It’s a Legal Matter, Baby

The night before I was scheduled to begin, I made sure the creases in my dungaree uniform were particularly crisp, especially considering that the Judge Advocate General (JAG) Office was located in the headquarters building of the base in Sasebo. The last thing you want to do is run into the Captain of the base looking like a complete and total slob.

I arrived early and was introduced to everyone attached to the JAG office including Legalman First Class Cynthia Haynes, Legalman Chief Bill Wettig, the base JAG officer Lieutenant Claude Hickman and Aoki, a civilian Japanese lawyer who handled translations for the office as well as any disputes between the base and Japanese authorities.

After exchanging formalities and being offered a cup of coffee, I was tasked with my first official job in the office: copying case files. The first one happened to include the autopsy pictures of a sailor who had recently died of a heart attack while playing softball. The second one, was much more gruesome. Chief Wettig even warned me that I didn’t have to do it if I didn’t want to.

A little background: Sasebo is home to one of the largest U.S. military armories in the world. As it was told to me, if a fire ever sparked in that place, practically half the island of Kyushu would be blown up and sink into the sea (although I’m not sure if the science used to make that correlation is sound, there’s a lot of ammo there). That armory is protected by a battalion of U.S. Marines. At some point before I arrived to TPD, there was a hazing incident which took place in the Marine barracks. One of the Marines who was scheduled to be charged in the hazing was on sentry duty one night in the armory. Rather than face charges, he chose to take his own life by sticking a 12-gauge shogun in his mouth and pulling the trigger. That resulting crime scene (and the autopsy which followed) was what I was being asked to photocopy. Not a pretty sight. And, not a really fun way to start your first day at the office.

Toward the end of the day, Aoki asked me to briefly join her in her office. She gestured for me to a seat. While Aoki’s English was very good, she spoke in a very proper, yet breathy manner. “They referred to you as ‘J-O-3 Ka-min-ski.’ Tell me, what does the ‘J-O’ in ‘J-O-3’ stand for?” she asked.

“The JO stands for Journalist. I previously worked as a print and broadcast journalist,” I replied.

“Excellent. So if I have any questions about English, I should come to you then?” she asked.

“You’re certainly welcome to. I would be happy to help in any way that I can,” I said.

“Great. Thank you so much. I see it’s getting close to 5 p.m. and I must be off the gym. Please have a nice evening. I will see you tomorrow,” she grabbed a gym bag and headed out the door.

As I got up and reached the door, Chief Wettig caught me. “Good job today. I already talked to Chief Remington. You’ll be working here from now on. See you tomorrow.” I went back to TPD, got changed and went out to grab some dinner and a drink. It was nice to feel appreciated again at work.    

While it wasn’t journalism, I was happy to be doing something other than planting flowers or mowing lawns full-time. Those are perfectly respectable activities, just not what I would choose to do on a daily basis.

The days in the JAG office varied widely. One moment I could be filing documents and another I could be asked to write letters for submission to Chief Wettig, Lieutenant Hickman or even Commander Barker, the base’s executive officer (second in command).

For whatever reason, Commander Barker spent a good bit of time in the JAG office. Eventually, I learned a bit about her family (she was married to a Naval Reservist – also a Commander – and had two children). Also, I learned about what a complete a total jackass the base’s commanding officer, Captain Berger was. A total chauvinist, Berger had little to no respect for Commander Barker and often left her out of meetings, instead choosing to maintain a “boy’s club” atmosphere on base with his other, male department heads. I always found Commander Barker to be an incredibly bright and very talented leader. She was also not someone that I would want to cross in any way. More on that later.

Eventually, I was taken off the duty roster for TPD. I still lived in the building, but was almost entirely assigned to headquarters. In addition to my role in the JAG office, I also at times assisted the base’s public affairs office from time to time. Lastly, I also formed a relationship with Chief Coogan, the enlisted leader of the military police force on the base as well as the two NCIS agents assigned to work in the region.

Working in the JAG office turned out to be a good gig for me. At the time, personal email was becoming an easier way to communicate with people back home rather than mortgaging my internal organs to pay for phone cards. I went to sign up for a personal email address through Hotmail and was asked to come up with a unique modifier. At the time, all I could think of was a buddy of mine from Diego Garcia going around and re-enacting Mike Myers doing “Sprockets” from Saturday Night Live and talking about, “Oh, you sassy monkey!” I laughed a bit to myself and typed “sassymonkey” into the field. That action was returned with a, “Congratulations, your new email address is: sassymonkey@hotmail.com” [Editor’s Note: I stopped using this email address a few years ago. Please don’t send to it, as it most likely now belongs to someone else with an even worse sense of humor than me.] I looked twice at the computer screen and muttered to myself, “Nice job, Scott.”

Soon enough, I was given my very own key to the headquarters building which meant I could come and go as I pleased – I often spent a good portion of my time on the weekends using the office computers and responding to emails.

Things where good. And they were about to get slightly more complicated for me. In a few different ways.

- Scott Kaminski

* - All names have been changed.

TPD Sasebo: The Damaged Goods Department

Many years ago, before teams of lawyers got involved and stopped the practice, grocery stores used to have a clearance section where they would sell for pennies on the dollar dented cans and not so perfect goods. You never knew if you were taking a chance with your 10-cents and purchasing Spam, botulism or both.

The Transient Personnel Department (TPD) on a Navy base is the human version of that section of the store. It’s a holding station for sailors who have had their orders messed up for one reason or another, those actually waiting for a ship to come in, those being sent out of the military for naughty reasons or folks like me who had come to TPD to deal with long-term medical procedures and processes.

I arrived at Sasebo’s TPD after receiving official orders to gather my belongings and depart from the USS Belleau Wood. Luckily, it’s not like I had too much stuff at the time so I simply lugged it all in two seabags to the far end of the base. Once through the door, I thrusted my orders into the face of the guy standing (well, sitting) at the watch desk and was promptly issued linens, a blanket and pillow and a room key. He gruffly told me to report back to his desk at 8 a.m. the following morning for a work assignment. The room included four beds (none occupied just then except mine) as well as a standing armoire which would be my closet and a television with cable. And remote. Fancy!  

