Gonzo Station

By Fernando Ochoa

Gonzo Station by Fernando Ochoa

Not since Norman Mailers The Naked and the Dead has there been a novel about the daily life of the American servicemen. Gonzo Station is the story about Roger Otto who is stationed aboard the guided-missile cruiser USS Reeves, home ported in Yokosuka, Japan. During a two-year adventure, Roger learns that the Navy is more than ships at sea. Aside from all the girls he meets and all the bars he hits, he has a rude awaking to the facts of life and the difficulties of living in close quarters with fellow countrymen from diverse backgrounds. The crew of the Reeves is a microcosm of the American society. There are southerners from Kentucky, Louisiana, and Mississippi, middle Americans from Kansas and Wyoming, easterners from Massachusetts and New York, and of course, like Roger, westerners from California. With so many different cultures the stage is set for conflict and interesting situations. Gonzo Station has many salient themes. The heart of the story centers on four main characters. Hopkins, Watkins, Banks and Roger come from the most diverse backgrounds and create the most conflict. Roger, of course, is the protagonist. He represents mainstream America and has lived a privileged life. He has blonde hair and blue eyes. He has gone to storekeeper A school, is well spoken, and has the distinct advantage over his workmate Banks. Banks is a young Black man from Mississippi. He was reared in the Deep South without any privileges. He has worked his way out of the deck department and is the low man on the totem pole. Their relationship is like a roller coaster and has many of the same problems that plague the White/Black communities in America.

There are three main themes in Gonzo Station. There is the coming of age story about Roger. When he first goes overseas he is a boy who feels the sting of reality. For the first time, he experiences prostitutes, tries illicit drugs, sees a friend die, gets a promotion, and must deal with overt racism. The second major theme is the daily struggle of the American sailor. These are young men, thousands of miles from home, who must work as many as twelve hours a day every day they are at sea. Throughout the novel there are examples of traditions that have been passed down through the centuries. In the short Eight Bells (p. 71), the task of ringing eight bells signifies the noon hour, and in the short Hong Kong (p. 344), manning the rails, men lining the ships perimeter in dress uniforms, is observed. Also, part of the military theme is patriotism. Throughout the novel the Reeves answers the call to duty and the men respond with pride. America is the lifeguard of the sea-lanes, the good guys. In the short Hmong (p. 185), the Boat People from Vietnam are rescued, and in Rescue at Sea (p. 373) the crew of a sinking freighter is rescued by the Reeves after colliding with another vessel. These themes are interwoven in the story, but the most important theme is racism.

The Reeves is a machine. It is manned by every kind of hot shot and wise guy from across America. The ship is the setting for conflict and the drama we observe is the same conflict we experience in our American society. The most obvious clashes are between Black and White. Roger has to work with Banks in the supply department and Roger is greeted with a chilly reception. Watkins has to work with Hopkins in the deck department, where each man spews his own kind of ill-will. Watkins hates Hopkins from the moment he sees him. Although they are absolute opposites in every way they also share traits. Symbolized by their names they have a kin-ship, a kinship of hate. Hopkins is a good-old-boy, redneck from Kentucky who causes more trouble than he can handle. Watkins is a militant from Oakland, California who is the son of a Black Panther. Their relationship is the most turbulent and climaxes in the short Nigger Shit (p. 276). There is also a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 25, 2007
• ISBN: 9781462826414

Fernando Ochoa

Fernando Ochoa was born on September 9, 1961, in Walnut Creek, California, son of a mechanical draftsman. After graduating from Granada High School in Livermore, in 1979, at the age of seventeen, he joined the Navy. After leaving the Navy with an Honorable Discharge, he went to and graduated from Delta College, in Stockton, with an A.A. degree in Liberal Arts, in 1987. He moved to Los Angeles and began working in the entertainment industry as a payroll clerk, working for MGM/UA and 20th Century Fox studios. He took many writing courses and tried to write and sell spec-scripts for television. After returning to school, he earned a B.A. degree in Communications, with a minor in Journalism, in 2000, at CSU Stanislaus. After five years of searching for great literature and working diligently, he has written “Gonzo Station.”

Book preview

Chapter 1

Bon Voyage

It was dark and foggy the morning Roger left his childhood hometown. He was about to embark on the adventure of his life and was beaming with excitement. Mr. Otto was so proud as he drove his son to Travis Air Force Base outside Fairfield, California, to catch a chartered transport to Japan. As they drove up Interstate 80, Roger stared out the car window into the fog; with such a low visibility, he wondered if his journey would end before it had begun. He hated the fog and memories of car pile-ups, in which he had lost close friends, haunted him.

