The Brass Rail

  The Brass Rail

  LD Robison

  Copyright 2017, LD Robison

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

  ISBN: 978-1-970024-53-1

  DEDICATION

  The story is dedicated especially to all the men and women in the United States Air Force with whom I had the honor to serve, and to all the women and men in all the branches of our armed forces past, present, and future who have proudly worn or will wear the uniform of our country and defended our liberties.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1 Land of the Rising Sun

  CHAPTER 2 The Encounter

  CHAPTER 3 Memories of the Sea Journey

  CHAPTER 4 Barracks Life

  CHAPTER 5 Duty Station

  CHAPTER 6 Waylaid

  CHAPTER 7 The Assignment

  CHAPTER 8 Saturday

  CHAPTER 9 Mama-san’s Story

  CHAPTER 10 The Search Begins

  CHAPTER 11 Mama-san and Butler

  CHAPTER 12 The Drunk and the Entrepreneur

  CHAPTER 13 The Chase

  CHAPTER 14 Stitched Up

  CHAPTER 15 Back to the Brass Rail

  CHAPTER 16 Visitor

  CHAPTER 17 A Lesson Learned

  CHAPTER 18 Rendezvous at the Laundry

  CHAPTER 19 Tranquility and Surprise

  CHAPTER 20 Return

  CHAPTER 21 Skepticism and Reward

  CHAPTER 22 June 18, 1953

  CHAPTER 23 The French Embassy

  CHAPTER 24 Irish to the Base

  CHAPTER 25 Run for the Gate

  CHAPTER 26 The Ride

  CHAPTER 27 The War Is Over

  CHAPTER 28 Gaijin

  EPILOGUE Citadel

  CHAPTER ONE

  Land of the Rising Sun

  2054 Hours – Friday – 1952

  The pop-top bottle of Dai Nippon beer he’d nursed most of the night was now empty. If he was going to make what little money he had left in his pocket stretch until payday, there was no extra cash for another brew. When it was time to leave he glanced around the bar, surveying the crowd for a few minutes, and then returned to his doodling. Delaying his departure, he created saloon art, the interconnecting of wet circles on the bar surface with the bottom of his glass. His total concentration was on the artwork, and while he was signing his name, Andy Anderson, on the moist surface, a soft feminine voice asked, “Want ’nother buru?”

  “Huh?” With all the background clamor and deeply engrossed in his own thoughts, he hadn’t fully heard the question. Looking up he gazed into the exquisite face and then down the low-cut blouse of a curious, gorgeous young Japanese barmaid who had leaned over the countertop to see what he was doing.

  “You want ’nother buru?” The lovely woman lifted the empty pop-top beer bottle and waved it in his face to show him he needed another round. She winked and, with a seductive smile, purred, “’nother buru?”

  Covering the glass with his hand, he shook his head. “No thanks,”

  Andy had been stationed at the nearby air base for the past year, and the Japanese tavern had become his home away from home, a place where he felt comfortable. When you lived in an open-bay barracks with seventy-two men, even a crowded bar could give you a sense of privacy. Crammed wall to wall with patrons that night, the atmosphere of the saloon, or izakaya, echoed with the endless noisy chatter. Someone bellowed for another round of beer. The language was so foul and vulgar that even Satan, if he’d been there, would have turned away. The young enlisted men drank heavily, consuming more alcohol than necessary. But who cared? They were having a good time.

  A few older retreads from World War II bellied up to the bar or slouched drunkenly in chairs. These men, reduced in rank for various misdemeanors, swapped lies and told war stories recalling their younger days of glory and sorrow. Andy personally knew only three of the older men, though they weren’t all that old, maybe in their thirties. Irish, once a staff sergeant and now a private, had been arrested when he’d sold a Jeep on the black market. Sentenced to five years’ hard labor in Leavenworth prison, he’d managed to cut a deal with the government prosecutors and turned informant on the buyers. In return for the information, he’d received a reduced sentence of six months in the stockade, reduction of rank, and been permitted to remain in the service. Irish bragged that he’d sold four Jeeps and a couple of truckloads of Jeep parts the government didn’t know about. The proceeds of the illegal transactions had provided him with a comfortable little nest egg.

