“For Those Who Missed the Rock” Part 2

The air was different in Okinawa – more humid than I was used to, also it appeared that most of Okinawa was covered in agriculture. My sense of smell was assaulted by an earthy smell – that I found foreign. 

We didn’t pass through many towns and the ones I saw were pretty disappointing. There was a depressive feeling that seemed to surround the island. As if our military presence was something the Okinawans passively abhorred and resented.

Night descended quickly, so by the time we pulled into Camp Foster it was pretty dark outside – so I couldn’t see much. Just a lot of wire fencing, some guarded gates and a bunch of white-painted concrete buildings. In short, it looked like a concentration camp you’d see on TV showing  those old World War 2 movies featuring John Wayne. 

I was unceremoniously dumped out by the front gate. A stony-faced MP looked my orders over and directed me to a nondescript building within the perimeter of the camp.

It was really dark out and I was jet-lagged so it took me a few minutes to find the correct place to check-in.

Stumbling and dragging into a poorly lit room, with my duffel bag I encountered a very bored looking overweight Sergeant. He had his feet up on the desk, a lit Marlboro cigarette going in an ashtray and a toothpick hanging out of the side of his mouth. A tin of Copenhagen snuff sat by a can of Coke on top of a pile of clipboards which were also on the desk.  

Looking over my paperwork he would alternate spitting brown tobacco juice into the can and taking drags off his smoke. Somehow he managed to do all this without removing the toothpick out of his maw. 

While thumbing through some greasy paperwork on the clipboard he muttered out of the side of his face – “Bucklin…Bucklin”…Spit…”Can’t seem to find you heah in the manifest…are you sure yew belong heah? Spit.

“Hey Sarge, that’s yesterdays. Did you check the other clipboard?” asked a squeaky voice in the semi gloom. That’s when I noticed a small bespectacled blonde-haired kid wearing PFC stripes sitting on a footlocker by the desk messing around with a yoyo.

“Ahah! Heah yew is, ” said the Sergeant triumphantly producing another clipboard. “Lance Corporal Bucklin, Communications Platoon.”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Well…Shee-it! Welcome to Okee-Nawa Bucklin! Ovah heah we lahk to call it ” The Rock” but doan be callin’ it that off base. It tends to piss off the…Spit-Spit…the natives.”

“Ok. Yes, Sergeant “

“Now the chow hall is closed but PFC Smithfield weel take you to your barracks so you can sack out.”

“Smithfield?!…SMIIIITH! FFIELLLLDDD?!!!” he bellowed.

Sigh…”I’m right here, Sergeant Rufus.”

“Damn, Son. Don’t sneak up on me like that – you fuckin’ scared me. Okay. I want yew to Escort Lance Corporal Bucklin. Take his shit ovah to the Comm Barracks in the jeep – that’s building numbah eighty-three. And get yor ass back heah pronto. And don’t let me ketch yew fuckin’ off at the Rec Hall like last time.” Spit.

“Jawohl, Mein Fuhrer.”

Sergeant Rufus gave Smithfield a dirty look as the PFC hustled me out of the room. Once outside my escort took my duffel bag, slung it roughly into the back of a jeep and we took off to the Comm Barracks.

“Smells funky. Don’t it?” said my driver.

“Yeah, “I replied, sniffing the night air.

“It’s pig shit. There’s a couple of pig farms near the base…you’ll get used to it. Where you from?”

“Cupertino, California.”

“Where the fucks  that?”

“Near San Jose.”

“Uh-huh. Well…Dorothy, you ain’t in Kansas anymore!”

I grunted an affirmative, leaned back in the seat, and closed my eyes.

After a five-minute drive, I felt my arm being shaken. “Your shit is over there, ” said Smithfield pointing to my duffel bag on the ground. “And that’s your building. Good luck, Bucklin.”

“Thanks, ” I said clambering out of the jeep.

I entered a dimly lit building that seemed almost empty. I found a vacant bunk and after stowing my bag in an empty locker I crashed completely wiped out.

End of Part 2

To be continued…