Hiatus in Japan then On to Korea

C H A P T E R VII
(1971-1973)


The flight that was supposed to take me back to the states made a refueling stop in Hawaii. Since I had an ITT to Korea, I made a change to another flight going that way. I'd formed some close contacts with some of the men in my unit, but our good-byes weren't maudlin. I think the adrenaline levels were pretty high, just knowing that we were leaving Vietnam and going home.

My new flight to Korea stopped off in Tokyo, Japan for refueling. Since I'd not spent any time in Japan before, and nobody in Korea was expecting me, I decided to take a little hiatus here before continuing on. I checked my bags into the airport locker and checked with the Air Force liaison officer to see when the next flight was leaving for Korea. He said they had two flights leaving every day for Korea, but I had to get my name on a stand-by list to fly space available. If no one else with a higher priority then me came along, they would seat me. I had to be physically present in the lounge when they announced the flight. I said okay, turned and left the terminal to see what there was to see in Japan.

Naturally, I had to lubricate the pipes a bit before I could enjoy what I was seeing, so I made several stops at local bars.
Along about 9 p.m., I stumbled into this one bar full of men, most of whom were not Japanese. There weren't any women present, and a guard at the door said it was a men only night. I soon began to see why the women had been excluded.

The tables in the club had been lined up in a "T" shaped formation, and the men customers were seated with their drinks on either side of the tables. Soon, the lights were dimmed, and a nubile young lady came dancing out along the tables, accompanied by appropriate bump-and-grind music provided by a band. She was dressed rather skimpily in a diaphanous dress, long, over-the-elbow gloves, decorous hose, and spiked heels. She promptly began to remove these items one-by-one, and in a seductively, sensuous manner. I thought, “great, a strip tease!” I'd seen them before and always enjoyed the spark they gave to my libido.

I was unprepared for the extremes this young lady went though, and several of the young ladies that followed. All the apparel was removed before the dance ended, and not only that, but they flaunted their bodies, and encouraged the men sitting along the tables to fondle and kiss or lick them in the most intimate places. Now I knew why women had been excluded from this little shindig! It was a wonder that those girls weren't raped right there on the tables. Under those circumstances, it wouldn't have surprised me to see a riot break out. Fortunately, that didn't happen.

I'd been sitting at the bar, drinking a rum and coke while watching this floor show. I struck up a conversation with another American who seemed real friendly. I didn't know it at the time, but this guy may have been a pimp, for he introduced me to this nice, but slightly plump Japanese woman who was several years older than I, perhaps in her late thirties or early forties. I ended up going home with her, and staying with her for the next three nights and two days.

It was my first experience with Japanese baths! In Japan, you take a bath before you take a bath; that is, you must be clean before entering the traditional tub that has the scalding water; at least the water seemed hot enough to scald. Short of doing that, what it did was to open all your pours and really relax you.

That first night, I couldn't stay in the tub too long, but it accomplished its purpose. Besides sobering me up a little bit, it made my body exquisitely sensitive to the little nuances of the foreplay that followed, and immediately preceded our lovemaking. The only thing disquieting about this experience was that she had a little white poodle that obviously was used to sharing her bed when she slept alone; he was not too pleased by my usurping his place.

I stayed with this lady for the rest of my stay in Japan. She was very companionable, spoke decent English, and was willing to drive me around from place to place in Tokyo. Every day, we'd go to the airport to see if I could make a flight. All the seats were going to persons that had a higher priority than I did, but I wasn't in a hurry anyway. Finally, on the third day, a space was made for me. I collected my bags and said my farewells to the gracious lady that had taken care of me for the past few days. I shall always remember her, for she was generous with her time and body, and she really tried to make me very comfortable in her country. If that guy that introduced me to her was her pimp, he sure didn't get much money from her for the services she performed for me.

When my plane landed at Kimpo, Korea, I caught a taxi to Yongsan. This was Eighth Army Headquarters, and I knew that there were busses leaving two or three times a day, from there, to all U.S. Military installations in Korea. I caught one going to Camp Page, in Chun Chon. This was where I had first met Chong Hui, and although I knew she was no longer living there, I didn't have a current address for her. I figured maybe someone of her old friends might be able to locate her for me.
The trip was only about three hours long because the roads had all been paved from Seoul to Chun Chon. Before, only the areas around the cities were paved; all interconnecting roads had been graded, but not paved. The countryside had become even more beautiful than I'd remembered, with here and there along the
mountainous terrain, a buddhist temple tucked away a bit off the road. Maybe I had romanticized the land in my memory, or maybe it was just that I had so recently left a landscape that was pockmarked throughout with bomb craters, and the desecration of decades of war, but this homecoming felt really good.