The humans inhabiting the TPD at Sasebo Navy Base were a motley crew of drifters and interesting folks – as I was to find out that following morning. The leader of this band of merry idiots was Chief Remington. I had seen the combination of khaki uniform, big sunglasses and cigarette constantly in his mouth somewhere and couldn’t quite place it finally hit me: the guy reminded me of General Douglas MacArthur. Although his demeanor was a much more sedate combination of trippy and sarcastic than I imagine MacArthur to ever have been.

During muster that following morning, I was assigned with another group of six or so guys to move landscaping and gardening supplies from one area of the base to another. As we began loading up trucks with material to be moved, Remington arrived in what appeared to be one of the nicest golf carts I had ever seen – complete with chrome wheels and seating for up to 10 people. One of my fellow sailors shared the sentiment and sarcastically piped up, “Nice gardening cart, Chief.”

Remington looked briefly at the cart and then turned back, “Yeah, the Captain on this base used to use it parade dignitaries around the place. He had to give it away after they threatened him with another congressional investigation.” [Editor’s Note: More on that later.]

As we were getting close to lunchtime, a guy named Samuels asked if I wanted to tag along as he was heading to the base McDonald’s (a relatively new dining option in Sasebo at the time). I agreed and hopped in the passenger seat of the truck to head out with him. As I did, another sailor named Boothe asked me if I could get him a Teriyaki burger combo [Editor’s Note: This was Japan. Don’t judge. Those things were pretty good.]. He said he would pay me back. I told him that was fine and we drove off.

“If that guy offers to pay you with a check, don’t take it,” Samuels told me as we pulled away. I looked at him quizzically and he continued, “That idiot is here in TPD because he wrote $50,000 worth of hot checks through the Navy Federal Credit Union. They’re keeping him in the service until he pays that money back and then they’re going to kick him out with an Other Than Honorable discharge – best his lawyer could get him.” Stunned, I just shook my head. He smiled, “Welcome to TPD, Kaminski.”

The work details continued Monday through Friday of each week. In some instances, they would be larger projects or quicker things where we may be let out early toward the end of the day. Remington typically didn’t mind folks being unattached to work as long as it was after 2 p.m. or so and no one was getting into trouble (well, more trouble) in any way. As I was expected to be at TPD for some time, the duty people took pity on me and often tried to book new arrivals to the facility into other rooms unless it was absolutely necessary.

One of the people I met during my time at TPD was a Petty Officer named Sykes who had also previously served aboard the Belleau Wood. Sadly, he was involved in an accident while home on leave – that involved being on a roller coaster no less – that left him walking with a cane. The military was in the process of putting him out of the service with a 100% disability, but it would take time. In the interim, this good ole boy from Kentucky had taught himself to speak rather fluent Japanese. He enjoyed spending a lot of time in the bars impressing people with his newfound language skills.

Soon enough, I was scheduled to pull front desk duty for TPD. Sykes was the one who walked me through the process. It was pretty simple, really. I just had to man the front desk between 5 and 11 p.m. and then sleep in the room adjacent to the desk in case anyone got dropped off in the middle of the night.

My first night on duty a newly assigned TPD sailor comes in the door dressed in one of the most outrageous outfits I had ever seen. Sykes happened to be with me at the desk shooting the breeze before he went out on the town. Anyway, this guy had on what I could only describe as a black fishnet shirt, dressy yet black parachute-style pants, a bright electric blue blazer, black Rayban sunglasses and his polished, Navy-issue dress shoes. I took one look at the guy and said in the most exaggerated voice I could muster, “Goddamn, son! I knew MC Hammer just went bankrupt. I didn’t know that motherfucker had a yard sale!” The guy’s face turned red. He then just turned around and walked back out the door.

As much as I never wanted to, I was beginning to get used to the pace and the routine of TPD. I spent many of my non-duty nights hanging out at the Playmate bar in Sailortown. I especially enjoyed doing so when most of the ships were out to sea. That often meant I could sit wherever I wanted, play pool wherever I wanted and felt as though I had the run of the entire town of Sasebo.

Thankfully though, things were about to change for me from a work perspective. The base office of the Judge Advocate General was looking for someone to help them out in their offices. Chief Remington sent me down to meet with them and I was immediately scheduled to begin the next day for an undetermined amount of time.     

- Scott Kaminski

* - All names have been changed.

My Aching Feet

I was on my way to Okinawa, Japan to have a podiatrist examine me and my chronically pained, flat feet at the island’s U.S. Naval Hospital. The U.S. military presence on Okinawa is huge. Primarily consisting of Navy and Marine personnel and due to a variety of international incidents involving these folks, the people of Okinawa sadly seemed to detest the American presence there.

After landing at Naha International airport, I took a taxi to the base and went to pay the taxi driver in Japanese Yen. He stridently refused and instead insisted I pay him in American dollars (on account of the exchange rate at the time and the previously mentioned animosity).

I checked in with the personnel department of the hospital and was assigned to a four man room in the barracks for the duration of my stay. Two of the four beds were empty. I simply put my stuff on one of them to claim it and went back to the hospital to be assigned to a work detail of some sort until my appointment the next day.

At the hospital I would be temporarily reporting to Chief Hospital Corpsman Brady, who ran the hospital’s file room. Apparently, in between appointments with the podiatrist, I was going to be singing the A-B-C song and helping to put medical files in the right place. In truth, after doing fire watch on the USS Belleau Wood for as long as I did, this was a welcome change.

One of my counterparts in the file room was a radioman also from Sasebo who was stationed on the USS Fort McHenry named Chris Hailey. He was originally from a small town in Georgia and had a rather wicked sense of humor. We hit it off almost immediately. Even better, as I found out going back to the barracks that night, he was also one of my roommates. The other was a Marine named John Stanley who had been severely injured in a training accident and was walking with a cane.

As it was technically a Marine base we were on, the enlisted club wasn’t just a rough place—it was a downright dive. And, for some bizarre reason, they named it Smuggler’s Cove. Hailey introduced me to it me my first evening on base—in all its dingy, Quonset hut glory.     