Icicles hung from the steel link fences that lined the highway. Roger and his father sped through the fog as if they were flying through the clouds. As they drove, Mr. Otto went on about how he had flown in and out of Travis on his way to and from Korea, during that conflict. In the fifties Travis had been an isolated airstrip on a California prairie with a few tarpaper barracks and maintenance hangers, but now it was home to one of the largest U.S. Air Force bases on the West Coast. Korea had been Mr. Otto’s war and now he was sending his son into another conflict. American hostages were being held in Iran and the nation was on edge, waiting to see how this crisis would end.

I remember back in ’52 when I flew out of Travis on my way to the Korean War. Did I ever tell you about when I was in the Air Force?

I think so, Roger said softly.

Mr. Otto had lived the All-American Dream. He had served his country during the Korean War, worked his way through college, bought a beautiful house with a G. I. Loan, worked at a federal government job for more than 20 years, reared a wonderful family, and now he was taking his son down that same path, so he thought. Roger admired and was very proud of his father, but he knew that he had to live his own life.

Did I ever tell you about the day I went down to enlist?

Maybe… a couple of times, Roger said halfheartedly.

I remember there was four of us that made a pact to join the Air Force together. The night before we went down to the recruitment office, we all went out and got drunk. The next morning I had a hangover, but I still went down to the office and I—

You were the only one that showed up, Roger interjected.

That’s right, because I always do what I say, Mr. Otto stated very seriously, adding,

A man is only as good as his word.

Roger looked at his father respectfully.

I know… I always try to do what I say.

Mr. Otto could see that he had told too many war stories, but he still had one tale that he had never mentioned.

Did I ever tell you about the time I almost got killed?

Finally, Roger’s interest was piqued.

That’s right! And needless to say, if I had been killed you wouldn’t be here.

Mr. Otto noticed the sudden interest and began his story.

One day I was working in the motor pool when an officer ordered me to drive him to a staging area. I had no choice, so we jumped into a jeep and drove towards the front. We were driving through the backwoods when we came across a stream. I told the officer it was too deep, but he ordered me to drive through it anyway. Just as I thought, we drove through the stream and the jeep stalled. I must have worked on the carburetor for an hour and I didn’t even realize that we were sitting ducks.

What do you mean? Roger asked.

Well, as it turned out, the sector that we drove through was a restricted area and was unsecured. In fact, the very next vehicle that drove through was ambushed and two guys got killed.

Really?

Mr. Otto had won back the admiration of his son. He knew that Roger was now being transported into harm’s way and quickly reverted back to being a proud father. Although he was happy to see his son coming to maturity, he wasn’t as proud as Roger was ready to leave his conservative, stuffy, small town. He had his own dreams. Roger’s intention was not to go down that same path but to see the world and have experiences in which to write. He was an avid reader, enjoying sea tales from the likes of Herman Melville, Rudyard Kipling, and Jack London, dreaming of adventures of his own, but by far his favorite writer was Ernest Hemingway. In English class when Roger had to write a book report on his favorite author, he chose Hemingway.

When Roger read Hemingway’s fascinating biography, it was like reading an adventure story. After leaving high school, Hemingway took a job as a cub reporter at the Kansas City Star newspaper. Working at this prestigious journal fueled Hemingway’s literary ambitions and sharpened his competitive edge as a writer, but a mentor told him that in order to become a great author he would have to experience life. Hemingway’s dream was to find real adventure by joining the army, but defective vision in his left eye hurt his chances to enter the war in Europe. In 1918, he volunteered as an ambulance driver for the Italian Red Cross. After being seriously wounded by fragments from an Austrian mortar shell, which landed him in a hospital in Milan, Hemingway had a brief love affair with a nurse. This experience helped inspire the war romance novel, Farewell to Arms. Roger had decided to join the Navy for his own adventure. He wanted to see the world so he could experience life and the Navy was the fastest ticket out of town.

Roger had been mentally programmed from a young age. He was primed to go to a nice college, get a good job, and live the American dream as his father had done, but he dreaded joining the rat race and was determined to do anything to avoid it. He had dreams of far-off exotic islands and wild native girls in hula skirts, and going to college was the last thing on his mind. Now he was catching a transport to Yokosuka, Japan, to meet his new ship. He was joining the crew of the USS Reeves, a guided missile cruiser that was going to take him on an adventure for the next two years. He was off to see the watery part of the earth.

As Roger and his father drove up the highway, there were uncomfortable moments of silence. Mr. Otto knew his old war stories were only interesting to himself and Roger didn’t know what to say. The dense fog hovered over the highway like a silk glove. The fog bank seemed endless and Roger felt like someone driving through a portal, entering an entirely new world. As they neared Travis, the fog began to thin and they could see the blue lights at the end of the runways. The morning sun was about to rise and the horizon began to glow. At the entrance of the base, two Vietnam War era fighter planes were mounted in attack positions. Mr. Otto drove by slowly, reminiscing and looking at the new landscape.

