There have been many stories told about soldiers falling in love with beautiful women in exotic foreign lands, during a time of war. This is one of them:
Like many young men who lived during the so-called “hippy movement” of the sixties; I was restless and wanted to express my independence from the “establishment.” In my case, I especially wanted to be free from the controlling influence of a domineering father. Of his four sons, I was the one who was on the receiving end of his brutal discipline, more so. I reached a point where I had enough of his abuse and I decided that I would either run away from home, or I would join the Marine Corps. Since I was seventeen, and wasn’t of legal age to enlist, I was required to have both parents signature on the enlistment papers. My father reluctantly signed and my mother just went along; like the good, obedient wife she was.
After all the necessary arrangements were made and I said my good-byes; I was put on a train in Poughkeepsie, New York by the local Marine recruiting officer and I was on my way to Paris Island, South Carolina for boot-camp training. I had no idea what I was in for, however I was looking forward to traveling around the world and the pride of being called a “Marine!” It had a certain kind of prestige attached to it that the other branches of the military didn’t- (A Few Good Men). All that glorious history from those battles in the Pacific! I was taken in by all that and I was hooked. Those John Wayne movies certainly had an influence on me too! I was psyched and ready-so I thought.
Boot camp at Paris Island was everything I wasn’t prepared for. I thought I was getting away from the physical and mental abuse of my father, but I had the rude awakening of my life there, in the alligator and mosquito infested swamps of “Paris Island, South Carolina.” For the next three months, I was subjected to ten times the punishment I got from my father. There were times when those (Gung-ho) drill instructors made me bleed from the beatings they inflicted on me. I was the one they set up as an “example” to the others; to see how much one could take before breaking under pressure. They got away with that violent, physical abuse back then. That is the way it was in the Marine Corps back in the early sixties. It was a time when the “rules” were meant to be broken. And, that was also the time period when it all came to an abrupt end- due to the Senate investigations of “abuse of power, within the military.” This abuse sometimes resulted in some recruits actually being murdered or crippled! I personally witnessed some of these actions myself. Suicides were common then too. One of my best friends was found hanging from the back fire-escape, one morning. He wasn’t a “maggot” anymore!
After surviving boot-camp indoctrination, I was assigned to Quantico, Virginia for Officer’s training; which involved being screened for a secret clearance. I had some difficulty adjusting to becoming an officer. What I really wanted was to be in the (combat engineers) outfit. So, I requested a transfer into a line outfit-(“grunts”), as they were called. Around this time in 1962, the Cuban missile crises was threatening world destruction by nuclear missiles, and I was sent out on the first wave assault, from Camp Lejeune, North Carolina- to intercept the Russian ships off Cuban shores. We were told that if we landed; it would be hand-to-hand combat with as little firing as possible, due to the presence of the nuclear missiles. I recall sharpening my bayonet and K-bar on the way to our ship. I feared that I wouldn’t outlive my teenage years. The events that followed are well documented in History- (The Cuban Missile Crises).
The following year, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Texas, and the conflict in Vietnam was escalating towards a full-scale “jungle war.” I wanted to see some real combat, ground action, so I volunteered to go to the Far East to serve out the last year of my four year term of active duty.
Upon landing on the island of Okinawa, with my platoon (Charlie company); we were stationed at Camp Hansen’s battalion headquarters and I was assigned to be the C.O.’s jeep driver. Okinawa was being leased by the United States military from Japan at the time, and because it wasn’t too many years since WWII ended; the Japanese who inhabited the island weren’t very friendly with American GIs. They just tolerated us being there. It’s also an historical fact that Okinawa was the bloodiest battle in the Pacific islands- more so than Iwo Jima. We were reminded of that fact often.
On my first night out on liberty in the local village of Kin, I wandered down an alleyway lined with bars, pawn shops and food concessions. The stench of urine and raw feces permeated the night air with a pungent odor that came up from the binjo ditches that were trenched along the dirt roads and ran out into the rice paddies and fields. These exposed ditches were their means of sewage disposal from the restaurants, bars and homes. Many young girls (naisans) roamed the streets and alley ways, hitting up on G.I.’s coming and going. One of their more common chants was: “Hey G.I., you want be my skivvy honcho?” Their meaning didn’t need much interpretation. Venereal disease was rampant on the island, and I made it a point to be more selective in choosing...my own poison.