When I got to Camp Page (4th Missile Command Headquarters), I walked out toward the main gate, stopping just inside, and looked across the road to the house where Chong Hui and I had lived. Before tackling that issue, I needed some Dutch courage! I headed for the EM/NCO Club nearby. I had a beer or two and played some songs on the juke-box. There was hardly anyone in the place, because it was early afternoon. I didn't like the way my thoughts were brooding, so I decided to get it over with, and headed for the gate.

Pushing open the iron doorway, I stepped into the courtyard. I called for the mamasan, and she came out of her apartment. I recognized her immediately, but wasn't sure if she knew me. She spoke very little English, but yes, she remembered me. By sign language and much pantomime, she made me to understand that she wanted me to stay with her while she attempted to contact my wife. She made a few phone calls after making sure that I had a glass of mokoli (rice wine) and some kimchee.

One of the persons she called was an old friend of my wife's who had an apartment nearby. She was a prostitute too, but wasn't active at this time. A soldier had fathered a boy by her, promising to marry her, but then had gone back to the states. He was still sending her money to raise the boy, and she had another source of income about which I can only surmise. This woman soon showed up at mamasan's house. She spoke good English and had an excellent humor, so while we waited for my wife to get there, we passed away the time talking about what had been happening in our lives.

Time passed and it grew dark. Soon, the other girls in the compound began bringing home their "tricks" for the night. My wife's friend and I decided it would be less conspicuous to go to her house. We left word with mamasan where we would be when my wife arrived.

About nine-thirty that night, my wife showed up. She looked a bit peaked - as if she had really hastened to get there. She hadn't brought the boy (supposedly, our son) with her. I'm sure I must have been quite a surprise to her, showing up like that. She said she was living on the outskirts of Seoul.

I told her that I'd taken an inter-theater transfer directly from Vietnam to Korea and that I would soon be at Camp Eiler, a small compound just outside of Kimpo Airfield, in the town of Osari. I had stopped off there to see what the area was like, but I hadn't done any house hunting. Naturally, I wanted her and the boy to move there with me. She was non-committal about that.
We talked until the wee hours of the morning, and then bedded down in her friend's house. We made love that night, but it was perfunctory rather than amorous. For two people that had been married for six years, it was like meeting a stranger. We had been separated for four of those years, so I guess it isn't surprising. Still, in my estimation, she hadn't been faithful. I think if she had, the love would have held up even under those circumstances.

I told Chong Hui that once I settled in, I would want her to find a nice place for us to stay nearby, so I'd send for her or come get her. She didn't want to leave where she was living, but said she would commute to me like she had done when I was in the DMZ. Nothing was settled about this, but she gave me an address to contact her. The next day, Chong Hui headed back to Seoul. I recrossed the street to Camp Page and caught a bus returning to Yongsan and then on to Camp Eiler. I had forebodings about how things would work out in this marriage, and they weren't good!

When I reported to Headquarters Company, 307th Signal Battalion, I found out that I was the senior E-6 in the Commo platoon, so I became the platoon sergeant. Our quarters were quonset huts, with bays for the troops, E-5 and lower; the higher ranking enlisted had rooms.

It was my function to ensure that the men's appearance was neat and according to uniform regulation; that haircuts were maintained, and work assignments were properly made and the work accomplished in a timely fashion. There were eighty-seven men in the platoon, about a third of them being stationed at outlying sites with their commo rigs. I was responsible for seeing to it that all the commo equipment was properly maintained and inventoried at all times; that included the equipment at headquarters and the outlying sites.

There was one other E-6 and three E-5's to help me maintain discipline and get the job done. The E-6 said he had a heart problem, and often, when he was supposed to be out on the line in the motor-pool, supervising the work on the rigs or equipment, I couldn't find him. When I started to track him down after this had happened a few times, I could usually find him at the snack bar, or goofing off in his hootch. One day, at about 10 a.m., I found him back in his bed, and smelling of booze. He had an open bottle near his bedside too. I woke him and chewed him out, telling him that he was setting a bad example for the troops to follow. His excuse was his heart.