This place sure has changed, he said.

Roger saw the excitement in his father’s eyes. He knew this meant a lot to his father and didn’t want to ruin the moment, so he just smiled. At the front gate Roger flashed his military I.D. and the guard waved them through. Although it was early morning the base was busy with military personnel from all the service branches. Airmen and women were going to work, while other passengers, Marines and soldiers were also arriving to catch their flights to distant duty stations. Roger wore his winter dress blues and fitted nicely into the flow of servicemen, including two Marines attired in their dress blue uniforms. A mass of people walked towards the air terminal from every direction.

Roger wanted a quick goodbye. He thought his father would just drop him off, but instead his father parked the car, determined to give his son a proper sendoff. When they went to the car’s trunk to retrieve Roger’s duffel bag, Mr. Otto reached for the bag, which must have weighed sixty-five pounds. Roger wanted to do it himself.

Dad, I can do that.

But, Mr. Otto wanted to carry it, so he grabbed the bag and threw it over his shoulder.

It’s alright, I’ll get it, he said.

Roger and his father walked to the terminal at a leisurely pace. Mr. Otto tried to make this moment last as long as possible. The terminal had large pane glass windows that faced the tarmac. As Roger and his father entered the terminal, they walked down a long hallway, which led to the atrium where the check-in counters were located. When they reached the counters, Roger was ready to say good-bye, but his father still lingered around. It wasn’t easy for Mr. Otto to let his son go. He was well aware that the world was a dangerous place and knew his son was young and naïve. As he watched Roger check in his duffle bag, he thought about the advice he could give him, but Mr. Otto didn’t want to make a speech.

Roger checked in his bag and handed his orders to the attendant. The attendant looked at his orders, added a JPN sticker to the bag, and threw it on the baggage conveyor. The atrium was full of military servicemen and dependants heading to the many gates in the terminal. Again, Roger was ready to say goodbye, but his father wanted to wait for his plane to take off. Roger looked down the long hallway where they had entered, trying to give his father a hint.

Dad, you can go now… if you want.

Mr. Otto’s smile drooped; disappointed that he was being dismissed.

Are you trying to get rid of me?

Roger was trying to hurry him along, but he didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

No, but… I can take care of myself now.

Mr. Otto laughed. He knew his son was growing up, but thought he was naïve of all the dangers of the world. He didn’t want to say goodbye. He knew this moment was going to happen and had prepared himself the night before, but it didn’t make it easier.

O.K… take care of yourself son.

Roger let out a sigh. He knew his departure was hard on his father and wanted to make his goodbye as easy as possible. He wanted to tell his father that he loved him, but this was a subject that they had never discussed and a feeling that had always been understood. Mr. Otto showed his love by always being there when Roger wanted for anything. Roger knew his father loved him and Roger loved his father, but they had never said these words to each other. Love was always there and as far as Mr. Otto was concerned it didn’t need to be said. On the other hand, Roger wanted to tell his father that he loved him, but he didn’t know how. He had always learned by example, but this was one of the few lessons his father had never taught him.

It’ll be alright, dad… don’t worry about me.

Mr. Otto would always worry, but he knew it was time to go. Always being very formal, he held out his hand to give Roger a proper handshake.

O.K., be safe and take care of yourself.

Mr. Otto began to walk down the long hallway that led from the terminal to the parking lot. Roger watched his father walk away slowly. It was a long hallway and his father’s image became smaller as he reached the end. Mr. Otto took one last look back and gave Roger a Richard M. Nixon farewell wave. Then, he walked through the terminal door. A calm feeling came over Roger. He had never really been on his own before and now he was all by himself. Once his father walked through that door, Roger’s adventure had begun.

Culture Shock

The military transport that would fly Roger to Japan was Tiger Airlines. This airline was a civilian charter plane that the military used to transport its personnel to the Far East and other parts of the world. The flight overseas would take sixteen hours and, with no movie and two meager meals, it would be a long, tedious plane ride. Roger managed to get a couple hours of sleep here and there, but much of the flight was filled with boredom. Most of the passengers were service personnel who were used to uncomfortable situations, but some of the dependents’ children were restless and ran around the plane with reckless abandon. They were a source of irritation when they occasionally bumped into Roger, but he had the consolation that he would soon be in Japan.