At the end of one of these muddy, winding roads, my attention was drawn to a cobalt blue, neon sign that glowed brightly over the entrance to what looked like a bar. The sign read: [CLUB MIKADO]. I thought: “This is where I’ll go for a drink and a smoke and get acquainted with the local bar naisans. Dressed in my starched khaki uniform and piss-cutter cap, I proudly entered the bar, but with a bit of caution. The jingle of wind chimes on the door signaled my entrance. The interior of the bar had all the nuances of the Oriental mystique, with brightly colored Japanese lanterns hanging from the ceiling, crimson ornamentations draping the walls, and the strong scent of opium incense.
I scouted the bar room, looking for a place to set myself down. There was an empty table with two chairs along the back wall. That wall had a mural of the Manhattan skyline, with miniature Christmas tree lights draped around it as a frame. I went over, sat down, lit a cigarette, and waited for one of the bar naisans (waitresses) to come over and serve me. Through the thick haze of cigarette smoke, I looked around to observe the other tables that were crowded with Marines, drinking beer and cavorting with the sexy, mini-skirted women. Ashtrays that resembled the Statue of Liberty were filled with cigarette butts and overflowed with ashes, on the slick bamboo table tops, along with the traditional stack of empty beer cans and spilled beer. There was the usual rowdiness that hard chargin’ Marines are noted for...when they’ve had too much to drink, but that soon ended when the bar’s Papasan intervened. What was strange to me, was that these Marines all seemed to be...Officers- mostly Lieutenants, with a Captain here and there.
My attention was suddenly interrupted, by this beautiful naison, who came over to my table. She was tall, slender, and exquisitely attractive for a Japanese woman. She looked more like a high fashion Paris model, than a bar naison; dressed in an iridescent blue, silk kimono that hugged her hour-glass figure. Her long, waist length, raven black hair, trailed down her back, in a French braid. Her voice was very feminine when she introduced herself: “I Yoshiko...what your name Marine?” I responded: “My name is John...” She looked at me with a studied stare and said: “Hello...Johnnysan!”
The reason for the strange stare became evident when she sat and told me that this club was off-limits to enlisted men and was mainly an “Officer’s” club. I told her I was the Captain’s driver for my company, so I figured I belonged. She responded with a look of bemusement. I asked her to bring me a beer and a drink for herself. After she brought the drinks, we got somewhat acquainted amidst the loud music and all the suspicious stares from the officers. She told me some interesting things about her past. Her father was a French soldier, and her mother and he met in Hong Kong, while he was on leave from fighting in the “Indochina War.” That explained why she was taller and more Eurasian looking than the others. I was more impressed to find out that she spoke three other languages (Russian, French, and Japanese). Her English wasn’t so fluent, but it was understandable. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was so beautiful with that long shiny, raven black hair that pulled back to expose her delicate facial features. This was a beauty that I had never gotten the attention of in my short life at twenty years of age.
I was spellbound by her presence! Whatever amorous hopes I had imagined might happen between us; they were soon shattered when she told me that she could not sit with me anymore because I wasn’t an “Officer.” She stood up and warned me not to come there again because I would cause trouble for her. At that moment, one of the drunken Lieutenants came up from behind me, and grabbed my shoulder violently. I immediately swung around and threw him to the floor. As his other buddies came towards me; Yoshiko pulled me through a curtain and led me out to the back door of the club. She pushed me in the ally, yelling: “You not come here Johnnysan...kudasaimasu!” I needed time to come to terms with all this action, and to come up with a plan to deal with it. I was hopelessly smitten with Yoshiko. I returned to the base, dejected, but not defeated.
I made a radical decision that week; I would go to that club wearing 2nd Lieutenant bars on my collars, and that I would sit there at that same table, night after night, until she would agree to sit and drink with me. After about two weeks of going there, night after night, and watching her drinking and fraternizing with the officers, she finally came over to my table and sat down. She said: “You crazy Marine...what you do here? You make trouble for me! I not want trouble.” I told her that I could handle this situation and that I was falling in love with her. Knowing that I would probably be sent to Vietnam soon; I wanted to pursue this strong attraction I had for her- while I was still alive and able.