I wasn’t really sure what I was expecting out of my appointment with the podiatrist the following morning. While my flat feet hadn’t been a problem when I joined the military, they certainly seemed to be one now. During the consult, I was officially diagnosed with plantar fasciitis, prescribed new boots with orthotic inserts and told to go back to the Belleau Wood and see if anything improved.

Soon enough I returned back to the ship—and to fire watch—and it was as if little or anything had changed in my absence. I was told to report back the medical personnel aboard the Belleau Wood in a few weeks and they would determine if I needed to go back to Okinawa again.

Orthotics or not, my feet didn’t feel any different than they did before. They still hurt. And that was definitely a problem. I flew back to Okinawa, checked back into my old room (Hailey was still there) and back to the file room I went.

My next appointment with the podiatrist was a little more sobering than the previous visit. Especially considering this is the one where he basically told me it was his recommendation that I be medically discharged from the military. He was very honest and upfront with me, which I appreciated greatly. He laid out the next steps in the process, which included my going before a medical review board to determine the how and when I would be leaving the Navy. He also told me that the pain I felt then, at that time, was very likely going to be a permanent thing from now on in my life. At the time, I was a few days short of my 21^st birthday.

I would most likely be in Okinawa for a while as my medical files and other paperwork were gathered to go before the board in San Diego. I celebrated my 21^st birthday at Smuggler’s Cove with my friend Chris Hailey who dared me drink to 21 Crown (Royal) and Cokes in honor of the occasion (I only made it 15 before giving up).

It felt odd to celebrate what, in America, was an alcoholic right of passage. Given my selection of duty stations (Diego Garcia; no legal drinking age and Japan; legal drinking age of 20), I had already been able to drink alcohol legally for years. That’s not to say I was some sort of raging alcoholic—actually, quite far from it. In any event, we had a good time. Hailey regaled me with stories from his time living in Georgia and practical jokes he had pulled on unsuspecting sailors and marines during his time aboard the Fort McHenry and in Okinawa.

I stayed in Okinawa roughly a month, working in the file room until my case packet was finalized and sent to San Diego to set up a hearing. My next steps now were to heed a new set of orders which transferred me from the USS Belleau Wood to the base in Sasebo. Specifically, I was transferred to the base’s Transient Personnel Department or TPD. Given that my previous experience with TPDs went so swimmingly, I could only imagine what I was in for now.

I flew back to Sasebo in April 1997, collected my belongings from the USS Belleau Wood, said my goodbyes to the folks there and checked in at the Transient Personnel Department to await further instructions.  

- Scott Kaminski

* - All names have been changed.

Death by Fire Watch

Let’s be honest. For the most part, ships in port can be kind of boring. It’s much more fun for them to be out at sea, taking on the waves and traveling to far and distant lands. Then again, even while moored to the pier, the USS Belleau Wood was a pretty busy place in the fall of 1996.

While there’s the normal chipping and grinding of paint that regularly happens aboard a US Navy ship (needle guns are fun!) this was different. Soon enough, word came down that the Belleau Wood would be going through an extended repair period. Had she been ported in the US, the ship would have been pulled into a shipyard and infested 24/7 with a myriad of talented tradesmen to bring her back to tip-top shape. The fact she was located in Japan complicated things a bit.

The first thing needed to be done was to offload the ship’s store of ammunition, no matter the size. This meant that all rounds (with the exception of small rounds maintained by the Masters-at-Arms) had to be taken off the ship and safely placed in the Sasebo base armory.

I was quickly assigned to one of the crews lugging very large rounds of ammo for various sizes of armament down steps and to the ship’s hangar bays where they were inventoried and transported off the ship. I can tell you from experience that, if you’re not used to it, your hands get mighty slippery carrying 50 lbs. things that are prone to explode—especially down steep staircases. A very nice ensign was kind of enough to give me some solid advice one day while I had one of these explosive devices n hand, “Don’t drop that,” she said. I stopped, looked at her and sarcastically replied, “Thanks for the advice, ma’am.”

It was about this time that I was given a different duty assignment. While out at sea, I would generally be assigned a duty such as running the television station for the ship or something communications-related. This task was a bit more militaristic, but this technically being the military and all, that was okay. I reported for duty the following evening to begin training as a member of the ship’s security force.

The non-commissioned officer (a Chief Gunner’s Mate) leading the training took one look at me and asked my rate. When I responded I was a journalist, he nearly spit out his coffee in disgust.

Throughout my time on the ship’s security force I was taught (or in some instances I relearned) proper handling of a semiautomatic handgun as well as a pump action shotgun. We were also schooled in additional fun activities such as conducting bomb sweeps and riot control techniques.

Whenever on duty, we always had to listen for announcements over the 1MC system as some were technically code words for us to muster at specific locations throughout the ship and—in typical military fashion—our response times were graded and then we were drilled.

Admittedly, it did feel at times as though I was in a movie or something—especially running around a ship with a loaded .45 caliber pistol or a pump action shotgun.

During this time I got to witness what was, without a doubt, one of the most blatant and idiotic wastes of government money I had ever personally witnessed. A message came down that the one-star admiral in charge of our amphibious ready group (ARG) had scheduled his change of command ceremony for an upcoming Friday two weeks out and demanded it be help on the Belleau Wood. To make matters even worse, the then Chief of Naval Operations was due to visit the Belleau Wood that Saturday to meet with sailors, do a question and answer session, etc.

At this point, the crew of the Belleau Wood had been chipping and grinding paint from its hull and other areas of the ship for at least three months. Once these messages came down, that work immediately ceased. Instead, pretty much the entire ship received one solitary, fresh coat of paint. It was the size of a WWII aircraft carrier and they painted the whole goddamned thing. We hosted both events (which went wonderfully, I might add) and then immediately started removing that brand new paint again so the repairs could proceed and be kept on schedule!

As the Belleau Wood progressed toward its full-on repair period, I had a feeling that things would be changing but had no idea how much. Soon enough: the ship was moved onto a floating dry dock (in fact, at the time, it was the biggest one in the world), enlisted sailors who regularly bunked aboard the ship were transitioned to another ship brought in as a floating hotel and I was taken off of the ship’s security force and given a much uglier duty: fire watch.

