by Jeff Noonan
Liberty was nonexistent for our crew during that inport period. My time was spent working, sleeping, and eating in a never-ending cycle. My director had a circular metal shield around it that had been badly bent in the storm. The shipyard cut the bent metal away and replaced it. After that, it was my job to get it cleaned, sanded, and painted. There were also some minor problems with my radar, caused by the physical shock of the storm. Luckily, the water had not reached any of the electronics, so I spent the days fixing the damage and the nights working with the Chief on the battery alignment.
But we got it all done. Like humans have done since time began, the men of the Cogswell rose to the emergency and did the job. We had a day of rest on Thanksgiving that year, but we were all so exhausted that we just ate turkey and slept.
By the middle of December, the ship was again ready for sea. We left Sasebo and steamed north to Yokosuka, where we were to have more repair work done and take on supplies. We would be inport over the Christmas and New Year Holidays for some much-needed rest and relaxation.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Christmas in Japan
Yokosuka was a true “sailor’s port” in those days. The only real industries there were the shipyard and the sailor support network. The townspeople all catered to the sailors and we appreciated their efforts. Of course, Bob had been there before and had already staked a claim on a small, out-of-the-way bar, the Club Sakura, where we proceeded to set up housekeeping and made preparations for Christmas.
My first night on the town in Yokosuka was an adventure. A group of us from Fox Division decided to go ashore together and, of course, Bob volunteered to lead us. Except for me, all of them had been ashore there before, so I was the “newbie.”
We were anchored out in the stream, so we caught a water-taxi ashore. It was just an oversized rowboat with a canopy and an outboard motor that delivered us to Fleet Landing after the querulous but valiant little motor putt-putted us past a throng of Navy and civilian ships. On arrival we immediately got into the local taxis that were lined up waiting for us. They were all little cars, about the size of Volkswagens, but were shaped more like American cars—just reduced in size. They sported names that I had never before heard of; names like Cedric, Datsun, and Toyota. It was a bit of an adventure just riding in these new and exotic cars.
The sights and sounds of Japan dazzled me as we rode through town. There were modern buildings interspersed between wooden structures that looked as if they had been built centuries before. Neon was everywhere, blazing the names and slogans of everything from rice to automobiles. It seemed like every building had its share of neon signs, some in English, but most in Japanese. The unrelenting din was astounding. It seemed like every car on the street (and there were a lot of them) was running at full speed and was depending on its horn to get through traffic. The scents were even more astounding, seeming to vary with every breath. First you would notice a sweet, but tangy scent that I soon came to associate with everything Japanese. (I never did figure out its source.) Then you would ride over a “Binjo Ditch,” and the odor of raw sewage would overwhelm you.
In Japan before the late 1960s, raw sewage was dumped to a network of ditches, some lined with concrete, which routed the sewage from its source to distribution centers where it was sent on directly to farms for fertilizer. These ditches were called “Binjo Ditches,” and when you were in their vicinity, you knew it. I always had trouble in my mind trying to understand how the always fastidious Japanese people could reconcile the ditches with their otherwise immaculate lifestyles.
It was mid-December, and Yokosuka was cold by any standards. Even though we were bundled in our Dress Blue uniforms and Peacoats, the cold bit through us. We were really glad to see the car pull up to a little bar, where Bob (who had been riding shotgun) announced, “This is your new home away from home, “Club of the Roses.” When we didn’t understand, he explained that this was what “Club Sakura” meant in the Japanese language.
The “Club of the Roses” was nowhere near as elegant as the name implied. It was a small building with only four stools at the bar and about ten booths along the wall. It had a very small dance floor with a juke box in the rear of the room. It was warmly heated by a gas-fueled heater that blew constantly and seemed to have one setting: Hot. But it seemed warm and cozy to us and the effusive welcome from the elderly Mama-San made us all feel at home.