  Then there was Private First Class Blankenship, a former master sergeant who’d once worked in the finance office. Blankenship would approve a voucher for early pay if you needed money—for a fee, of course. That is, until Uncle Sam discovered his little scheme. Sergeant Butler, an enlisted reservist, had been recalled to active duty at the beginning of the Korean War. He had been a captain at the end of World War II and had earned a chest full of medals and campaign ribbons that a four-star general would envy. Sadly, Butler still dealt with the stress of combat fatigue and drank heavily on occasion to repress the memories and nightmares.

  Loud voices at a nearby table caught Andy’s attention, and he swung around on the barstool to see why the group of R and R guys from Korea were arguing. The ensemble of Army and Air Force men sat around a table, arguing about which Asian women were the best in the sack—Korean, Japanese, or Chinese. The heated discussion intensified. A tall, skinny kid with peach fuzz on his chin slapped his hand down with enough force to rock the table and topple a bowl of peanuts.

  “Ya don’t know shit from Shinola!” he yelled. “Last night was the best lay ever. That little jo-san knew every move in the book!” He uttered the words, “What a night; what a friggin’ wonderful night.” Then he sighed, and a grin big enough to make the Cheshire Cat jealous spread across his face.

  “What the hell do you know about women?” taunted a pompous-looking Air Force two-striper. “I’ve spent more time in whorehouses in Seoul than you’ve been in the service. I bet you ain’t got screwed more than once in your life, an’ that was last night. And you were prob’ly so dang drunk you were tryin’ to hump a pillow.” He fiercely grabbed his bottle of beer and chugged the contents down in one long gulp. Then he wiped off his mouth with his grimy hand.

  The skinny kid wanted to say something in response, but an Army PFC broke in. “You wimpy-assed flyboys are full of crap. My last R and R was in Hong Kong. Now, those are the women. They know how to take care of you! They got all the moves an’ ain’t lazy like them sluts in Korea.”

  The arrogant-looking character took exception to the comment. “Them cheap whorin’ gals in Hong Kong all got the clap. You ground pounders are so dumb. Prob’ly thought the bitch was givin’ ya VD as a birthday present all wrapped up in a fuzzy little box.” He smirked and continued, “Y’all’s so dumb you didn’t even know what was goin’ on until the gonorrhea got you hurtin’. Then the drippin’ and burnin’ became so bad when you pissed, ya almost ripped out the pipes from the urinal ’cause of the pain in your pecker.”

  The insult was perhaps partially correct, because the only comeback the Army grunt had was to double up his fist and cock back his forearm. “You’re a smartass son of a bitch!” he yelled.

  A scuffle commenced, with pushing, shoving, and derogatory remarks exchanged. They continued discussing and questioning each other’s lineage as the quarrel heated up.

  Along with half a dozen other regular patrons, Andy began to wonder if they needed to step in to quell the brewing fight. There were no bouncers in the bar; the regular patrons policed the j
oint themselves. If someone felt they needed a physical confrontation to settle their differences, the regulars requested the opponents take their argument outside. If the foes were reluctant to abide by the bar’s unwritten protocol, or if the rivals had difficulty in locating the door, there were plenty of men in the bar who would happily help them to the exit. The regulars didn’t cotton to the idea of the provost marshal closing the bar down and putting it off limits just because a few goofballs couldn’t control their tempers.

  During the argument, one soldier, a guy with an authoritarian manner, sat at the table and watched the exchange of heated words. Ordering a round of beer, he signaled to the waitress to place all the bottles in front of him on the table. “Damn it, knock it off!” he roared, noticeably annoyed.

  This soldier stared at the two combatants and said sternly, “Come on … sit down! Shut up an’ drink up or leave.” He shoved a full bottle of beer in front of each of his companions at the table. “The night’s still young, and I’m not goin’ to spend the rest of my R an’ R in the hoosegow!” He lifted his bottle toward them. “Drink up,” he ordered in a commanding tone.