She stood up facing me and said: “What you know about love? You so young!” My response was: “I know that I ‘want’ to love you. Please give me a chance?” She sat with an intense look on her face, turning her head from side to side, and finally said: “OK...I tell you this...Johnnysan: I once love soldier and he break my heart; he die in Vietnam. I have little heart left. I give to you. You break what I left, I ‘Hari-Kari’.” When she said that, she gestured with her hand, across her throat, as if to cut her throat with a knife. Her beautiful, hazel eyes began to tear as she said: “You never SAYONARA me...Johnnysan. Promise...!”
I understood what she meant and I was both sad and elated at the same time. I hugged her tightly and the fragrance of her jasmine perfume excited my senses even more. I was experiencing feelings and sensations that I had never known before with other women. This was completely different, and I didn’t understand why. I did believe that this was more than just a physical attraction, and one that I wanted to explore. I told her that I would be waiting in the back alley for her, when she finished her shift. That night, we took a rickshaw up to a nearby tea-house, in the hills overlooking her village in Koza. She brought along a bottle of (sake) wine. We had one heavenly night together! As I drifted into a blissful sleep, in the afterglow of our love making, next to her fair and statuesque body, I remember thinking to myself: “I’m actually living the experience that I’ve seen played out in many Hollywood movies. This is like being in “my own” movie in real life!” Little did I know that in the months to follow, we would live and love just like I had seen movie stars do in those great romantic war stories, with stars like William Holden and Steve Mc Queen. I was about to discover where those screenwriters got their story ideas from. The paradoxical question is: “Does LIFE imitate art, or does ART imitate life?”
In the months to follow, Yoshiko and I would secretly meet on secluded beaches and in remote tea-houses, incognito, because the top brass were on to us and since she had previous relations with some high officials, she was considered “Officer’s material.” (I have fond memories of her wearing those large sun glasses to hide her face, and that baggy pants and blouse she wore; while I wore civilian clothes and a pulled down, safari bush hat.) They didn’t want her associating with enlisted men; for fear that she would divulge classified information on troop movements to Vietnam. I was also previously warned by the commanding officer not to see her anymore- after I requested permission to marry her. Marriage between Japanese women and American soldiers was still frowned upon and discouraged by the military and the government. It had only been about twenty years since the war with Japan, and enmity between Japan and America still existed. Also the fact that Okinawa was the bloodiest battle for the Marines during WWII, didn’t help matters any.
After a few months of driving the officers around the island; I was allowed the privilege of having my own car- which I bought from Corporal Taylor. It was a 1959 Ford coupe. Yoshiko and I had a wild time in that car! I recall one late afternoon, when we were making out on a secluded beach; my car was parked too close to the shore line. The tide came in and almost pulled the car into the ocean. The salt water was up to the floor boards! With the help of another Marine, and his girl friend, we were able to reverse the car and back it out, on drift wood branches and sea shells. I happened to have a case of beer in the trunk, so we all celebrated the rescue.
There was one specific tea house, high in the hills of Koza village, with a view of the ocean, where we would rendezvous often. She once showed me the shanty, below the hill, where her mother lived, and told me to promise her that I would never go there. I promised. The owners of the tea house gave us a special room in the back, because of our frequent visits, and sheltered us from the rest of the guests there. I’ll never forget the night I first caught sight of her squatting on the tiled bathroom floor, over a basin pan filled with soapy water. She was bathing and sanitizing herself, in the way that was customary to Oriental women. I watched her curiously, through the beaded door curtain. One memorable evening, in the afterglow of our love making, while gazing at the pink cherry blossoms outside the window, and feeling the pleasant coolness of the evening breeze brush across my chest, with her warm body close to mine; I recall thinking to myself: “I wish that the sun would never come up again, so that this night would never end.” And, I have a vivid recollection of our last night at this tea house, when I got deathly sick from drinking too much rotten rice wine. I remember that the pain in my groin was more severe than being sea-sick. I was vomiting what looked like blood. I had a bad case of the shakes, with my teeth chattering. And I was burning up inside. She attended to me for three days and nights, until I regained my strength. She fed me, bathed me and kept me warm during the night by hugging and stroking my body. That was the night that she said: “Johnnysan...AISHITERU WA”- which means “I love you” in Japanese.