When it came time for me to make out an efficiency report on the man, I rated him honestly, that is to say, not very highly. He didn't have a heart problem, his problem was with booze. The first sergeant called me in and argued that the report was not acceptable and that I'd have to do it over again. I explained the circumstances under which I'd had to work with this man, but he was adamant that I change it. Reluctantly, I did so, but I still rated the man lower than the 1SG wanted.

Another man I had problems with was an E-5. This man was a superb soldier ninety percent of the time. He came from a religious family, his father being a preacher. His uniforms were spotless, and brass highly shined. He too, had a problem with booze; on payday, he would go out into the village of Osari and fornicate and imbibe until his money was gone. This took about three or four days, during which he'd often miss formation, or would neglect the appearance of his uniform. He would fail to supervise the men he had given task to, leaving it up to the other NCO's to check up on these jobs.
I called him aside on several occasions and tried to make him understand how he was undermining the efforts of me and the other NCO's to maintain discipline; that he was setting a bad example. He always said he understood, and that it wouldn't happen again, but invariably it did, shortly after he got some money in his pocket. I finally had to give him an article 15 in the hopes that it would straighten him out. I later learned that he went downhill from there and several years later, I saw him as a civilian, seeking medical treatment at Eisenhower Army Medical Center, here at Fort Gordon, Georgia.

It was customary to inspect the troops on a daily basis during the morning formation. It wasn't a formal inspection, those were held once a week. Normally, I'd just correct the uniform violations, point out the haircuts that were needed, or shoes to be shined, etc. If I told a man to get a haircut, I expected it to be done by the next day. If he didn't have the money, I even told him that I'd give it to him and he could pay me back later. A few individuals took me up on the offer.

At about this time, there was a lot of flack going around about haircuts. It had gotten so bad that the Army felt it had to put out picture posters of what an acceptable haircut looked like. White sidewalls were now out, but it was expected that the hair would still be kept neatly groomed around the ears and short enough so that the headgear sat properly on the head without hair sticking out in an unsightly manner.

The Afro hairstyle had become a very popular thing with blacks, and a lot of them pushed the haircut regulations to the limits to see how much they could get away with. I had about three black men in my platoon who I had to constantly send to the barber, sometimes twice in the same day. This caused quite a bit of grousing in my platoon, and again the matter was brought to the 1SG's attention and I was called in front of him.

You can't argue with pictures, and it was obvious that the men were exceeding the limits of the haircut allowed them. The 1SG wasn't happy with me or my decisions. He seemed to think that I was causing trouble in the platoon, so instead of backing me up, he had me transferred. I later learned that this is the same first sergeant that was caught black marketing in the village and was court martialed and busted. At the time of my transfer, he attempted to give me a bad evaluation report, but he hadn't known me long enough to be my rater, so that report was ignored.

I've gotten a little bit ahead of myself here, so it is necessary that I relate some other incidents that occurred while I was at Camp Eiler.
At about my second week at the camp, I decided to take a look outside in the village. I walked out the gate and down the street, stopping occasionally to look at various stores. Osari was a small town located at the end of the Kimpo Airport runway. The main street was unpaved, and in wintertime or during the monsoon, one couldn't walk those streets without getting muddy. It was March when I got there, and the air still had the bite of winter, with the monsoons just around the corner.

Having walked the entire length of the main street (only about a quarter mile long), I began my way back, with the intent of stopping off at a little mokoli house I had seen just outside the Camp Eiler Gate.

I had to step down a small flight of steps to enter the house, and of course, at such an establishment, it wasn't necessary to remove my boots. That was only done when entering private quarters. The house mamasan seated me at a table and brought me some mokoli and a bowl of kimchee with some chopsticks. I was quite comfortable using these instruments and liked the kimchee and mokoli. It always caused a stir when Koreans saw me eating their foods and handling the chopsticks with such ease. Most American GI's did not bother learning to learn local customs or taste the foods. I'd grown used to it in my two previous tours.
While seated there, it began to grow dark outside. It was about 7 p.m. at that time. I had brought a paperback book that I had begun a few days earlier, so I opened that and began to read. All that I wanted to do was sit and drink my mokoli and read my book. Apparently the house mamasan had other ideas.