As one of the younger, newer members my department, it made sense to send me. And I didn’t like it one bit. The hours were downright horrendous. Welders were being flown in from Bremerton, WA and working around the clock. I was assigned to work 12-hour shifts, six days a week (Monday through Saturday) from 7 p.m. until 7 a.m.  

Fire watch is exactly what it sounds like. During my shifts, I would accompany welders to the far reaches of the ship while wearing boots, flame retardant coveralls and a flame resistant hood with a fire extinguisher. And then I would watch them weld. My job was to hit any flare up with the fire extinguisher.

The crew assigned to work with me at fire watch was, for lack of a better term, the Belleau Wood’s team of misfit toys. It was as if each department on the ship sent every undesirable person they had to one place. Then again, after thinking about it like that, I guess I should have looked in a mirror. And we all reported to a chief petty officer who no one could stand—Chief Robertson, an aviation boatswain’s mate.

Robertson was the kind of guy who you imagined had been hit in the head repeatedly throughout his career and it had taken its toll. He had a seemingly violent temper and would fly off the handle at people for simple things, yelling such gems as, “Don’t test me, sailor! I have a mind like steel trap! I remember it all. Nothing gets in or out!”

While I wouldn’t call it a benefit, I will admit that I did get to see some really unique and interesting parts of the ship. For instance, I had one day where I actually stood beneath the ship while it was on the floating dry dock. That was a little surreal. That said, it’s still no fun to crawl through some random, cold steel opening and then wedge yourself into a terribly uncomfortably position for hours on end so you can wait for someone to yell, “Fire!” and then spring into action.

Throughout my entire time on fire watch I never put out one fire. The duty itself was mind numbingly tedious. Also, if the welders were busy enough you could find yourself standing for upwards of at least 10 hours of your 12 hour shift—sometimes more, if needed.

It was around this time where I began to have a tremendous amount of pain in my feet. Being genetically gifted with two flat feet, apparently all the time pounding the steel decks had begun to take its toll and had become a legitimate, chronic pain. The medical staff on the Belleau Wood thought it was so bad that they recommended I be sent to the naval hospital in Okinawa for evaluation by their podiatrist and a few other medical professionals. Within a week, I had both orders temporarily assigning me to work at the hospital and a plane ticket in hand.

- Scott Kaminski

* - All names have been changed.

Sasebo Beginnings

The USS Belleau Wood arrived in Sasebo, Japan shortly after leaving White Beach in Okinawa, Japan where we offloaded approximately 2,000 U.S. Marines and all of their gear. All of us had just completed a port visit to the city of Vladivostok, Russia.

Having recently come aboard the ship, I was looking forward to seeing what life in Sasebo (and just Japan in general) was like. Oddly, or so I thought for a forward-deployed vessel in the U.S. Navy, the ship had no future trips or port visits scheduled in the near future. 

The first chance I had, I ventured onto the base to see what it was like. (Not knowing any of the Japanese language, I had to psych myself up to eventually leave the gates.) The base, known as officially as Commander, Fleet Activities Sasebo was not very large. In addition to the USS Belleau Wood, it was home port to a few smaller U.S. Navy amphibious craft including the USS Dubuque, USS Germantown, USS Fort McHenry and minesweepers USS Patriot and USS Guardian. Additionally, the port was home to a number of Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Force craft (the equivalent of the Japanese Navy).

Hemmed in by the port city of Sasebo, most sailors stationed there with families lived approximately 40 minutes away at another facility called Hario—while some chose to live in Sasebo itself or out in the “cho” or neighborhood.

When I did finally work up the courage to step foot outside the base, I went out the gates and cut through a series of U.S. owned athletic fields and Albuquerque Park, over Albuquerque Bridge to reach the Ginza. (Sasebo is the sister city to Albuquerque, New Mexico… as I learned by reading a nearby plaque. I too wondered why the heck the park and bridge were named that too.)

The Ginza is a mile-long open air (yet covered) shopping arcade. It consists of everything from ramen shops and other restaurants to department stores and Pachinko parlors (a game which I still have absolutely zero understanding of that is very popular in Japan). At one end of the Ginza is an area known as “Sailor Town,” which is packed with a variety of bars catering to U.S. military personnel. At the other end is “Sake Town,” bars which often cater to Japanese businessmen and will not often allow foreigners inside unless accompanied by a Japanese citizen.

I vividly remember stepping foot into Sasebo itself (and not a piece of U.S. owned property) and feeling as though I was the first man setting foot on the moon. While up to that point, I had flown through foreign countries (mostly spending time in airports) and lived on Diego Garcia, this was the first time I had ever actually been in what I considered a truly “foreign” place.    

I made my way past a few of the bars and entered the Ginza. And I just walked. I was delighted to see Japanese versions of stores I was familiar with like a toy store that appeared to be the Japanese version of the American shopping mall staple Kay Bee Toys as well as the Japanese version of the 7-11 convenience store. That first night, I just took it all in and then returned to the ship a few hours later.

A few days later, I was assigned to work on Shore Patrol in town. I got dressed in my working whites or “Good Humor Ice Cream Man” uniform (as it was more affectionately known) and met all of the other folks who were on duty on the docks at the predetermined time. We were each given black armbands with a yellow “SP” written on it and loaded into a van to be deposited into Sailor Town for the night. Or at least until about 2:30 a.m.

While it was an uneventful night, I began to see the lay of the land with regards to Sailor Town, where sailors could go as well as the areas of town they should stay away from.

The following weekend I decided to went back to the Ginza—especially considering it was one of the few things you could do in Sasebo. I spent most of the day venturing in and out of stores and even began to extend my travels to smaller stores located in alleys off the strip. I returned to the ship that afternoon intent on finally checking out some of the Sailortown bars that evening.

My first stop was a place that had intrigued me during my stint on Shore Patrol called Polar Bar. I walked in and, almost immediately, realized that it was not what I was looking for. Or it could have been the sailor who was drunkenly crooning karaoke tunes while sitting at the bar. Either way, this was not going to be a place I hung out now or possibly ever.