Roger had always dreamt of the Far East. All that he had seen of Japan was in movies and magazines, which illustrated the grandeur and splendor of the Orient, but he had no idea what to expect. The chartered airline would be landing at Haneda Airport, which was located in Yokohama. The second largest city in Japan after metropolitan Tokyo, this historic port was where Japan had opened its doors to the international community. For more than one hundred years, Yokohama has served as a gateway between Japan and the world, while also playing a vital role in Japan’s modernization and internationalism. As the plane landed, the first thing Roger noticed was the greenness of the hills and the brilliance of the blue sky. His first impression of Japan was that it was fresh, bright, and beautiful.

Japan is a thriving democracy with a long imperial tradition. Although Japan lacks almost all raw materials, it is a highly urbanized and industrialized economic power, supplying vast foreign markets. Japan consists of four main islands and, along with a plethora of smaller islands, is separated from the Asian mainland by the Sea of Japan and bordered on the east by the Pacific Ocean. The mountainous terrain of these scattered islands takes up about seventy-five percent of the country’s land surface, leaving millions of people to live in a very confined space that is approximately the same size as California and Oregon combined. The climate, although generally humid, ranges from cool in the north to subtropical in the south. Historically, Japan was a predominantly agricultural country, but since World War II it has become an overwhelmingly urban and industrial country. The Japan that Roger would find was a highly developed country that was similar to the United States in many ways.

The plane taxied to the gate. As the passengers disembarked they made their way through the large modern terminal. Roger followed the group of passengers to the baggage conveyer where he could retrieve his duffel bag. A small crowd of service personnel stood around patiently as the luggage began to fall down the chute onto the circular carousel. There were many green duffel bags and men began to search and sift through them; one bag, which was differentiated with a red bandanna, was easily separated from the rest. A tall Latin man, Petty Officer 2nd Class Carrasco, pushed through the crowd and grabbed the duffel bag with the bandanna. The rest of the crowd searched through the baggage, knowing that the bus to Yokosuka, their ultimate destination, would be leaving soon. Roger tried a different strategy, waiting until the others had retrieved their bags, and then sorting through what was left. His strategy worked, but by the time he retrieved his bag and made his way to the bus depot he almost missed his ride.

The bus trip from Yokohama to Yokosuka would be another long, slow journey. Although the easiest and most efficient form of transportation in Japan is its railroad system, it also has major highways that stretch through the center of the main Japanese island of Honshu, including an expressway that runs through Yokohama. The bus trip was committed to this ancient road. The local vicinity of Yokohama was a modern-day city with shades of the past. Old world architecture was blended into new modern structures, and as the bus drove through the narrow streets Roger saw small one-story rice-paper houses next to modern four-story condos. Laborers were everywhere, working on roads and building sites and helping to tie up traffic.

Roger’s bus crept along the cluttered roadway. Although it was a foreign country, the streets were no different than any other industrial city. Roger noticed many small shops and businesses, but more interesting to him were the vending machines that were on the sidewalks. These machines seemed vulnerable. Roger had never seen vending machines stateside that weren’t in buildings or protected in some way, but what really turned his head were the variety of vending machines. There were vending machines for sodas, cigarettes, and candy, but Roger also saw vending machines for beer and saké wine. This seemed very liberal to him. The thought that he could walk down the street and crack open a bottle of beer without showing any identification was appealing, but he hadn’t seen anything yet.

The traffic was so congested that it almost came to a stop. As the bus moved slowly along the street Roger stared in disbelief; right there on the street, right next to the vending machines for candy and soda, were vending machines selling pornographic magazines. Roger wondered if children had access to these vending machines and what Americans would think if they could see this sexual openness. At first, Roger was embarrassed, having been reared Catholic and being somewhat conservative, but this was one of the reasons he wanted to see the world. He wanted to see new societies with different cultures and customs. He knew he would get a closer and better look later so he tried not to stare.

Although the bus ride had just begun there was still a long journey ahead. As the bus left Yokohama it started down the Tokaido Highway. This expressway followed the Pacific coast and was built on an ancient road that connected old Imperial capitals. Although Yokosuka was only twenty-five miles away, the bus trip would take almost four hours. Not aware of this fact, Roger sat back and prepared himself for what he thought was a trivial trip. The bus started off quickly enough as it entered the large four-lane expressway, but it immediately slowed for traffic. Roger noticed that all of the vehicles were small. Even the bus that the group had boarded was compact compared to those buses in the states. Some of the cars, which looked like miniatures, sped recklessly in and out of traffic. It was also odd to see traffic driving on the left side of the road. The miniature cars honked their horns frantically as they made their way through the traffic, squeezing through openings so small that Roger was certain they would crash.

