Читать книгу Condition Green Tokyo 1970 - Neil Goble - Страница 9

4

JOE DROVE MAJOR POINTER TO KOYOTA AIR Base the next morning for his introduction to the Bat and the Bloat, the unit's aircraft. Pointer would never fly the Bat, for that required both pilot and navigator to be dually rated as recon systems operators (or "Ravens," as it was known in the trade) and that each be able to assume the other's duties in an emergency. Dick was a navigator, period, and seemed strangely proud of it.

Ben Hart was Joe's regular navigator, whether in the Bat or the Bloat, so upon him fell the task of orienting Major Pointer in the latter.

"I'm sure a lot of this will sound pretty basic to an old hand like yourself," Ben apologized as the Bloat began to taxi. "But the SOP says do it. Maybe some of it will be helpful."

"I doubt it," Dick smirked. "I've always been able to find my way around okay."

"Of course. But you'd be surprised how many good navigators get all turned around the first time they try it in the Eastern Hemisphere, and have to let the pilots show them the way to go home, much to their chagrin."

"Here comes the clearance," Joe called from up front.

"Take it down," Ben said to Dick, handing over his head-set and a scratch pad. "It'll help you get to know the local pattern quicker."

Dick frowned, but accepted the pad and began copying the clearance as the tower radioed it. He stopped after a moment, and pressed the head-set closer to his ears.

"Troubles?" Ben asked.

"Someone's been over here too long. His accent shows."

"Japanese run the towers," Ben explained with a chuckle. "We're lucky to get our clearances even in pidgin English."

"I'm going to love this, I can see that," Dick grumbled.

"Ready in the rear?" Joe yelled.

"Hai, so des," Ben answered.

"You've been over here too long," Dick said accusingly.

As soon as they were airborne, Joe turned the aircraft over to the co-pilot and drifted back to the navigation-recon compartment.

Ben was explaining the Loran set. "This is the newfangled kind. Just set in your two station numbers. It automatically matches the pulses, and the computer gives you a dial reading of latitude and longitude. Just one catch."

"What's that?"

"It always matches the two strongest signals of each station—which might be two ground waves, or two sky waves, or one of each. So you've got to set in to the Loran just which you're using. Know how to tell a sky wave from a ground wave?"

"Sky waves split and fade," Dick quoted from some distant textbook, grimacing as if to help him remember.

"Not over here," Ben said. "Sky waves stand up straight and stiff just like ground waves."

"Which makes the navigators split and fade," Joe quipped.

Dick gave him a dirty look. Ben finished explaining the navigation equipment. "Actually there's not much navigating to do once a mission gets started," he added. "The doppler radar and dead reckoning computer keep track of your location well enough during long overwater legs, which is what we're doing mostly, so you only have to plug in a new fix maybe once an hour. But over land, or even over water if the aircraft's making a lot of banks and turns, it's not so good."

Dick yawned.

Joe could see it wasn't sinking in, and hoped Ben realized it too. He also hoped he'd never draw Dick as his navigator.

"Sorry you and Nancy can't join us tonight," Joe said to Ben.

"So am I, but Cindy's caught some kind of bug and Nancy doesn't want to leave her with a baby sitter." Ben turned to Dick. "You'll like the Sakamotos, I'm sure. They're real fine people."

"Sakamotos?" Dick squawked. "Are these 'friends' we're to meet Japanese?"

"Didn't I mention they were Japanese?" Joe asked, uncomfortable.

"You just said 'friends,'" Dick said sharply. "I assumed you meant white friends. Alice would never have agreed to come if she hadn't thought so, too."

Joe began to stammer an apology, but Ben came to his rescue.

"That's silly," Ben laughed. "Lots of Japanese are nice folks once you get to know them. I was about to ask you folks, and Joe and Ginger, out to meet a Japanese friend of ours . . . a college student that Nancy and I are tutoring in English. He wants to give us a tour of his campus Sunday."

"No, thanks," Dick said emphatically.

"How about you, Joe? He said to bring friends."

"Sure, if it's not too late. We're going down to Yokohama to pick up Major Pointer's car at the port Saturday, and on down to Atami Resort to spend the night. Ought to be back around noon Sunday, though."

"Plenty early," Ben said. "I'll count on you. Sure you won't join us, Dick?"

"Just don't count on it," Dick sneered. "I'm sure I'll get my fill of Japs at Atami, if not tonight."

Joe slunk back to his seat while Ben undertook to explain the Bloat's complex array of reconnaissance gear. So far, Joe noted uncomfortably, his Sell-the-Pointers-on-Japan campaign seemed to be going steadily downhill with no upgrade in sight.

And the minute he saw Alice Pointer after the mission, he knew his campaign had hit rock bottom. Not only was she on a rampage over being dragged all the way out to Koyota Air Base to visit a bunch of 'Japs', but they'd had to spend a half hour forcing their way into the base through some 10,000 milling, shouting Japanese students who had formed an unscheduled anti-American demonstration around the gate.

"Zengakuren," Ginger explained. "They seem to think we're hiding some big, bad, black jets here. Isn't that silly?" Her eyes seemed to add, "or is it?" and Joe evaded the question.

"They actually pounded on the car with sticks!" Alice exclaimed.