I learned later that she controlled three girls (prostitutes), one who lived across the street, nick-named Popeye, for obvious reasons, one who lived in her quarters, and one named Chong, who lived in a small cubicle at the back of the store. The house mamasan rented them their rooms, furniture (a bed and some mats), and bought them clothes. All this was in consideration for a cut in any money they made off their "tricks." Many times, the girls had to give their mamasan so much money, that they continued on a downward spiral, ever deeper into debt, so that they never got out. Often this led to the girls suicide.

The girl named Chong had come to keep me company at the summons of mamasan. She sat down opposite me and introduced herself. She was a pretty young lady, twenty-six years old, but a bit on the skinny side. I hadn't expected female companionship for that night, so our conversation was kept light. She asked about me and some of the places I'd been. I told her I was still married to a Korean woman, and showed her a picture of my wife. She complimented me, but I learned later that she wasn't too impressed by me.

Along about curfew time, I had drunk quite a bit of mokoli, and was beginning to get horny. I didn't give a damn about a curfew and figured I would be able to get back in the gate anyway, so Chong and me retired to her room at the back of the store. We had agreed upon a sum of money, but she wasn't happy with the amount I tendered - as a matter of fact, she thought I was cheap. Still, I guess I was her last chance for the night. She'd been tied up with me all evening and hadn't had a chance to look elsewhere.

She insisted on me washing from head to toe before getting into the bed. There were no bathing facilities (bathtubs or showers), so she filled a large pan with hot water and made me undress and began washing me from head to toe. Before she was finished, she could readily see that I was aroused sufficiently for her purposes. What she didn't know, was that I had been so chaste over a number of years, that the erection I had wouldn't go down after I'd been sated the first, nor the second, or third time. It was only after I'd fallen asleep that I relaxed. In the morning, when I woke up, I was ready to go again. I got more than my money's worth that night, and I think Chong was a bit nonplussed by it all.

At about this time, I took a fancy to a young Korean woman who worked in the snack bar at Camp Eiler. I often found excuses to visit the snack bar and would flirt with her shamelessly. After about three months, we began dating each other. She lived just outside in the little village of Osari – about two blocks from the main gate. Usually, I'd bring her on Camp Eiler to the snack bar or EM/NCO Club. We would dance or play the slot machines; Kum Cha (for that was her name) loved the slots, as did I, and whenever either of us would hit a jackpot, we'd split the winnings. She couldn't claim hers unless I was with her or some other GI signed for it.

At about June of 1971, I'd decided to divorce Chong Hui, so I contacted her and told her of my decision, and why. She arranged for the lawyer and a date was set for me to go to Seoul and sign the necessary papers. I had to agree to child support until he reached the age of eighteen. Even though I could have protested the boy’s parentage, I agreed to do that. It only took about a month for the divorce to become final, but what peeved me is that at the conclusion of the divorce, my then ex-wife suggested that I throw a party for the lawyer - it was customary she said. I blew my stack! In addition to my having to pay the lawyers fee, and the terms had gone all her way, she wanted me to
Fete the lawyer! I told her no in no uncertain terms. If she wanted to celebrate with her lawyer, she was welcomed to do so, but I'd be damned if I was going to pay for it!

Shortly after this, Kum Cha and I began looking for a new apartment away from the squalor near the base. We found a place down at the end of the main street, and just at the end of the runway at Kimpo. It was behind a photographer's studio. It was a walled-in compound with a mamasan and papasan, their grown son and his family, and one other prostitute with a "yobo" (steady) living next door to us. We had the place re-plastered and painted and wallpapered. It was only a one room apartment with a separate kitchen area, but it was large. There was a very large bed and we furnished it with an aquarium, a small TV, and later, a refrigerator that I purchased at the PX in Yongsan.

When I transferred to Kimpo, we stayed in that house, because it still wasn't too far from the main gate at Kimpo. If push came to shove, I could always walk home at the end of the work day, it was only about three quarter of a mile. Usually though, I'd catch the shuttle bus that traveled from Kimpo, to Eiler, to another American installation further down the road. That bus ran about every half hour.

My new duty assignment was as the training NCO for 4th Signal Group Headquarters on Kimpo Air Base. As such, I was responsible for assuring that the proper training was carried out in three signal battalions of about a thousand men each. There were Army Regulations that outlined the training that was required at all levels, from individual to battalion, so it was a matter of familiarizing myself with the regulations.

Most of my job involved follow-up telephone calls to the training NCO's of the various units in the area, to make sure the Group policy was being followed. I had to reserve the firing range for companies and battalions whenever they had to fire their weapons for qualification (this had to be done by every soldier at least once a year). The proper amount of ammunition had to be ordered, depending on the type of fire to be executed and the number of persons firing. Safety regulations had to be posted at all companies.