The road to Yokosuka took many twists and turns. At one point the bus turned into a series of different toll roads, including the Yokohama Toll Road. This curvy way cut through small farms and little towns, where Roger saw small farmers with little frowns. Carving its way through the shoreline foothills, the roadway was surrounded by landscape that looked like small mountains with sharp, jagged edges; through these passes the traffic was stop and go. After about an hour the bus finally reached the obstacle that had delayed its progress, a single four-way stoplight. It was frustrating to Roger how such a simple gadget could impede progress in the midst of Japan’s modernism. He was sure that after passing this obstacle the bus would be almost to the naval base, but there was still a long distance to travel.

Once the bus passed the stoplight it steered onto another large roadway, but the traffic didn’t move much faster. About halfway along this expressway some of the passengers requested a break and luckily a rest area on the side of the expressway was in sight. As the bus pulled into the rest area there was a sigh of relief from the entire bus. Roger, like everyone else, needed to relieve himself and exited the bus to the men’s side of the restroom facility. It was a small brick building with hanging vines drooping from the roof. The first thing Roger noticed was the low threshold. Like the cars, the buildings were built for a smaller people.

The rest area was a welcomed refuge. As Roger entered the tiled restroom, he saw a long trough for urinating on one side of the room and, though he didn’t have to use a toilet, he looked around the small structure for toilet stalls, but saw none. Curiously, he looked past a low parapet where he saw a row of rectangular pits in the tile floor. Without any idea what he was looking at, he went to the pits and saw gaping drop holes that dropped into open cesspools. On the wall nearby, there was a stick figure cartoon squatting over a pit, demonstrating the proper method of use. Roger wasn’t sure what to make of it. He finished his business and headed for the bus, but before he reached it he heard an unbearable scream. It was a piercing cry from a little girl.

No mommy! Noooo!

The little girl was crying and very upset. Her mother tried her best to console the young girl, but it was difficult for both mother and daughter. They had never seen a Japanese commode and the little girl had trouble using it. When the mother and daughter returned to the bus, the little girl was still crying; no one was quite sure what had happened. The little girl appeared to be in a state of shock. She clutched her mother closely for the remainder of the trip.

The bus ride seemed to last forever, but finally it reached the city of Yokosuka. When the bus arrived at the base, there was another sigh of relief from everybody. The weary passengers were jubilant that their long ordeal had ended. As the bus approached the main front gate it entered an area of well-defined lanes where cars and trucks were segregated into rows of vehicles for inspection at a row of guard shacks. Large, wide white lines that clearly defined the boundaries of the base separated the lanes. This was the last barrier to the base and the passengers practically hung from the bus windows, panting like lap dogs.

The first order of business was to deliver the civilian dependents to a large grouping of government apartment buildings on the north side of the base. The Yokosuka Naval Base was relatively small, but it was wrapped around the curvy bay like a caterpillar wrapped around a twig. The base was covered with a cornucopia of lush vegetation and had a small mountain range in the center of the compound. The sharp jagged hills were decorated with spots of shrubs and flowers. Pigeons soared above their nests and roosted in the lazy, hanging trees. These volcanic rocks divided the base in two sections, which was connected by a long, narrow, brightly lit tunnel. The tunnel reminded Roger of the Oakland Alameda Tunnel with a shiny, white interior. After driving through the tunnel the bus driver drove slowly through the base interior where a compliment of social services including a library, sports field, gymnasium, dormitories, and the Benny Decker Theatre, gave the servicemen a taste of home. The bus delivered the civilian dependants to an apartment complex where they could refresh themselves. Then, the bus headed to single men’s transient barracks. When the bus reached the barracks, everyone was exhausted. The men slowly piled out of the bus with their duffel bags in tow. Roger’s bag, which was heavy when he arrived at Travis, now felt like it weighed a ton. By the time he reached the check-in counter, he had dragged it across the polished tile floor like he was dragging a sack of potatoes.

In the Navy there’s always a line. As Roger waited in the line of sailors and Marines he noticed a young personnel woman sitting at a deck in the office. She was a short-haired blonde who was staring out the window. She had a cold, blank, solemn expression on her face without any sign of emotion. She occasionally moved a piece of paper across her desk or used her pencil to make a mark, but her gaze was a sad one, and Roger couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. It was obvious that she was miserable or burnt out. Roger thought this was an odd sight since he was so excited. He wondered how long she had been stationed in Japan and if this melancholy happened to everyone who had been overseas too long. After checking in, Roger noticed that the girl was still staring out the window. He thought she must have been homesick.

