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.