and figured he should show me before I screwed up by cooking with it by accident.
(He had a water type fire extinguisher filled with cheap saki. When he wanted a drink, just pump it a couple of times and saki would come out of the hose. A large bottle of vanilla, marked with a tiny x', was actually vodka. A bottle of whiskey was hidden down in the flour container. Pick up that large jar of olives in the back of the reefer, the one with only a few in it, and you'd get more saki. Some mixed vinegar and oil dressing in the back of the reefer also contained vodka with a little salad oil on top and some food coloring, mixed with parsley. He was very innovative. By the time supper had come and gone I was getting high, tired, and ready for
bed.)
END OF PART 1: GO TO PART TWO
Source: Charlie Thun