Upon returning to the base, I was court-martialed for being AWOL [absent without leave] and stripped of my rank from Corporal to Lance-Corporal, but that would prove to be the least of my problems. My platoon was chosen to be part of an amphibious task force, to make a show of force in response to an attack on our ships in the Gulf of Tonkin, by Communist torpedo boats. There was talk that President Johnson was considering declaring a state of war with North Vietnam. I was attached to a Battalion landing team that would make an amphibious landing on Red Beach, near the Da Nang air base. The North Vietnamese were bombing the air base from Monkey Mountain and the war was escalating rapidly. When it rains it pours! Only, in the Far East, it’s called a “monsoon”. It rained continuously day and night with torrential downpours! I was immediately put on a war ship with Charlie Co. 3rd Marine division, 1st Battalion, and we headed directly into the Gulf of Tonkin- after we broke away from the task force flotilla of battle ships, air craft carriers, mine sweepers, and submarines. We were on our own, beyond the limits of international waters, cruising the coast of North and South Vietnam. During the night, while standing watch on the fan tail of the ship; I could see the phosphorous flairs being dropped over the air strip, and I could hear the echo of mortar blasts and small arms fire in the distance.
We were harassed by Russian PT boats and night, and MIG fighter jets overhead during the day. Finally, after a couple of months of this cat-and-mouse routine; we made a pre-dawn landing in an LCVP boat, on Red Beach, near Da Nang’s Monkey Mountain. Our mission was to capture at least one Communist Vietnam soldier, or Russian advisor, and bring them back to the ship for interrogation. We engaged in a fire fight near a bridge, where I was wounded by a mortar round explosion. My back was peppered with hot shrapnel. Some of my squad were killed and others wounded. I was recovered and returned to the ship along with the dead in body-bags. In the sick bay, I was unconscious for over a half hour, as they tried to revive me. The mission was a disaster! It was classified as top-secret, so no records were kept. Shortly thereafter, we made a hasty retreat to Okinawa- while being chased by a Russian, nuclear submarine, intent on torpedoing us from behind. I could see the periscope as the sub trailed us. When that familiar (wooop…wooop…wooop) “general-quarters” was sounded, I was caught up in the signal tower and couldn’t get down in time to get into the ship. The ship went into a “zig-zag” maneuver to avoid being torpedoed. Up in the signal tower, I had a front-row-seat, to what could have turned out to be the beginning of WWIII. We zig-zagged our way right into a roaring typhoon storm, and lost the sub. The storm was so powerful, that our ship was being rolled from starboard to port, violently. As ironic as it may sound; it really happened that way!
Back on Okinawa, over the following weeks, the conflict in Vietnam turned into a full scale war, with massive bombings by B-52 bombers over Hyphong Harbor and North Vietnam. I took the first opportunity to find Yoshiko. She wasn’t at the Club Mikado and her girl friend Meko said that Yoshiko mentioned the tea house in Kosa, and that she had something very important to tell me. When she said this, she brought both her hands to her stomach, with a rubbing motion. I became frantic and was willing to risk “desertion” if necessary, to spend the rest of my life with her. I took a [sucoshi cab] and then transferred to a rickshaw near the tea house, because of the muddy road conditions. The monsoon rain was coming down in torrents and I was soaked! When I reached the tea house, I immediately went to our special room, hoping that she would be there. I was so sick to my stomach from not eating and guzzling a pint of bourbon along the way; I collapsed on the bed and drifted in and out of consciousness, as I struggled to stay alert and aware.