In my mind, I went over the places I had seen or heard about. I decided to head back toward the Ginza. Two places stuck out in my memory and they just happened to be on top of one another—Gramophone was a first floor bar and its upstairs counterpart Playmate.

I went into Gramophone first. I could see it was obviously a pretty popular place, it was dark and crowded. And I really didn’t see myself even ordering a beer here so instead I wandered upstairs to Playmate.

I’m not sure exactly what I was looking for in a place to grab a drink, but I did know that this was closer to where my mind was at. Quieter than my previous two stops that night, Playmate was simply a long, rounded bar and an additional room with two pool tables. It was easy going and unpretentious. Pinned to the wall above the bar was a collection of military hats from various ships that had visited including one which was most likely found in the Philippines that said, “Fighter by day. Lover by night. Alcoholic by choice. Sailor by mistake.”

I sat at the bar and was immediately greeted by a strikingly attractive Japanese girl named Aiko who asked me what I would like. I ordered an Asahi beer and began to strike up a conversation with Aiko. Her English was excellent. We talked a bit about where I was from, what ship I was on and my job. After a half hour or so, I noticed another girl working at the bar named Harumi who just happened to be Aiko’s younger sister. Harumi asked if I played pool.

“Not well,” I said.    

“Perfect. Buy me a shot and let’s play,” Harumi said.

I agreed and we walked back to the pool tables. I put in some Japanese Yen coins and she racked up the balls as I searched for a pool cue that didn’t appear to have been run through a wood chipper.

As this was her turf, Harumi let me break. And I did a deplorable job at it, not sinking one ball. Within minutes, she had run the table and was about to make an eight ball shot. Never having been very good at shooting pool, I wasn’t expecting much. Harumi mercilessly beat me at pool three more times that evening.

I went back to the ship that night happy that I had found a place where I could both relax and enjoy the company. I had much more to explore in Japan. And this was merely a simple, hopeful start.

- Scott Kaminski

* - All names have been changed.

The Potato Problem

I have the utmost respect for people in the service industries – specifically restaurant servers and wait staff. In many instances, these folks have a tendency to see people at their worst. Whether it’s those who are angry because the food took four extra minutes to come out of the kitchen or folks who found a spot on their fork, they have chosen to come to your establishment, were seated in your area and you are reliant on them for your very livelihood.

 

I’m not rich by any means, but I do like to be as generous as my budget will allow for good service. Even if the service is substandard or poor, I refuse to give a truly horrible tip. Being a waiter or waitress is not an easy job. So I try to be kind.

 

And then there are those who refuse to be kind. Those customers who, regardless of how much you smile and treat them right, always seem to find something wrong with what you are doing or how you are doing it.

 

During my time at studying journalism at Temple University, I became friends with a girl named Audrey. She too was studying journalism and hoped to land a job as a print journalist after graduation. In order to put herself through school she had worked a long series of waitressing jobs. 

 

A then annual tradition for Audrey and her father was to take a weekend trip and drive from the Philadelphia suburbs where they lived to New York City to have dinner at very nice restaurant followed by a Mets game at Shea Stadium.

 

Audrey’s father, a lawyer, was a meticulous man. And, even Audrey admitted, he could be kind of a bastard when things were not up to his standards. He would complain about dirty silverware and generally embarrass Audrey whenever he felt the situation warranted a change in forks, tables or the ever-frightening “talk with the manager.”

 

On this particular trip to NYC, the restaurant they had chosen to visit was extremely busy. Even beyond what was normal traffic for a late Saturday afternoon/early evening. Thankfully, they had reservations and were guided to a table and greeted moments later by their server, Angela. 

 

Angela politely took their drink order and rushed off to aid other customers as Audrey and her father perused their menus in search of the evening’s meal.

 

Upon her return, Audrey ordered first and then her father. Being as specific as he could in placing his order, Audrey’s father ordered crinkle cut fries with his entree. Angela gathered their menus and ran off once again to get their order in.

 

In the time it took for the kitchen to prepare food for the table, even more customers streamed through the door and were seated, thus extending the time the servers had between tables to serve their customers. 

 

Soon a runner came by and dropped off plates which were completely covered in food. Audrey’s father took one look at his plate and furrowed his brow. 

 

“What’s wrong?” Audrey asked.

 

“I need to talk to our server and get this corrected,” he said, still refusing to tell Audrey what the issue was.

 

Their server Angela was now running from table to table in an attempt to keep up with the rush of customers. In fact when she came to the table to check-in and ask the standard, “Is everything okay here?” she was carrying a full tray of cold drinks intended for a table elsewhere. 

 

“Is everything okay here?” Angela asked of Audrey and Audrey’s father. 

 

“I specifically asked for crinkle cut fries with my order,” Audrey’s father said. On his plate were waffle cut fries, little grids which he, for some odd reason, simply detested.

 

Just then, a fellow server slowed as she passed Angela and whispered something to her about another table in her area which was in need of something.

 

Angela straightened herself up and spoke in a clear, yet precise New York accent, “Look. I don’t have time to deal with your fucking potato problem.”

 

Audrey’s father looked from Angela to his plate and simply said, “Well, then you’re not going to get a tip.” 

 

At this Angela sighed heavily, threw out her hip and glared at him.

 

“Don’t worry about your tip and please don’t worry about my Dad’s fries. I’m a server too and I will tip you myself if necessary,” Audrey said, breaking up the confrontation. “Just go,” she said, shooing Angela away from the table.

 

Audrey looked at her father. “Eat your fries, Dad. We don’t want to be late for the game."

 

A few minutes later they settled the bill (Audrey’s father did indeed tip Angela) and they hurried off to see their beloved Mets play under the lights at Shea. And Angela presumably kept hustling through the end of her shift with nary crinkle cut fry in sight. 

 

- Scott Kaminski

 

* - All names have been changed.

From Russia With...

I arrived on the USS Belleau Wood in August 1996 (after chasing her down a bit) while the ship was taking on equipment and personnel for a future exercise in Vladivostok, Russia. I originally would have been kept at the ship’s home port in Sasebo, Japan, but given the importance of the trip and my role as a staff journalist, I was told my services would be needed for this particular excursion.

