The Times - Serving Waitsburg, Dayton and the Touchet Valley

I call this series "Just Vignettes" because that's what they are, just short snapshots of things that have happened to me or have been told to me. I can vouch the stories you read here are mostly true.

The Japanese city, Kagoshima, is often described by travel writers as the Naples of the Eastern World. However, the day the USS Kirk anchored near the Sakurajima volcano, the city seemed rather gray, dreary, and windy. At breakfast, the executive officer described a dream he had the night before. He dreamt that once the Kirk was anchored, Sakurajima would erupt. Its lava flows would cut off the Kirk from access to the ocean, leaving the Kirk stranded in an inland sea.

As the liberty party prepared to go ashore in water taxis, as if on command, Sakurajima began to erupt. The volcano remained active during our stay, producing a steady stream of light ash. To my disappointment, no lava flows were created by this eruption, so there was no chance of it closing the bay. The Kirk would not become a floating museum piece in a Japanese lake.

On my first day of liberty in Kagoshima, I visited a cafe with someone from the ship. I attempted to order a bottle of "Blue Nun," a popular German Riesling wine at the time. As soon as I had uttered the words "Blue Nun," the waitress clapped both hands over her face and doubled over with laughter. She quickly turned her back and did a quick waddle back to the kitchen, order book pressed between her arm and torso so that she could cover her face, poorly suppressing snorts and sobs as she went.

For the next few minutes, the waitress and kitchen staff repeatedly peeked at us from the kitchen. We could hear their stage whispering, tittering, and suppressed laughter. Finally, the brave waitress returned with the bottle of "Blue Nun." She walked quickly, avoided eye contact, and tried to maintain her composure by assuming a facial expression that looked like she was sucking on a lemon. She plopped down the bottle and glasses, wisely deciding not to pour the wine, turned, and ran back to the kitchen. There, once again, we could see she collapsed into laughter. For the rest of our meal, whenever she had to pass by to service other diners, she averted her face and hurried by in an exaggerated manner. I have never settled on a plausible theory on what social gaffe we committed that day.

On the second day, I was assigned duty as a shore patrol officer. Due to Navy policies at the time, my enlisted crew of about six sailors and I were in summer white uniforms. We carried a ridiculously large Vietnam War vintage field radio which I believe was a PRC/25. We used it to communicate with the Kirk from shore. The signal from the radio would not penetrate the concrete and steel walls of the buildings in Kagoshima, so to reach the ship's quarterdeck, we had to take the radio to where the Kirk was visible. The Japanese passersby seemed to find our using the antique radio extraordinarily funny.

The shore patrol established its headquarters in the Kagoshima police station. The police quickly traded their bento boxes for the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches provided by the master chefs of the Kirk for the shore patrol's dinner. They did not trade out of pity but seemed drawn by the novelty of the sandwiches.

At about midnight, the municipal police were replaced by national police who were there to fight organized crime. One of the discernible differences between the two was that the national police had brass buttons rather than silver. The national police also had a comportment of bodybuilders. They were large; I was not as tall as any of them.

The officers dragged in several Yakuza, Japanese gangsters, while we were in the station. One was dragged in by his earlobe. Shop owners expressed their appreciation for the police by bringing in elaborate spreads of sushi and sashimi, which were graciously shared with us Americans. At one point, they brought out a Yakuza member from his cell to compare tattoos with the shore patrol. At least up until that time, only Yakuza in Japan had tattoos.

After the last call, I decided to set off on my own, on foot, and look around the city. While walking down a narrow street, I heard what I thought was the call of a bugle. I suppose it would have been better if I'd thought, "That's odd," and continued walking. Instead, curiosity piqued, I pinpointed the sound coming from a basement door where the daylight windows were curtained off. There were no signs or indications of what was behind the door.

I walked down the half-flight of stairs, opened the door, and stepped inside. The bugle stopped. Complete silence. Inside were about fifty Japanese World War Two veterans standing in formation. They were in their sixties, and most still fit in their service uniforms. They wore garrison or field hats. Many had swords. The large blown-up photos on the walls behind them indicated they were veterans of the Southeast Asia campaigns. They scowled and glared at me in my white U.S. Navy uniform. No one moved, but the formations of soldiers oozed supercilious contempt and even hatred which seemed to sear my flesh. I felt like a drunk who had stumbled into a temperance meeting. I slowly backed out, shut the door, and went back to the comfort of the police station.

After that experience, I think I may never return to that bar.