In a moment of clarity; I was looking up at the ceiling and calling out to her: “Yoshiko...Yoshiko...where are you! Where are youuuuuuuu...!” I recall, faintly hearing the song (House of the Rising Sun) coming through the thin rice-paper walls, from an adjoining room. The haunting melody only made me more depressed and desperate. In my frustration, I began to cry uncontrollably, and the thought that came to my mind was what Yoshiko said, when we first met at the club: (“You never SAYONARA me...I hari-kari!”) This thought drove me insane as I ran outside into the downpour screaming her name. She knew that I was scheduled to be sent back to the States to be discharged, but she didn’t know that I had an alternative plan for us. I ran down into the village to the shanty where she once told me her mother lived. On the way there, one of the Japanese rice field workers ran after me waving a sickle over his head as if he were threatening to cut off my head. To him I was just another drunken Marine, disturbing the island peace. (A drunken Marine did lose his head there earlier that year- as was reported in the ‘Stars and Stripes’ news paper.)
I reached the corrugated, metal shanty hut where her mother lived, and pounded on the door with my fists. The door opened and this shriveled faced, frail old woman, looked up at me fearfully and asked: “You are Johnnysan?” I nodded my head: “Yes!” In her fragmented speach, she told me that Yoshiko was pregnant with my child. I asked where she was and she told me: “Yoshiko go to tea house...on hill.” She pointed. (We must have passed each other in the dark, rain shrouded night!) The rain was coming down so hard that I could hardly see the road ahead, as I headed back up to the tea house. I was soaked, up to my knees in mud, and calling out to Yoshiko, in the dense darkness of the night. I’m sure; I must have looked like a mad-man. As I approached the path to the tea house, I heard the whining sound of a jeep coming closer, and then a loud voice yelling at me from behind: “Halt! Halt! Or I’ll shoot!” I didn’t stop. He shot once, over my head as a warning, and I knew that the second shot would be fatal. (That was the standard procedure for M.P.’s in pursuit.) I stopped...dead in my tracks. The two M.P.’s grab hold of me and put me in the jeep. They drove me to the Kadena air base. I was thrown in a holding room and told that I would be put on a military jet at sunrise and flown to the “States” for immediate discharge, at the “convenience of the government.” By the way they handled and spoke to me; I felt that they knew something about Yoshiko, that I didn’t!
In the early morning hours, I did try to escape out through a window and to the rear gate. I needed to get to Yoshiko, and I was prepared to risk desertion, to be with her. Just as I approached the rear gate, the M.P.’s yelled out: “Halt!” I didn’t have any energy left in me to resist. I was restrained by the M.P.’s and this time handcuffed to a bench in the room.
During those remaining hours, I tried to find some meaning to all that was happening. I did suspect that my determination to marry Yoshiko had much to do with this predicament I found myself in. Hearing that she was pregnant, weighed heavy on my mind, and heart. I was in a state of shock and bewilderment and I didn’t want to think much anymore, because I feared what I might come to know about Yoshiko’s plight. I went into a state of denial. It was the only way I could cope with all that was happening. I sat there with a blank, detached stare on my face and stayed that way as they put me on that plane, and shut the door behind me. When that door slammed shut, my heart stopped beating for a moment.
All during the flight, I sat transfixed, staring out the window, into the endless, pale blue sky...for hours, trying not to think. When we reached Hawaii for refueling, I remained in my seat, as thoughts raced through my mind of the many intimate moments Yoshiko and I shared together...in the tea house on the hill. I recall thinking: “This isn’t the way my movie is supposed to end...but then, this isn’t a movie; this is real life!”
After we took off from Hawaii, I was so drained mentally, physically and emotionally, that I fell into a deep sleep for the rest of the trip across the Pacific Ocean. The next morning, I arrived at Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego, California. After a few days of physical and psychological testing and processing; I was honorably discharged from the Marine Corps. I decided to take the long, cross country train ride home, because I wanted to see this peaceful home-land of mine...that I might not have ever seen again, if fate hadn’t intervened.
For years afterward, while the war in Vietnam raged on; I was in and out of Veteran’s hospitals, from coast to coast, being treated for, what they called (PTSD). I struggled to put the past behind me and move on with my life. Too much time had passed since Okinawa and at some point along the way of healing, I thought it best to keep the past frozen in time- although I did on many occasions contemplate returning to Okinawa. The fear of what I might discover there, kept me from going. I was “damned if I do, and damned if I don’t.” What happened between Yoshiko and I is not uncommon to soldiers in foreign lands during a time of war. It is a story, I’m sure, many soldiers could tell.