Arriving on the quarterdeck of the ship with my gear, I introduced myself to the petty officer of the watch and handed him my orders. As I did, a crew member in civilian clothes stopped and listened. And then extended his hand and introduced himself.

“I’m Senior Chief Mike Mattigan. You’ll be reporting to me while you’re here. I’m headed off the ship for a few hours, but will be back to talk with you further tonight. The petty officer of the deck here will get Petty Officer Thomas down here to meet you and get you set up. Talk soon.” And with that, he bounded into the bustling crowds and off the ship.

Looking around while I waited, the interior of the ship’s hangar was more massive than I could have ever imagined. Roughly the size of a World War II aircraft carrier, the Belleau Wood was essentially designed to start and end a war (possibly almost entirely on its own). In addition to her complement of just over 900 Sailors, she was to be the temporary home for approximately 2,000 Marines and all of their gear for the trip. And believe me, the Marines have some fun gear.

On the flight deck was everything from single and duel prop helicopters to Harrier jump jets. You know, those jets that can takeoff and land vertically? As a true amphibious ship, the Belleau Wood was designed to open its aft area and intentionally sink further into the water to allow a variety of landing craft, LARCs (the military version of the tourist friendly Duck Boat) and hovercraft to exit and enter. Also during wartime, the onboard medical clinic could triage to up to 500 beds.

Petty Officer Thomas bounded out of what seemed like a labyrinth of hallways and entrances to collect me. He quickly shook my hand, introduced himself and we were off. Thankfully he also took one of my sea bags. I didn’t exactly pack lightly for the trip.

Our first stop was the compartment where I would be sleeping for the duration of my time on the boat. For some unearthly reason, journalists on the ship (there were only two, myself and Thomas) were placed in the ship’s Combat Systems department. This meant that instead of being roomed with easy going admin types we were instead amongst some of the rough and tumble of the Navy. People who handled guns and bombs for a living. It made for interesting bedfellows. So much so that my first night on the ship a drunken Aviation Ordnanceman threw a chair at me for no particular reason.

Thomas showed me to my bunk and locker. He assured me there would be additional storage near the ship’s TV studio as there was no way everything I brought with me was going to fit. I stowed what I could and followed him like a lost puppy up countless flights of stairs, over knee knockers and to the studio and broadcast station.

Once there, I met Petty Officer First Class Curt Hunter (an interior communications specialist – essentially someone who specialized in repairing shipboard telephone systems and broadcast television equipment) who was to be my LPO or Leading Petty Officer during my tour. Hunter seemed to be a nice enough guy. He explained that as we technically reported to him, he had no earthly idea what we should actually be doing on a day-to-day basis as the majority of orders would actually be coming from Lieutenant Junior Grade Aiko Saito, the ship’s public affairs officer.

During my first night I was permitted to use one of the ship’s phone lines to check in and call home. Due to the time difference and the fact that I was calling the U.S. East Coast, it was often easier for me to dial my father who ran a small business selling commercial cleaning and paper products. The phone line had a buzzy echo to it as it rang in my father’s warehouse office on the other side of the world.

“Robin’s Supply, how may I help you?” my dad answered.

“Dad, it’s Scott.” I choked out, just happy to hear his voice.

“Son! How are you?” he returned, with genuine interest.

“Well, I’m on the ship. Kind of hard to tell how much I’ll like it or not. For right now, let’s just say it doesn’t suck as much as I thought it would.” (I had psyched myself into a sort of frenzy about how bad life aboard a ship would actually be. This actually may have helped me since I was expecting the absolute worst of everything and was pleasantly surprised when all of my internal doomsday messages failed to materialize in reality.)

“Glad to hear it, boy. Your mother will be happy to know you’re doing okay.”

“I shouldn’t stay on here too long. It’s the ship’s phone. I’ll call you when we get back from our trip here,” I said, wanting to keep talking with my father but also knowing my fellow shipmates could hear every bit of my conversation as they were not 20 feet from me.

“Take care of yourself, son.”

“Thanks, Dad.” And with that, I hung up. It was a long day and I was pretty tired. Although I admittedly had no earthly idea how to make it back to compartment so I could go to sleep that night. Sensing my confusion, another IC-man, Petty Officer Holm piped up, “Are you heading back to the compartment to get some sleep? Follow me, I’ll show you the way back down.” I bid everyone farewell for the evening and followed him down many more stairways and hallways than I was prepared to count.

Sleeping that first night aboard the Belleau Wood was quite the adventure for me. In addition to the chair I had drunkenly thrown at me (see above), getting used to the cramped sleeping quarters was going to take some adjustment. My bunk, the lowest to the floor in a column of three, was probably as quaint and as comfortable as the Navy had to offer for us enlisted folks. In addition to my mattress, sheets and blanket I even had a set of curtains which slid back forth on a string.

After getting changed, I set an alarm and fell asleep. At about 2 a.m. or so, a problem arose when I went to roll to the left in my sleep. Not being used to sleeping in such proximity to the wall, my elbow hit it. Hard. I instinctively wailed, “Ouch!!!” Without letting me breathe another syllable, one of my fellow sailors yelled in my direction as loud as they could, “Shut the fuck up and go back to sleep!” I rolled back over, muttering to myself, “I hit my arm. My arm hurts…” my words trailing off as if spoken to no one but myself.

The next morning I got up early to get a shower and ensure I was cleaned up and ready for roll call and the day ahead. Gathering my toiletries, I headed for the shower stalls. After brushing my teeth and shaving, I entered one of the stalls. I was greeted with a sign I hadn’t seen since boot camp instructing me on how to take a 2-minute “Navy Shower.” Additionally, the shower head looked like an old fashioned radio microphone attached to a hose. It even had a button the side as not to waste water.   

After my shower I got dressed and quickly stalked someone who looked like they might be heading to the galley for breakfast and then roll call who I could introduce myself to and tag along with. My victim this morning was Electronics Technician Juan Garciavaca. We made polite conversation through breakfast and then directly following roll call Petty Officer Thompson grabbed me.