Roger was informed that his ship was still at sea. Until it arrived he would have to stay at this four-story complex. The transient barracks was the hub where thousands of servicemen had come and gone. It had a fulltime Personnel Office on the first floor and three floors of dormitory rooms. All of the servicemen that arrived each day were taken to this barracks. From the time Roger had awaken the day before, it had been more than twenty hours. He was exhausted and as soon as he stowed his gear in his assigned locker he fell asleep on his bunk.

The South Shall Rise Again

At any given time the barracks was alive with noise and men rumbling around the top floors aimlessly. Even though it was still afternoon, Roger had jet lag and slept for many hours. The barracks was full of men coming and going, opening and closing their lockers, and occasionally screaming and shouting, which caused Roger to pass in and out of consciousness as he lay in his bunk. He dreamt that he was still in his bed back home and that he was getting ready to leave for the first time. He dreamt about the morning he left for boot camp, and the morning he left for his first command on a destroyer in Portland, Oregon. Now, he was dreaming about the morning before. Even in his sleep he had an anxious feeling like something exciting was going to happen.

All sweet dreams must come to an end. Finally, Roger was awakened when a scuffle broke out. He could hear pushing, shoving, and the sound of smacking flesh, but he didn’t even bother to open his eyes. He usually kept to himself and didn’t like getting into other people’s business. He could hear some men in a heated argument. One man yelled,

You dumb Redneck!

The other man yelled back,

Ya damn Yankee!

Roger could hear the two men fighting in a heated battle until one of them hit the ground, while the other ran down the hallway screaming,

The South Shall Rise Again! . . . tee hee.

It had been more than a century, but old rivals were still fighting the Civil War, in more ways than one. Roger went back to sleep, and eventually he caught up on his much needed rest. Now awake, he lay in his bunk with his eyes closed. He didn’t notice anyone in the room until he heard more voices.

That fella’s been sleepin’ all day.

He probably has jet lag.

One of the men left the room, but when Roger opened his eyes there was an interesting-looking character staring at him. He was a wiry-looking guy named Hopkins, who was also waiting for his ship to come to port. Hopkins had been in the barracks for a week, with a couple nights of drinking on the town under his belt. He was ready to go out for drinks again.

Ya gonter sleep thar all day… son? he asked cheerfully.

Roger was still groggy and wasn’t sure how to answer. Hopkins was a ball of energy and exclaimed,

Come on now, let’s hit the beach!

Roger was eager to see the local nightlife. So, without introduction, he arose quickly and got dressed. Hopkins was persistent and pressed,

Well, let’s get a move on… son.

Hopkins was a loud, obnoxious country bumpkin with a long record of trouble. He was a good-old boy from the Bluegrass County of Kentucky. A relatively small portion of the state, this section of the country is considered a horseman’s paradise and had a reputation for raising world-famous thoroughbred racehorses. With its gentle, rolling hills, white picket fences, and fertile soils, the Bluegrass Country produced champions in both men and horses, but Hopkins was not one of them. He was a farm boy who hadn’t even been on a plane before he went to boot camp. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, Hopkins would try everything at least once, and the more dangerous the better. He was proud of his Kentucky heritage and liked to brag about its wonderful qualities, but he didn’t see how this annoyed people and didn’t understand why people always shunned him. Hopkins was a loser, and, as it would turn out, very pugnacious. Roger had no idea what he was getting himself into.

Roger changed his clothes and they were on their way. The first stop for the evening was the Wind Jammer. The Wind Jammer was the base enlisted men’s club, which many a serviceman made his first and last stop before and after leaving the base. In time, it would become Roger’s home away from home. One of the most dominating structures on base, this four-story brick building had a large neon light shaped like a ship’s sail mounted on the top floor. The sail was outlined with blue streamers and flashed spontaneously, creating the illusion of wind. The large facility had many services such as long distance phones, a money exchange, a full-service restaurant, and at least five cocktail lounges.

Hopkins and Roger entered the club with excitement. The entrance had a fancy revolving glass door and the atrium was elegant, with a plush lobby and a tapering staircase that led to the upper floors. Hopkins headed right for the bar on the first floor, a way station where drinks and appetizers were served. Hopkins bought the first couple rounds of drinks, knowing that the drinks were cheaper on base than in the local bar district. Hopkins had already spent the last few nights cruising those local bars, out-lasting his welcome at many of them.

Hopkins was a chatterbox and didn’t waste any time telling Roger his story. Prior to being shipped out to the fleet, he had been kicked out of gunner’s mate A school. Of course it wasn’t his fault, and he felt that he was unfairly reduced back down to a seaman recruit. Hopkins did most of talking, mostly about himself. Roger managed to slip in a couple of words here and there, but Hopkins wasn’t really listening. Finally, he looked at Roger like he was a bug and asked,

So where ya from… son?