When we arrived, only the Mama-San and one lady bartender were in the room, but soon other girls began to show up. After about an hour, somehow, miraculously, each of us was sitting with a young Japanese lady. All were old friends, and some knew Bob from previous visits, so we were soon drinking Kirin Beer and Sake, singing and dancing.
A comely youngster sat beside me and introduced herself with a simple “I am Kimi-San.” I replied, “I’m Jeff,” and the conversation began. I wanted to know everything about Japan and the local culture, so conversation was easy.
As the evening wore on, we decided to get food. Unlike the bar scene in the Philippines, we found that we didn’t have to go out of the bar to eat. We just mentioned to Mama-San that we were hungry and soon we were eating pork fried rice that appeared from nowhere and was absolutely delicious. This was another adventure for me, since the only rice that I had seen in Montana was pure white and was sweetened by the sugar that we liberally applied to it. After a couple of hours of Sake and a full meal of fried rice, I was ready to stay in Club Sakura for the remainder of my existence. But that wasn’t in the cards.
About 8:00 or 9:00 p.m., Kimi decided that we should go “to the Baths.” Having read about Japan’s Geisha girls, I was more than ready and needed no prodding. We bundled up and went down the street to another building, where I paid for a room and bath, and we went in.
The experience was not as structured or formal as what the documentaries describe for Japanese Geisha encounters, but I don’t imagine that I was with a fully trained Geisha either. First, we went into an elaborately tiled room, where a huge bathtub was the centerpiece. Kimi-San handed me a large fluffy bathrobe and told me to go into the adjoining cubbyhole of a room, strip, and put it on.
I did that and came back out, not knowing what to expect. Kimi was standing there in a robe much like mine, except smaller, of course. She told me to take the robe off and get in the tub.
I turned crimson and protested that I was naked underneath. She giggled at me and told me, “You get it off and get in there, or I call Mama-San, and we’ll take off for you!” I knew when I was beaten, so I did what she told me to do.
Then she took off her robe, and I was even more mortified—she was wearing what looked like a black two-piece swimming suit! I accused her of unfairness, and she just giggled some more. “You lean forward, Jeff-San. I wash back.” So I did as I was told, and she scrubbed my back—hard! Soon the skin started to feel raw. After a while, I exclaimed “Ouch” after a particularly hard stroke.
She stopped and looked very hurt. “I sorry, but I cannot get the spots off your back!” She pointed at the freckles on my arm, “These things stuck on you very bad.”
I went into hysterics, laughing until my sides hurt. She had never seen freckles, and she was absolutely mortified that she couldn’t get them off my back. After a while, I recovered enough to explain freckles to her, and she started laughing along with me. It became a standing joke in my group of friends that we didn’t want “the spots scrubbed off.”
When we overcame the spot obstacle, things started working more smoothly. She moved to other parts of my body, from my head to my toes, giggling all the while. After a while, I started to sense that she was not just giggling for the fun of it and I asked her, “What are you laughing at?”
I was expecting a comment on the size of my man-parts or something like that, so her reply crushed me. “Jeff-San, you are nice man, but you have funny colors. You have little spots all over, and your hair is everywhere the same silly color.”
After a while, we got past my red hair and frec
kles and I was finally clean enough for her. She then finally removed her clothes and joined me in the tub. Even then, she was totally in charge, telling me what to do and when to do it. I bathed her as thoroughly as she had bathed me, lingering on the good spots (much as she had also done—but I didn’t giggle). When I had finished, she told me to stand while she dried me off. I did that and then dried her. Then we went into another room that had a big fluffy bed with huge down pillows and quilts.
An hour or so later, I was thoroughly enjoying myself when there came a loud banging on the door and I heard Mama-San’s voice, “Time to go to ship, Jeff-San. See you tomorrow.” I realized then that I had less than a half-hour to get to Fleet Landing, so I dressed hurriedly and said my goodbyes. I found a cab waiting outside the door and got into it.