I find some solace in these words: “Tis better to have loved and lost...than never to have loved at all.” – Lord Tennyson
A most heart wrenching story! I can't even imagine your anguish over having to leave Yoshika, and not knowing what became of her, and if she followed through on her threat.
You are a formidable writer--not just with something to say, but how you put it all together. Art imitates life.
That is an incredible story! All the more incredible because it's true. I'm so glad you posted it here. All the more reason to write your memoir and name names. I think you should write about your earlier life that led to your problem with your father. My father and I argued over almost everything, but he never physically abused me, even though he could. In the end he was very proud of me and bragged a lot around our hometown about my success in life.
I wonder if you ever sought to find out who your child was? And even Yoshiko. I'm sure you could find out now because there are powerful tools on the Internet for finding people.
Although it is psychologically confirmed that the best pairings are those of people that are from similar backgrounds, genetically we are designed to have “opposites attract.”
I only took one trip around the world in 1978, but I was smitten three times in the process. The first was when I met the niece of a friend in her uncle's home in Karachi. Shammi (I forget her real name) was a premed student, decked out in a red and real gold thread sari, assigned to keep me company during the afternoon before her uncle came home from work. She struck me with her beauty, her intelligence, and her aspirations. (She did become a doctor and her and her husband, another doctor, have spent many years in Africa).
My second encounter was on a day cruise excursion from the Oriental Hotel in Bangkok to the Summer Palace and Ancient City. My host, Dr.Vitoon Upathamp, had tired of taking me around Thailand and asked me to take the tour that day. As I sat on the front deck of the exclusive tour ship cruising up the Chao Praya River, a very tall, for a Thai, and very beautiful, woman served me a fantastic drink and then opened a conversation with me in English. She told me about herself and we spent the next 15 minutes getting to know one another. My reverie was interrupted when she suddenly excused herself and began serving drinks to the other tourists.
My third encounter was in the Philippines when I scheduled a tour to Pagsanjan Falls. As we prepared to leave, our young Filipina tour guide loaded us into a 10 passenger van. I was the last to enter, so got the short seat by the sliding door. Our tour guide sat next to me. We didn't talk (I didn't know what to say) but I was taken by her beauty and the strategic real mole like some supermodel that seemed a part of her face like everything else––perfect. At the restaurant before we took the dugout canoe, she asked me to wait for my canoe partner, a tour guide from Japan. The young Japanese lady arrived late and acted very unpleasant and ugly (she was, too). She told me that she had received her bachelor's degree from a college in Oregon. I enjoyed the tour in spite of her. When we returned, the tour guide that I hope to reconnect with was gone… Sigh.
When I got my first instructorship at my college alma mater, we had a young rehabilitation graduate student as an intern. Margaret Ma was immediately attracted to me because she thought I was the department head (an officer). Margaret was from Taipei, dressed in impeccable silk dresses made by her own seamstress. Her father was a medical doctor schooled at Johns Hopkins and she lived in a home that composed a city block in Taipei. I dated her a couple of times, and she lamented that her father had sent her to the states for her education rather than allowing her to get married like her sister. I think she was secretly in love with me but didn't say it directly. I was a fool and let her go to Ohio for her doctorate where she met and married another man.
My main squeeze is Beh. She is Vietnamese and a refugee–now a US citizen. Beh came to work for me 20 years ago and fell in love with me within a week. The wife of an Indian friend of mine, Gool Randelia, once told me, “Ron, you need to marry an Asian lady.” You know what? She was right.
After a long awaited weekend visitation caused by false allegations of sexual abuse, Glen got to see his children for the first time in over two months. He promised them that they would never be apart again and then they disappeared.
Rosetta was born in 1909 as the youngest of ten children. The family had more laughter than money and neighbors would knock on their door to ask, "Can we come in and laugh, too?"
Copyright © 2012 by John Gasparro Jr.
