Saturday January 8, 2005 – Honcho Street Yokosuka Summer 1965

Saturday January 8, 2005 – Honcho Street Yokosuka Summer 1965

Before my adventures on the USNS Michelson began, I had found my way around Yokosuka. I had found the stretch of bars catering to sailors just outside the main gate of the base on Honcho Street. I had begun to learn a bit of Japanese so that I could at least try to make myself understood. But, what I did most was walk. From the time I was old enough to be on my own, I would walk about a new place. Walking its streets became my way of making a new place my own. Japan was the first place I had ever been where I felt completely safe walking at any time of day or night. The only dangers came from the sailors who got drunk and started fighting.

The bars were much the same in that there was a Papa-san and/or Mama-san who ran the place and tended bar. And there was a hostess who would provide hospitality for each customer entering the bar throughout the evening. It was required that the customer reciprocated the hospitality by purchasing “drinks”—colored water or tea with no alcohol for his hostess as well as his own drinks which were a Japanese brand of whiskey and beer. I began with beer, Asahi and Kirin were well-known brands and I typically drank one or the other. The hostesses were outcasts of Japanese society, many mixed breeds of various nationalities—mostly black and white gaijin American servicemen—and others were Korean, Chinese or other Asian ethnic that were outsiders in the homogeneous Japanese culture.

I got to know a few hostesses, some fleeting evening acquaintances, others I knew as long as they worked at the bar I frequented—a regular occurrence if I wasn’t standing duty. Being of mixed racial parents, I had an affinity for them, but their plight was far worse than I could imagine. Raised in the insulated world of the military, I was accepted as equal among my peers on the Army bases where we lived throughout the 1950s and early 1960s. They had been outcasts from the time they were conceived. They had grown into women and were on the brink of raising another generation like themselves for the next generation of servicemen being stationed in Japan.

When I arrived in Japan, I was a petty officer third class, with a designation of ETN3. The ETN designated electronic technician and the chevron on the left sleeve of my Navy white and dress blue jumper bore a small symbol showing an atom with nucleus and two orbiting electrons. This was below a white eagle with outstretched wings and above a single red chevron stripe. Dressed in blue jumper, thirteen-button bell-bottom blue pants, with spit shined shoes and a clean bleached-white sailor hat; a sailor presented a striking site striding down any street anywhere in the world.

The Navy pay back then was $40 to $50 a month, but all meals, medical, and dental were free. Most of the money single sailors like me made was spent on transportation on and off base to nightclubs and bars off base. We had an enlisted men's club on base but there were no hostesses to provide female companionship—only the wives of servicemen stationed on base or home ported at Yokosuka—more about them later. Occasionally, the club on base would have traveling entertainment—American or European performers who would give a show for one or two nights and move on—made possible by the USO. An American dollar in 1965 was worth 360 yen. A cab ride on and off base was typically no more than a 100 yen, and a drink of Japanese beer and whiskey went for 100 to 200 yen. Honcho Street as well as the same streets in other Japanese ports including Tokyo was a source of exchange for Japan. American sailors were contributing the better part of their monthly income to sustain the street’s proprietors and hostesses.

During my evening’s conversations with the hostesses of Honcho Street typically I would ask where they were from, how they came to this bar on Honcho Street, generally draw them into telling me about their lives. Most of the stories were sad, each wanting a better living but finding the bars were the only place where they could find work that paid enough to live on. I spent a good portion of the money I made listening to bar girl stories. I’m sure much of what I heard had become fictionalized to keep men like me from knowing the truth. Though from the young ones just getting started in the business, I’m sure the tales were true. The stories turned to fiction after a hostess became involved with a sailor and believed he was her savior only to find he had deserted her after all his promises to the contrary. Every bar girl I ever spoke with knew the story of Madame Butterfly. It became part of the clubby banter for a girl to accuse her male companion of being a “butterfly boyfriend.” And every hostess knew that no matter what a man told her in the heat of passion, it would freeze into lies as soon as the passion ebbed.

The Navy paid us in Script—red bills that looked like monopoly money—instead of greenbacks. If we were going off base, we were required to convert the scrip to Yen and at no time make the exchange off base. You know that a sailor, drunk and yearning but out of Yen would have no qualms about having Mama-san take script instead of Yen for another drink. Only the exchange rate was a bit higher but the sailor was beyond caring. Bars also had customer loyalty programs. Each would allow you to bring your bottle of American whiskey purchased on base at exorbitantly low cost to the bar. Mama-san would put your name on the bottle, charge you a small corkage fee and serve you your whiskey. For the liquor aficionados with a bottle of Jack Daniels or Chevis Regal, this was the drinking they longed for.

One night I decided to bring in a bottle of Chevis and a bottle of Moet Champagne—I cannot remember what the occasion for celebration was, but I explained to the bar girls at my hangout that Champagne was really not alcohol and it was a much better drink than what Mama-San was serving them. I had Mama-san put the bottle on ice for about an hour and then asked for her to serve herself and each of the girls a glass. Mama-san declined but three of the girls accepted the invitation. The girls finished the bottle and Mama-san scolded me for getting her girls tipsy. I gave her the bottle of Chevis I had brought to compensate. She could water the Scotch and sell it at a premium to sailors wanting something other than the Japanese whiskey. At least she did not exile me from the bar.