Joe would never have been able to persuade Alice to budge from her sanctuary in the Officers Club, much less to visit the Sakamotos, if Pete and Patty hadn't been on his side. But by the time dinner was over, Alice was resigned to her fate, though she made it clear she wasn't going to enjoy it.

Dick was friendlier during the introductions than Joe had expected, probably to compensate for his wife's rudeness. Alice protested having to squat on the traditional zabuton cushions around the traditional low table, and immediately began complaining to Haruo Sakamoto about the awful demonstration outside the gate. She seemed disappointed when he agreed with her.

"Some Japanese forget Americans our best friends," he said. "Most Japanese not forget. Soka Gakkai not forget."

"Soka Gakkai?" Alice asked blankly.

Joe sensed what was coming next, and didn't want to risk it.

"Don't get him started on Soka Gakkai or he'll talk all night," Joe laughed, winking at Sakamoto-san. "That's his religion—his Buddhist sect—and he's always looking for converts."

"He won't find any here," Dick said.

"My friends are Baptist," Joe explained to Sakamoto-san. "Watch out or they'll convert you."

Joe and Ginger tried to steer conversation away from controversial subjects the rest of the evening, which wasn't easy. Alice found any subject controversial.

Ginger leaned over to Joe and whispered, "Kids seem to have hit it off real well." She nodded slightly toward the half-opened shoji door, beyond which Tomiko Sakamoto was showing Patty and Pete some samples of her water colors. Patty was praising her talents, and Pete seemed interested in a bit more than just her attempts at painting.

Joe nodded and whispered back, "Wish I could say the same for the folks."

For the third time in fifteen minutes, Alice had interrupted Mr. Sakamoto to correct him on some technicality of his grammar.

"No, no!" Alice explained, "You don't 'speak Mister Joe', you speak 'to Mister Joe!' You 'speak Japanese,' or you 'speak English'!"

"Yes," Sakamoto said. "Speak sukoshii English. Speak Japanese more better, I think."

"Oh, I give up!"

"Alice, honey," Dick said, "what difference does it make which he says, so long as you understand what he's saying?"

"I just hate to see our language butchered so, that's all."

Mrs. Sakamoto returned to the room from the fireplace, bearing tea and snacks.

"Kimiko makes the best tea in Japan," Ginger said.

Kimiko smiled and set the six cups around the table, her own at the corner next to her husband.

"No handles?" Alice asked, examining her cup.

"Simpler," Dick said. "The Japanese like things simple. Isn't that right, Joe?"

"Simpler for whomever makes them," Alice said before Joe could answer. "Not simpler for me."

"Whoever," Dick corrected.

Kimiko smiled again and began pouring.

"Is that green tea?" Alice asked, peering into her cup.

"Try it," Ginger said. "I'm sure you'll like it."

"Oh, I just don't think I could," Alice exclaimed. "It looks like grass juice."

Kimiko seemed disappointed, but recovered quickly and offered Mrs. Pointer a bowl of snacks.

"These look better," Alice said, selecting a crisp pink chip from the bowl and sniffing it. "What are they?"

"A variation on the potato chip," Ginger said.

"You mean like those fancy tomato chips and cheese chips? How clever!" She sampled one, and nodded in satisfaction.

The teenagers suddenly reappeared at the mention of chips, and squatted on the bare tatami floor around the second snack bowl.

"Hey," Pete said. "Don't I get anything to drink?"

Dick set his cup down, trying to avoid making a face after taking the first sip. "I don't think you'd like it, son."

Patty selected a rice cracker, around which was a dark colored wrapping, and opened her mouth.

"Careful, dear," Alice said. "Someone didn't get it unwrapped all the way."

Patty gave the tissue-like wrapper a closer look, and Ginger giggled. "Oh, go ahead, Patty, it's okay. That's part of it. It melts right in your mouth. Try it and see!"

Alice frowned and picked out an identical cracker for inspection. "What is it? It looks like old carbon paper."

"Kelp," Ginger said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Kelp. Seaweed." Ginger bit into one.

Alice drew in her breath. "Why don't you choose something different, Patty? I'm afraid we haven't built up an immunity to such things yet." She glanced at Ginger, then picked up another pink-colored chip and showed it to Patty. "Why don't you try one of these? They're edible!"

Pete was picking around in the snack bowl, and came up with a two-inch long dried minnow which he held erect by its tail. "How about one of these, Ma?"

"Ugh," Alice gasped, turning her head away. "Peter, throw the nasty thing away! If there's one thing I simply cannot tolerate, it's smelly dead fish!"

"Hai," Mr. Sakamoto agreed, pointing to her own pinkish chip. "Hish!"

"Fish? This?" Alice scrutinized the half-eaten bit in her hand; on closer look it resembled pink plastic foam. "I thought it smelled funny. Why is it pink? What kind of fish—salmon?"

"Mmm, I think . . . ahh," Mr. Sakamoto tapped his temple with his index finger, trying to remember the English word; then he perked up and raked his fingernail across his wrist. "You know?"

"Blood, I think he means," Pete drawled.

"Hai," Mr. Sakamoto said, nodding. "Brud. Brud . . ."

"Blood-fish?" Alice mumbled, puzzled. "Or fish blood . . ." Her nose and mouth twitched, and she let the chip fall to the floor from her limp hand.

"Dick, can we go pretty soon?" she asked. "I'm afraid Japanese food just doesn't agree with me."