“Today, I have to teach you about the ship. You’ll be giving tours in a day or two,” he said. I looked at him incredulously.

“You’re freaking kidding me, right?” I asked quizzically.

“Hell no, I’m not kidding. Don’t worry about it. I’ve been here for two years and I still make this stuff up. Last year, I was giving a tour and I misidentified one of our helicopters as a CH-56 Sea Knight [it was actually a CH-46] and a 10 year old kid corrected me. A 10 year old! I just told him the CH-56 was farther on down the flight line and kept moving,” he said.

“Ummmm… okay.”

I did actually spend a great deal of time that day (and other days after that) studying the various capabilities and pertinent details about the Belleau Wood. For instance, the USS Belleau Wood derived its name from the WWI Battle of Belleau Wood in France. It was there that the U.S. Marines famously gained the nickname “Devil Dogs” after German soldiers remarked that the Marines fought with such ferocity that they were likened to “dogs from hell.”

The next morning, the Belleau Wood pulled up anchor and set sail for Vladivostok, Russia. I knew that we set sail because, as luck would have it, the compartment I slept in was directly beneath the forecastle (pronounced “fo’c’sle”) which is a fancy, Navy way of saying “place where they store the big, metal, clinking anchor chain.”

Either way, we were on our way. I was still trying to get used to walking around while the ship was in water, much less actually moving under its own power. I had a blast hanging out on the gangways while the ship was moving as well as being on the flight deck.

As the ship began to get closer to Russia, a flurry of rules, regulations, advice and information about our port visit began to be distributed to the crew. First, the ship would not be docking. Instead, we would anchor out in the bay and take landing craft back and forth between the ship and shore. Second, per the Russian consulate, all sailors on leave (regardless of rank) were required to travel in groups of four. Third, if you were heading ashore in a working capacity, you could travel on your own.

We had variety of additional personnel on board for the trip including a contingent of U.S. military Russian translators. Prior to making it to shore, I struck up a quick friendship with Marine Staff Sergeant Elsa Valarao, a 5’ 1” graduate of the Defense Language Institute.

On my first day traveling to Vladivostok, I was scheduled to work with Valarao in meeting and escorting various members of the Russian media back to the ship so they could take a tour. Instead of us taking regular landing craft, we instead took two LARCs (Lighter, Amphibious Resupply Cargo)… which are essentially trucks that can be driven into the water, propelled like boats and then driven back on land again as trucks.

We made it to Vladivostok just fine (about a 30 minute trip from the ship to land) and met our media folks at the dock. Even without Valarao’s translation, I could tell they were looking forward to riding the LARCs and seeing the Belleau Wood. We got everyone loaded up and were on our way. About 15 minutes into the return journey, the trailing LARC… the one I was on, began taking on water. Fast.

Our coxswain radioed the other to stop so we could pull aside them and quickly assess the situation. As the two LARCs were beside one another, we could see the situation was not good at all. Valarao was doing the best she could to keep the Russian speaking journalists entertained but was running out of things to say.

And then the decision was made: the second LARC wasn’t going to make it back. Directions were given (in both English and Russian) to abandon the sinking LARC in an orderly fashion for the other which was still seaworthy. About 10 Russians climbed aboard an already full LARC. I followed behind Valarao who was herding the journalists ahead of her. Our coxswain was the last to step on board as the damaged LARC sank beneath the rippling water just moments later.

We simply proceeded back to the Belleau Wood like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Pulling onto the rear of the ship which had been ballasted into the water to allow for amphibious craft to go back and forth, the officer of the deck on watch was the first to notice.

“Permission to come aboard?” boomed the coxswain.

“Ummmm… weren’t there two of these that left about an hour ago? Where’s the second LARC, Jenkins?” He asked pointedly to the senior man on board.

Without saying a word, Jenkins simply pointed out the back of the boat to the open water.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” the OOD said.

“I wish I were, sir,” said Jenkins.

“Do you realize how much paperwork this is going to be?” the OOD lamented.

“Well, we left the Russians a souvenir,” Jenkins joked.

“Get down here right now. We’ve got to figure this out. The rest of you are welcomed aboard.”

After the clearly rocky start, the tour went well. I ended up having to go back to Vladivostok on my own later that day (this time in a landing craft) with a photographer to write an article about a wreath laying ceremony occurring at a WWII Russian sub located in town. Sadly though, since I was working I didn’t get a chance to explore the town much. I wouldn’t be able to do that until day three of the port visit about 48 hours later.

The next morning, I woke up early and headed to the television studio where I was scheduled to stand duty (yes, I know it’s a tough life being a journalist). After setting up some tapes that needed editing, there was a knock at the door. It was Petty Officer Thomas. Looking at him, he had obviously had a very, very rough night.

He took one look at me and began to feel his empty left chest pocket. “I need. Ummm. I need. Ummm. I need. Ummm…” his sentence trailed off.

Anticipating his hung-over request, I piped up.

“Aspirin?! I’ll grab the first aid kit.” As I jumped to the other side of the room to fetch him some aspirin and water. He sat down at the table in the studio and kind of stared off in the distance a little. Kind of like he was attempting to will his hangover to cure. And then suddenly, he spoke up.

“Where’s Holm at?” Thomas asked. (IC3 Holm was a fellow sailor who worked in the studio repairing video and phone equipment on the ship.)

“I haven’t seen him,” I said as I shrugged my shoulders.

“He’s got to be around here somewhere. I checked his rack this morning and he didn’t make it back there,” Thomas said.

“I haven’t seen him. How bad of a night did you guys have?” I asked.

Thomas ignored my question and immediately began looking around the studio, behind editing equipment until he was satisfied that Holm wasn’t in the space. And then it hit him.

“Come with me!” I jumped up and followed behind him. We went out into the hall and just past the studio to a janitorial closet. Thomas swung open the unlocked door. There we found Holm, slumped over the janitor’s sink, asleep. The small closet smelled heavily of vodka.

Thomas nudged Holm awake. We both picked him up by a shoulder and brought him into the studio. And now, I was curious.