Roger was weary of telling him, but replied,

California.

Cali-fornie!

Hopkins seemed surprised.

You’re one of them West Coast hot shots, ain’t ya?

Roger didn’t bother answering. Hopkins was full of energy and went into the next topic without any hesitation.

Can ya believe the shit that’s goin’ on in the Middle East?

Roger was startled. It was hard for him to believe that Hopkins had a brain in his head, much less have the ability to ask such a pertinent question.

I know. It’s all happening so fast.

Them people got a lot of gall to take American hostages. Ya know what I figger we oughta do? If they don’ give us our people, we oughta drop a nuke on them. That’ll teach them.

Roger didn’t disagree entirely. The fact that the United States could be intimidated by a backward nation was somewhat embarrassing to a young person such as Hopkins, and he vented his anger indiscriminately.

It’s that damn Vietnam thing. Ever since that war, the world don’ have no respect for us no more. But, I ain’t worried about it. I knows we gonter go over thar and kick their rag head asses.

Hopkins was good at being obnoxious; with a limited capacity this was the best conversation he could make, and without missing a beat he suggested that they move on.

O.K. son, time to hit the road!

Hopkins and Roger drank up and headed out of the Wind Jammer for the local bar district, which was located right across the street from the main gate. This bar district was a relic from the past and was affectionately known as Sailor’s Row. In its heyday, during the Vietnam War, this string of bars was a wild place to party, serving as rest and relaxation for millions of servicemen and women who served in that war. Although this row of watering holes was now in decline, this was Roger’s first taste of a foreign country and he was still excited to go bar hopping. As soon as they crossed the street and turned the corner, Roger saw a narrow side street with a number of small saloons and souvenir shops. The sun had just set and the neon lights began to illuminate, lighting the way down the alley-like path. The bars had familiar names like Texas Long Horn and New York, New York. These theme names attracted young servicemen a long way from home and made them feel comfortable, and the bars added ambiance with pictures and memorabilia. For instance, the Florida Keys Hideaway had a beach bum atmosphere with palm trees and bamboo chairs. Hopkins and Roger hopped from bar to bar, having a drink or two at each.

Sailor’s Row was an oasis for wandering young men. Hopkins never stopped talking, mostly about himself, but Roger didn’t mind. He was soaking in the atmosphere and was agreeable to just about anything. As they walked down the street, Hopkins finally saw his favorite bar.

Thar she is! he exclaimed.

Hopkins had seen an earthy country bar. The Horseshoe was a saloon with a pair of horseshoes over the threshold and old fashion wooden wagon wheels on both sides of the entrance. When they walked in through the swinging doors, Roger saw pictures of cowboys and horses hanging on the walls. This made Hopkins feel at home and he couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear. He had spent time in this bar during the past week, shooting off his mouth, and the Mama-san wasn’t too sure she was happy to see him again. Hopkins, a couple of nights earlier, had had a run-in with a Marine.

The bar had a mellow crowd. When Hopkins and Roger walked into the bar, Hopkins didn’t notice that same Marine and his buddies, sitting at a table near the jukebox, drinking quietly. Hopkins and Roger sat on some stools at the bar, and Hopkins quickly ordered a round of beers. He gave the Mama-san a wild look and said,

Hey, Mama-san, give us a couple of them Kirins.

Kirin beer was the Budweiser beer of Japan. It was a light beer with a middle-of-the-road price, for a Japanese beer. Hopkins had been buying drinks when they were cheap, but now he was out of money when the drinks were getting expensive. He looked at Roger with shifty eyes.

Your turn to pay… son.

Hopkins sat in his chair with a shit-eating grin on his face and said out of the side of his mouth,

Don’ worry, I’ll gecha ya next time.

Roger took the scam in stride and paid for the expensive drinks, not being one to complain. He wasn’t use to dealing with the Japanese yen and wasn’t fully aware of the exorbitant price. The exchange rate was 220 Japanese yen to one American dollar, which meant that he was paying at least three dollars a beer. At the Wind Jammer, American beers were usually less than a dollar. Roger wasn’t used to paying so much for drinks, but he reasoned that he was paying for the atmosphere.

The bar had a small, mixed crowd. There were some old salts talking to some old Japanese bar girls on one side of the bar and the Marine and his two buddies sat at the opposite side of the bar. Hopkins still hadn’t noticed the Marine. The Marine was also drunk and didn’t notice Hopkins either until Hopkins began talking. His current subject was about his horse. The drunker Hopkins got, the louder he became.

I got the preddiest little filly in the valley. Ya know, in Kentucky, the finer the horse ya got, the better ya can get the ladies. In Kentucky, everybody got a horse, he said boastfully.

