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.