“What in the hell happened to you two last night?” I asked.

Holm, still groggy, looked at Thomas and said, “You should really ask this guy?”

“What the heck does that mean?” Thomas asked.

“You know what I mean. It took all three of us to carry you,” Holm said.

Apparently Holm and Thomas went out with two others as a group of four to explore Vladivostok. The alcohol started flowing and they eventually decided to return to the ship. The problem was that Petty Officer Thomas was so drunk that he couldn’t actually put one foot in front of the other and walk. So the other three decided to carry him through the city and back to the dock. Although, Thomas, even though he couldn’t walk, was so drunk that if he thought he heard music, he could dance.

While his group of fellow sailors was trying to walk back to the pier holding him, he was laying horizontally in their arms, screaming the Bee Gees “Dance Fever” at the top of his lungs, attempting to disco dance.

In between laughing and just shaking my head at them, I caught a glance at the clock. We needed to hustle if we were going to be on time for role call.

Once we arrived in the compartment to check-in, we were informed of someone who was having an even rougher night than Holm and Thompson.

Chief Singer, a tall electronics technician with the build of a linebacker, spoke up. He was accompanied by my translator friend, Staff Sergeant Valarao and we could tell by the tone of his voice that he was not happy.

“Before we pulled into port, we gave all of you explicit instructions not to get into drinking contests with the locals. You may notice that GM2 Wilkinson is not with us this morning. He has yet to stand before the Captain, but he’ll most likely be restricted to the ship for quite some time after he lost a drinking contest with a Russian national and attempted to bite the gentleman in the arm,” Singer said.

With that last bit, the look of everyone in the room went from curiosity to stunned amazement.

Singer continued, “Thankfully for us, Staff Sergeant Valarao just happened to be present and diffused the situation after promptly beating the shit out of Wilkinson and handing him over to the Shore Patrol before he caused an international incident.”

“Those of you who still plan to make it ashore during this port visit: do not mess this up. I can promise that if you do, the Captain will make an example of you just like I’m sure he will do to Petty Officer Wilkinson,” Singer said. 

After roll call, I pulled Valarao aside and asked her what happened. She recounted the whole story and told me that Wilkinson, a good ole boy from Alabama who was about a foot taller and 100 lbs. heavier than her, did not take kindly to being beaten at drinking.

Apparently after losing his vodka drinking contest, he went to bite the Russian in the arm. Valarao happened to be in the same restaurant with her group of four and immediately jumped into the fray, pulling him off the guy. Flailing, Wilkinson kicked Valarao in the chest.

With that, the marine beat the hell out of him and then handed him over to the rest of her party of four so he could be escorted to the shore patrol. From there, she calmed down the Russian gentleman in his native tongue, assuring that he would not press changes against the sailor, but still taking down his contact information should it be needed for future inquiries.

The rest of my day consisted of putting the final touches on an article I was writing as part of the visit. The next day, our last in Vladivostok, I would finally be able to make it into town and see what Russia was like while not in a working capacity.

Being new to the ship, there were very few people who I knew well enough to make up a gang of four. Thankfully, there was a group of people amassed in the hangar simply waiting for a third or fourth to join them so they could venture into town. It was the pick-up basketball version of military tourism.

I joined a group consisting of Petty Officer First Class Juan Ramos, Petty Officer Third Class Mike Steveland and Airman Joe Young. We boarded the landing craft bound for the city and got to know each other along the ride.

Our first stop was to get some currency exchanged, as American dollars were not exactly very useful in Russia. As I soon found, the exchange rate at the time was, in a word, insane. Not knowing how best to proceed, I handed the teller $100 American dollars. The exchange rate at the time, was roughly 5,300 rubles to one American dollar. They handed me a stack of Russian currency that could have cushioned my fall from a 10-story building (or so it felt). I folded and stashed the bills in every pocket I could find.

As a group, we walked and talked a bit about what we should do next, but truthfully none of us had a plan or idea as to what we should do. Ramos, a really likable guy, had a better idea.

“Excuse me. Do you speak English?” he asked of a college aged Russian girl who just happened to be walking by. She stopped and turned back at the question. “Yes. Why?” she responded.

Ramos introduced himself and explained that we obviously did not know the area (and stuck out like sore thumbs in white U.S. sailor uniforms) and wondered if she could recommend any special sights that we should see.

“I have a better idea. I’m free today. How about I just show you?” she said. With that, we all introduced ourselves and set out to explore Vladivostok. Annika (that was her name) first recommended we check out some of the shopping areas downtown. I was thankful to be able to find some interesting souvenirs and lighten my load of rubles.

We had lunch at a decent restaurant – not too nice, but not too formal either, and were on our way. We all decided to chip in to pay for Annika’s meal, as she was kind enough to be our guide. From there, we went by some statues (everything from Charlie Chaplin to Lenin) and also checked out a local outdoor aquarium.

Throughout the day, we talked and learned that Annika was a college student studying political science. Toward the end of our day together, she suggested we take a cable car to see Vladivostok from above. The view was amazing. We were able to see the USS Belleau Wood moored in the bay with the two other Russian ships directly behind. 

At the top of the hill, a makeshift market had been set up by some industrious Russian nationals looking to sell their wares. I found a gentleman who was selling a variety of Russian military items and selected a military officer’s shoulder board adorned with all sorts of Russian military and propaganda pins as well as a traditional Russian Navy winter uniform hat (complete with pin and earflaps). Annika was kind enough to help me negotiate what she felt was a fair price and I happily paid the man.

As we were wrapping up our day, Annika kindly guided us to the port so we could pick up a landing craft back to the ship. Each of us thanked her profusely and offered to pay her in some way for the amazing tour guide services she had provided. She refused, and simply stated that she enjoyed our time together (as well as the chance to practice her English) and hoped we would come back some day. We all each gave her a hug and boarded the landing craft to head back.

When I awoke the next morning, the Belleau Wood was already underway and heading back to Sasebo, Japan. Apparently, even though they had pulled up the anchor around 4 a.m., I was tired enough from the trip that I slept right through it. And I didn’t even try the vodka.

- Scott Kaminski

* - All names have been changed.