The Marine, who had been lying low, finally recognized Hopkins. He leaned over to get a better look. He recognized the whining voice and annoying laugh. He said with a raspy, deep voice,

That’s because they don’t know how to drive cars in Kentucky.

The Marines began to laugh.

Yeah, in Kentucky, that’s why they don’t wear shoes, said another.

Again, there was a burst of laughter. At first, Hopkins wasn’t sure who they were, but still said without thinking,

Ya better watch your mouth, Jar Heads.

Or what? replied the Marine quickly.

Roger wasn’t sure what was happening, but he didn’t want any trouble and tried to keep a low profile. The Marine said angrily,

You open your mouth one more time and—

Fuck you! Jar Head! Hopkins shouted stupidly.

Hopkins and Roger had been sitting with their backs to the Marines. They hadn’t noticed that the three Marines, who were always in the state of perpetually fighting, had all stood up and had surrounded them, and they were piss drunk. The lead Marine looked at Hopkins aggressively.

Don’t I know you from somewhere?

Hopkins tried to blow him off, but the Marines were itching for a fight. The Mama-san started to get excited and began yelling,

No, no… I call Shore Patrol! You no fight, but before she could use the phone one of the Marines cold-cocked Roger on the side of head, knocking him off his stool and sending him sprawling to the floor.

The fight was on. Roger fell to the ground, but got up quickly, scrambling to his feet and swinging wildly. Two of the Marines jumped on Hopkins, but he was a wiry ball of fire and was able to hold his own. It was an all-out brawl, fists flying, legs kicking, and the Mama-san screaming bloody murder. For a moment, it looked like a desperate situation, but Roger managed to knock his Marine to the ground, catching him in the jaw with an uppercut. He grabbed one of the other Marines by the shoulder, pulling him off Hopkins, and forcing him into the wall, making the fight even, but to Rogers’s surprise, instead of helping him, Hopkins ran out the back door. Roger’s head was buzzing and the Marines were too drunk to go on. The Shore Patrol was almost on the scene and he soon followed Hopkins out the back door. When he got outside, he saw Hopkins’s shadow on the side of a building as he ran down the street, perfidiously deserting him. Roger heard his distinctive laugh,

Tee heee, And with that primal squeal, Hopkins vanished into the night.

Roger was enraged. He ran down the street as fast as he could, limping and favoring his right leg. His head was still spinning from the booze and blows he had endured. He was angry not only with Hopkins, but with himself for getting himself into such a frivolous hullabaloo. When he thought he was in the clear, Roger hid in the shadows of the alley. The Shore Patrol drove by slowly with lights flashing, using a spotlight to search for the troublemakers, but they didn’t see anything and kept driving down the street.

After waiting for the coast to clear, Roger headed back to the base. He found his way to the main street and followed it back to a Japanese/American-style eatery across the street from the base. It was a small restaurant on the corner where the food was served from the window. Pretzels, corn dogs, and shabu-shabu were made fresh right in front of the customer, behind the stained glass storefront. Shabu-shabu was Japanese fast food that was similar to beef stroganoff with noodles. Pictures of all of the menu items were posted in the window, with the prices.

Roger wasn’t brave enough to try the foreign food yet. There would be plenty of time for such experimentation, so he settled for a good old-fashioned corn dog. As he ate his American food he looked toward the base and the lights shining across the harbor. Steam was rising from the shipyard and a cool breeze carried it across the moon lit sky. Although his first night in town had been a bumpy ride, he liked the idea that he was on his own.

This is my homeport, he said to himself.

Loafers

The next morning Roger awoke with a few bumps and bruises. He was assigned to the barracks detachment of stragglers, which was run by a boatswain’s mate 1st class. In the Navy, boatswain’s mates were a commodity. Jacks-of-all-trades, they could be assigned miscellaneous tasks and duties, making them valuable men to have around. Aboard ships, boatswain’s mates directed and supervised men in deck and boat seamanship. This boatswain’s mate 1st class was assigned to the duty of organizing and keeping track of all of the transients that went through the barracks. He was also a transient waiting for another assignment and being a career man, a lifer, he was waiting for an assignment that would keep him in the Far East. He hadn’t been stateside in ten years and wanted to keep it that way. He had slipped a disk in his back trying to lift an iron chain link when he was stationed on the flagship USS Blue Ridge, and now he was recovering, doing light duty ashore. The old boatswain’s mate liked to bark softly at the recruits, saying,

What are you doing?

Even if he knew your name he would say,

Who are you?

The boatswain’s mate wasn’t trying to be unpleasant, that was just his way and all generally liked him. There were so many men coming and going that it