Near the end of the third week of technical school in Wichita Falls, we were handed surveys that asked us to list all the places in the world where we might want to serve. It was a bullshit exercise, of course, because Uncle Sam was going to deploy us wherever he damn well pleased. The joke went, “If you select Germany you’ll get sent to Korea, and if you select Korea it’s a foregone conclusion that you’ll wind up in Germany.”
Chuck ranked his bases this way: Greenland, Guam, Turkey, Alaska, North Dakota, California, Italy and England.
I chose England, Italy, California, Spain, Hawaii, Oregon, Washington, and Maine.
On graduation day, sixteen weeks later, I opened my orders and learned that I was being sent to Yokota Air Base outside Tokyo, Japan. Due to an unexplained snafu in the mammoth Air Force bureaucracy, Chuck’s orders were delayed, as were the orders of my roommate, Michael Webb. Nonetheless, Chuck hosted a raucous “Freedom” party in his room that night. Around two in the morning we moved the party up on the roof of our dorm, where we took turns throwing empty beer bottles at a statue of some long deceased Air Force general. The Security Police rolled out after two rounds and we scampered back to our rooms, drunk and exhilarated.
I flew home to California the next day, fairly certain that I would never see Chuck T. Miller again. I wrote him a letter during my thirty-day leave, but never expected, and never received, a reply.
The days of my leave passed in a blur, and before I knew it I was in San Francisco, boarding a Pan Am flight to Tokyo.
It was evening and raining when I arrived, a steady drizzle that made the streets glisten. The Tokyo skyline was ablaze with neon signs advertising familiar names: Canon, Minolta, Fuji, and others that I would get to know soon enough: Kirin Beer and Suntory Whisky. The chartered bus crawled through heavy rush hour traffic, long lines of black taxi cabs, snub-nosed HINO delivery trucks. Pressing my face to the window I saw trains packed with passengers running on elevated tracks; I saw road signs that I could not read. The bus passed blocks and blocks of tall, narrow apartment buildings. Despite the steady drizzle, I saw men in suits peddling bicycles home from the train station.
By the time we arrived at Yokota Air Base it was late and my sponsor, Airman First Class Arthur C. Lee, the guy who was responsible for getting me settled in my new dorm, was no where to be found. At the newcomers center a sullen Senior Airman named Jenkins directed me to Temporary Housing. Handing me a base map, Jenkins said I’d have to walk because the shuttle busses had stopped running. I slung my duffel bag over my shoulder, picked up my suitcase, and went into the rain.
Around three o’clock in the morning I was awakened by someone pounding on the door of my room. Startled as much by the unfamiliar surroundings as the pounding on the door, it took a full minute before I got out of bed and staggered to the door. “Who is it?” I called.
“Security police,” a gruff voice said. “Open the door or we’ll kick it down.”
I unlocked the door and stepped back, just in case. Chuck and Michael Webb pushed through the door. Michael gave me a big hug, shook my hand, and fell across my bed and passed out. Chuck slapped my shoulder and handed me a can of beer. “Get dressed,” he said, “and I’ll show you the lay of the land. I’ve got a car.”
“What are you guys doing here?”
“Mike’s on his way to Okinawa and I’m here to do my duty for the Armed Forces Radio & Television Service.” Laughing, Chuck saluted. “Mikey’s been drunk for two days,” he said, pulling off Webb’s shoes. “Actually, we’ve managed to stay drunk for the past three weeks. C’mon, the engine’s running.”
The car was a Toyota Cressida with a crunched left front fender, the result of an accident Chuck had got into earlier that night behind the NCO club. The steering wheel was on the right side. The back seat was littered with empty beer cans, an American flag, and the latest edition of Playboy.
“Don’t mind the mess,” Chuck said, jamming the gear shift into first. “And before you ask I’ll tell you that a. I do not have a license to drive, and b. we are prohibited from leaving the base until we’ve been officially briefed on local customs, laws, and assorted regulations -- in other words, the same old Air Force BS, which is precisely the reason I am taking you for a whirlwind tour of downtown Fussa. By the way, the car belongs to your sponsor, Art Lee. The guy’s a winner. He’s going to be pissed when he sees that dent. But what the hell!”
Chuck slowed as we passed through the main gate, waved to the guard as if they were old pals, and asked, “Beer and women, which way?”
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