I made it to Fleet Landing with about five minutes to spare. There were literally hundreds of sailors waiting there, so I checked in with the Shore Patrol from my ship and waited for one of the ship’s boats to show up. It was after 2:00 a.m. when I crawled into my rack, but I couldn’t sleep. This had been an adventure and I didn’t want to sleep without savoring it.
The next morning, we all met over breakfast and traded stories of the night before. The stories were amazingly similar, so I decided that I wasn’t unique, but I did get a huge laugh when I told them about my giggling Geisha and the freckle scrub. We decided that we would all go back to the Club Sakura again that night.
In standing the sonar watches when we were at sea, I had been often paired with a third class sonarman named Willie Barnes. Willie was one of the nicest, most considerate sailors that I ever met. He was also tall, well-educated, and black. Somewhere during those long, boring watches, we had become good friends. So, when we were getting ready to go back to the Club Sakura that second night, I saw Willie getting ready to go ashore. Thinking nothing of it, I invited him to go with us. He was very hesitant and started to make an excuse when both Bob and Fred joined in with me and we basically insisted that he join us. We all liked and respected Willie, and this was his first Liberty in Yoko, so we thought we would show him the same good time that we had enjoyed the night before. He finally joined us and we headed out.
We reached the club, and, like the night before, only Mama-San and the bartender were there. We went in as boisterously as before, took our seats and ordered drinks. Me, Fred, Bob, and Willie all crowded into a booth and gave Mama-San some coins for the jukebox.
We were ready for another night of fun, but there was a curious stiffness about Mama-San and the bartender. Neither were their old, friendly, welcoming selves.
We stayed and joked our way through some drinks, but nothing changed. Unlike the night before, no girls came into the bar. We started to notice and comment on the difference. Bob grilled all of us on our conduct from the night before, as we assumed that one of us must have done “something that pissed off Mama-San.” But we couldn’t come up with anything. So finally we decided that Bob should take Mama-San aside and ask her. Bob was just getting up when Willie stopped him. “It’s me, guys,” he said, “People on the ship told me that while I was in Japan, I should only go to the Negro Bars, but I didn’t believe them. I don’t want to screw up your night, so I’ll leave.” I absolutely exploded with a hearty “Bullshit!” Bob was right behind me, “Sit down, Willie. You ain’t going anywhere.”
We discussed this for a minute and decided that we shouldn’t let Mama-San lose face. Bob volunteered, as her best friend, to go talk to her. So he asked her to go in the back room with him for a minute. As he told me later, this is what happened.
They went in the storeroom and Mama-San immediately started on Bob. “Whatsa matta you, Bob? You bring nigger to my bar; you insult me and everyone here. Sakura not a nigger bar!” She went on, “They have bars of their own. They have whores that put up with them. They tear up the bars and give drugs to the whores. I don’t care. But they not belong here!”
Bob fought the good fight, but Mama-San was adamant. Finally, he brought her out to where we were sitting and told her to tell us to our faces.
She wasn’t bashful and she didn’t mince words. She repeated herself to us. Willie started to get up, but we sat him back down.
I then began talking and I told Mama-San, very calmly, that Willie was our friend, and we didn’t see black and white, just a friend. Just as when we came into her bar, we didn’t see Japanese and Americans; we saw friends and equals. I told her that I was really looking forward to spending my Christmas there, but if my friend couldn’t enjoy it with us, all of us were leaving and not coming back. I reminded her that we were her best customers (as she had said repeatedly the night before) and we were not “bad sailors.” I told her that she should learn for herself whether Willie was a good person, not just listen to stupid people who knew nothing about people. I absolutely surprised myself. I had never been so eloquent in my life, but I was mad. In my adult life, I had never, in any form, been confronted with blatant racial prejudice and it really got me going.
When I finished my tirade, I looked at Willie and saw that he had tears running down his cheek. I was floored, and so was Mama-San. Those little tears apparently made her realize, finally, that she was dealing with a human being. I think that they got through to her basic good nature. She looked at us and started to walk away. Then she stopped, spun around, and said, in her best official voice, “Okay! He stays as long as he with you! But, until I know him, he not comes here alone or with other people like him.”