I had to conduct CBR (chemical, biological and radiological) inspections of all the units to insure the proper upkeep of the mask and ancillary equipment was being done, and that classes were being given in proper CBR procedures. Another aspect of my job was to lay on a helicopter for the Group Commander (a bird colonel) whenever he had to go someplace distant and return the same day. My title for this task was assistant flight coordinator. This job was usually handled by the flight coordinator, Joe Norwillo. Of him, I'll have more to say shortly.

Shortly after joining 4th Signal Group Headquarters, I asked for, and was granted permission to live off post. The quarters had to be inspected prior to approval because of the incidence of GI's dying in them from carbon monoxide poisoning. The floors of said houses (ondul floors) were heated by burning charcoal briquettes, and funneling the heat under the floors. If the rooms are not properly sealed, carbon monoxide can seep into the room and kill the occupants. All those houses in that area had outdoor toilet facilities, as did ours, so they couldn't object on those grounds. It was a civilian (Korean) inspector under contract to the Army that inspected the houses that GI's wanted to live in, and I suspect that many times, approval was given after some money had crossed his palm. That is the accepted way of doing business in Korea - or was at the time.

In the Spring of 1972, it had become a habit for Joe
Norwillo and me to take our afternoon meals at our desks in the office. Joe too, was married to a Korean girl, and we both were used to eating Korean food. Trouble is, the food is very aromatic, especially if there is kimchee, which is eaten with every meal in a Korean household.

I should explain that kimchee, is fermented cabbage that is very hot, because it's made with hot pepper, green onions, garlic, salt, and sometimes baby shrimp or oyster, all minced very finely and spread between the leaves of the cabbage. It is then left to ferment in huge earthenware pots for a month or more before eating. It is not cooked, but sliced into manageable bites and placed in a communal bowl upon the table.

After about four days of Joe and I bringing in our food to eat in the office, and the officers and other enlisted men returning to work and smelling the "strange odor," we had to confess to the fact that we had been eating in the office. They asked us not to bring such pungent foods into the work space in the future. Joe and I took to going next door to the bowling alley to bowl during the lunch hour.

We formed a bowling team to bowl in the league during this time. There were Joe and I, plus two Air Force enlisted men and another two Army men from a compound down the road. All of us bowled almost every day, but as a team, we only bowled once a week. We called ourselves "The Flying Tigers," after the Flying Tiger Air Lines that flew out of Kimpo Airport.

We were good; good enough to finish as the league champions that year. I still have the trophy and a picture of our team on my desk. The Flying Tiger Airlines were good enough to furnish us with embroidered bowling shirts (a large tiger with wings on the back) when we became contenders for the championship. After we had won, they paid for a small party we had in the town of Kimpo.

Joe and I had become real good bowlers, bowling at least one two-hundred game out of every three games. Both our averages were in the 180's. We wrote each other for many years after we parted in 1973. I saw him again briefly in 1978, at Dallas,
Texas. He was stationed at Fort Hood, Texas, but used to commute home to Dallas on Weekends. At that time, I was going to school at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, and passed through Dallas a couple of times while traveling back and forth to my home in Georgia.

I married Kum Cha in March of 1973. Surprise of surprises, the paperwork went through quickly and we married legally at the U.S. Embassy in Seoul. Shortly thereafter, I had to say my good-byes. The Army had done it to me again; sending me packing shortly after my marriage, knowing I didn't have enough time to get the necessary paperwork ready for her return with me. We parted on a wet and dreary day outside our house on the main street of Osari, when I jumped on the shuttle bus. She didn't want to go to the airport with me and it was just as well.

One thing I failed to mention, Kum Cha had a daughter born to her in January of 1970, a year and some, before I met her. Kum Cha's parents in Seoul had been raising her, and occasionally we had her at our house, but in truth, she thought of her grandmother as her mom.

At this time, she wouldn't have known me as her father, but I had intentions to adopt her whenever I managed to get her and her mother to the states. That would take eleven months for Kum Cha, and Jean, her daughter, would join us three months later, after making the trip by herself at the age of four years old. Of course, the flight attendants were marvelous to her during the whole trip. She didn't speak a word of English, but communicated her needs anyway, in the timeless fashion that kids manage to do that.