  A couple of icy stares, some grumbling, and a tense moment ensued as a chair leg scraped against the floor, but no one left. One by one they lifted their bottles in a silent toast to one another, drank, and the conversations grew friendly. The turmoil had settled down to everyone’s satisfaction without a punch being thrown.

  Perhaps the Brass Rail wasn’t the nicest of drinking establishments, and the décor did not meet everyone’s taste. The building needed painting and repairs, and there was no uniform pattern to the room’s furnishings, but the interior was clean, fastidiously so. Five polished cherrywood picture frames, displaying scenic calendar pictures of Japan, hung haphazardly on the freshly scrubbed plaster walls. The beautifully handcrafted frames seemed out of place in the tavern’s humble chamber, as did the elaborate cherrywood bar that stood elegantly alongside the mismatched scruffy, scarred tables and chairs. The well-crafted appointments were of such quality they deserved a more sophisticated setting. Cracked and peeling red oilcloth covered the padded seats of the scratched barstools. The electric lighting was subdued, not by design, but because the overhead fixtures were inadequate to provide the illumination needed. A dim glow from two small lamps behind the bar cast a faint light. The wood floor, white from daily scouring with chlorine bleach, reflected no light. For most of the men, how you viewed the saloon depended on your pay grade. The bar was an off-base hangout for the lower-rank enlisted men, and it was the best Andy could afford.

  Having lost interest in watching the group at the table, he swung his stool back around and turned to look at his buddy sitting next to him. “Hey, Mel!”

  Coming from a wealthy Philadelphia family, Mel Schultz was a kid determined to put aside his prep school mannerisms and Ivy League style for approval and acceptance as one of the guys. Receiving no financial assistance from home, he was like the rest of the peons—broke most of the time.

  All of Mel’s attention was concentrated on ogling the shapely backside of the bar girl standing in front of Andy. The girl twirled lasciviously and strolled to the far end of the bar to serve other customers.

  “Hey, Mel!” Andy said again, louder than necessary to bring the kid out of his lustful paralysis. “You ready to head back to the base?” Andy stuck a Lucky Strike in his mouth, stoked it up, and let out a lungful of blue smoke while he waited for a reply.

  Mel couldn’t take his eyes off the girl as she bent down to pick up a discarded cigar wrapper off the floor and her loose-cut top exposed her bosom. “Nah, don’t think so. Gonna stay here a bit and then head on over to Chibi’s joint and check out the entertainment. What about you?”

  “Thought I’d walk over to the RTO and catch the bus back to the barracks.” Why can’t they just call it a train station or depot rather than use the military acronym for Rail Transportation Office?

  A few dribbles of beer remained in the glass he had poised to his mouth, and Andy was ready to let the last few drops trickle down his throat when Mel jabbed him in the ribs. The jolt caused the lingering liquid to drip on the front of his uniform. “Shit, Mel, look what you made me do!”

  “Sorry—didn’t mean to, but check out Butler! The guy’s got a snootful. Whoa, talk about being snot-lockered.”

  “He’s gonna fall off that barstool in a second,” Andy answered, a little fretful of what might happen if he actually did.

  Way beyond the reasonable limits of sobriety, Butler sat precariously on the edge of the padded stool, both of his elbows firmly anchored on the countertop as he struggled to preserve his stability.

  In a cynical manner, Mel commented, “He polished off that last jug of sake faster than most people can drink a shot. Got to give him credit; the guy can put the booze away!” Then he added in a condescending tone, “By morning he’ll be down on all fours hugging the commode and wallowing around in his own stinking vomit.”

  The mama-san who owned the Brass Rail stood quietly behind the bar in the sedate fashion customary of older Japanese women, yet also with a regal elegance which declared her independence. The only name they ever addressed the woman by was simply Mama-san. She replaced Butler’s empty sake tokkuri with a fresh decanter of warm rice wine, and she watched him with a concerned expression, as if saying, You’ve consumed more than enough tonight, my friend. Go home. She then positioned the newly filled tokkuri in close proximity to his hand but where he would not carelessly knock it over. Politely she bowed and backed away, and for a second, a glimpse of empathy broke through her solemn expression.