It wasn’t a capitulation, but she had bent and we took advantage of it. Willie still felt uncomfortable and wanted to leave, but we talked him into staying with us.
Slowly, the girls began coming into the bar, and before long we were all having a good time. We started helping Mama-San decorate the bar for Christmas. It turned out that Willie was really good, almost artistic, at the decorating process and soon he had everyone working with him. It was not long before he became accepted as one of us. Interestingly enough, none of us went “to the baths” with the girls that night. We were too dedicated to making sure that Willie had a good time and that Mama-San saw the error of her ways.
Unlike Subic, where we had wandered from bar to bar, we stayed very close to our home bar in Yokosuka. For one thing, it was just too cold to want to wander anywhere. For another, Mama-San made sure that we felt “at home” there and we really did. She even put on a big Christmas dinner for us in the bar on Christmas day and we all exchanged Christmas presents, mainly because we knew we would have to endure the wrath of Mama-San if we didn’t. It was a pleasant stay, and after the typhoon and all of our ship-repair efforts in Sasebo, we really appreciated it.
Over that Christmas period in 1959, Mama-San came to learn that all men are, indeed, created equal. After I got to know her better, I told her the story about my dad, the loggers, and the Japanese railroad workers.
She had a hard time at first, trying to understand how anyone could be prejudiced against a Japanese person. This was a concept that she had obviously never considered possible. But she finally got it and realized the similarities with Willie’s situation. I don’t know that Willie ever became one of her favorite people, but she really did try after that to not show any favoritism. The night before we went back to the ship for the last time before our next underway period, she said her goodbyes, hugging and kissing us all equally—with absolutely no one left out.
To this day, I believe that Club Sakura was the first integrated bar in Yokosuka, if not in all of Japan.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
My Name is Edith!
Right after the holidays, we got underway again, this time to rendezvous with an aircraft carrier in the South China Sea. We steamed south past Okinawa, Formosa, and the Philippines and met up with USS Hancock as it patrolled off the coast of Laos. There had been a great deal of political unrest in Laos and we were there, “just in case.”
The Hancock did quite a few aircraft launches during this time and it was our job to follow in the
big ship’s wake and watch for any planes that missed the flight deck. This “Plane Guard” mission was not as boring as the Formosa Patrol had been. The carrier would turn into the wind and run at top speed when it was launching aircraft, and we had to stay immediately behind them, so we would be idling along at eight or ten knots one minute and turning and ramping up to thirty-plus knots a moment later. Occasionally we would come close enough to see tropical jungle and beaches ashore, but we never saw any of the inhabitants on that trip.
We never encountered anything of interest, other than the launch of Hancock’s planes, while we were in the South China Sea. We stayed at Condition Three, in modified battle stations, but, for the life of us, we couldn’t figure out why. Like sailors everywhere, we bitched about the unnecessary watches and extra precautions that Condition Three entailed. After all, why should we worry about anything here, in this little lost corner of the world? Hell, we had never heard of Laos, or that other miniature trouble spot, Viet Nam, before this trip. We all knew that they couldn’t possibly have enough of a military to cause us any problems! These rinky little backwater countries were not a worry, so why were the fleet commanders making us stand extra watches? We were really a bit pissed about this, but we did as told, watched the planes fly around in a show of force, and did our jobs. I got a lot of studying done.
In late January, we were detached from Hancock and steamed directly to Subic Bay. It was to be our last stop in the Orient before heading home to San Diego.
We arrived in Subic and my friends and I immediately headed for Olongapo. It was almost like coming home again. We were learning to make our home wherever we were, I guess, but even the process of crossing Shit River didn’t seem too bad after walking beside the Binjo Ditches up north. (I still couldn’t believe that the kids were swimming in it, though.)