  Andy worked in the same hangar, lived in the same barracks, and ate in the same chow hall as Butler. Although he was around the ex-officer most of the day and night, Andy didn’t know him all that well. The scuttlebutt was that Butler still held the rank of captain in the inactive reserves. The guy kept to himself. He was a colleague, or perhaps more of an acquaintance, not quite a buddy. The difference in their ages played a large role in their relationship as well.

  “I think we ought to try to get him back to the barracks before he passes out,” Andy said. “He’s ready to crash any minute.”

  “The old fart won’t listen to us,” Mel said, looking over his shoulder at Butler. “He goes by his own set of rules; it isn’t our responsibility to babysit him. The guy’s a snob. The man is the heir of some old aristocratic Southern family, and just ’cause he was an officer once, he thinks enlisted people are beneath him—we’re like dirt to him.”

  “He ain’t an officer anymore,” Andy shot back. “If he’s too hungover to do any work tomorrow, we’ll have to pick up the slack, and he’s not that bad of a guy.

  “You don’t need to defend him. The man is old enough to take care of himself, and he doesn’t want our help. Besides, I betcha all those combat stories about him are a bunch of crap.”

  “You’re probably right, but maybe there’s some truth to them…. Butler’s not a bad sort of guy….”

  Andy quit talking, as Mel had focused all his attention on Sumiko, an attractive Eurasian hostess he’d been endlessly pursuing. Mel always described her as “a dish, a real winner, a complete knockout!” To use an expression he had picked up from a guy in the barracks, Mel would add that “she is built like a finely constructed outhouse with every brick in place.”

  Sensing they were looking at her, the fair-skinned young Eurasian woman turned to stare at them. As she shifted her position, the luster of her light brown hair shimmered in the subdued light for an instant. When she glanced at the two guys and smiled, there was a sparkle in her hazel eyes that Andy found irresistible, and he understood why Mel was so smitten with this young woman. She stood apart from the other Japanese women with their darker hair, and at times Andy knew it bothered her a great deal that she looked different. He and Sumiko had become close friends during the past year, since he had begun dating her roommate, Yoriko. Andy had chatted numerous times with Sumiko while waiting for
Yoriko to finish work or when the three of them were out sightseeing. However, the only family and personal information Sumiko ever conveyed to him was that her parents were dead and she had grown up in an orphanage and foster homes.

  Fiddling with the empty beer bottle, Andy observed Butler. The man’s actions were comedic. He’d nod and doze off, and then he’d snap his head upright as he started to wake, and then he’d doze off again; you’d think he’d break his neck the way he popped it back. Slipping partway off the stool, Butler’s elbows slid awkwardly from the bar top. He made a wild, desperate grab for the side of the bar, scraping and banging his knuckles harshly against the wood until his fingers found a grip. Funny, yes, yet Andy found it depressing to see Butler in such a drunken state.

  Those who stood around him laughed at his antics, yet no one bothered or befriended him. When Butler was sober, he had an air of distinction about him. He was a classy guy, well educated, a graduate of the Citadel, the distinguished West Point of the South in Charleston. Andy liked him, but when Butler was drunk he was withdrawn and aloof.

  A different bar girl, unknown to Andy, peered at him with a scheming expression that reminded him of a rattlesnake ready to strike. “Hey, you want buru? You sit, stare all time, or goin’ drink? Want buru or sake? Tabru—food?” She paused for a second and then wheedled, “Me need keep job. What you want?”

  He didn’t say anything; he simply looked at her as she continued her tirade in a very gruff and unpleasant manner.

  “Mama-san say we sell buru or lose job. Lose job, must go work on street. You no want see me on street. Street no place for nice girl like me. Me cherry girl.” She glanced over her shoulder and shuddered. His eyes followed her gaze. Mama-san stood by the door to the kitchen, intently scrutinizing her with a disapproving stare.

  He wondered what the deal was between this girl and Mama-san. In the year he’d been coming to the Brass Rail, he’d observed Mama-san interact with her employees. Mama-san always seemed fair, and the girls appeared to like her. Between these two, though, there was venom.