Komatsu, in case one is unfamiliar with the geography of Japan, is a very small town on the west side of the main island. Actually, it faces north, since Japan generally lies east-west in the center of it's 1500 mile length. It is about 100 miles due west of Kyoto, and is blessed with a pretty beach and clear blue water. It is the location of two Japanese Air Self Defense Force (JASDF) F-15 squadrons who were eager to tear it up with some Marine Hornets. What with all the training was in it. So they graciously decided to pay for our trip and well, since the whole reason we were deployed to Japan was to maintain international relations, show American commitment to our allies in this part of the world, and build interoperability with allied militaries, it just made sense. It was our only really exciting assignment during this deployment, unless you count our delightfully chilly and miserable little field exercise in Korea. Besides, what fighter pilot (or WSO) doesn't want to test his or her skills against a foreign adversary?
The more I thought about the whole thing, actually, the more it seemed like a good time. A little bit of a good time, mind you. Nowhere near as exciting as Guam, or Thailand, or Australia would have been. But better than stewing in Iwakuni. Of course, the fun police were in full effect, warning us ever so severely that the poor unexperienced denizens of Komatsu were unfamiliar with Americans, especially Marines, and we wouldn't be able to count the sort of help often offered by the nice people of Iwakuni--rudimentary English, directions home if we happened to forget the way or were partially inebriated, or a charitable refusal to call the police if we created some sort of disturbance. In fact, our ability to travel off base was subject to many onerous restrictions and warnings indeed that we felt like there was a large and exciting world of forbidden fruit outside just waiting to be plucked! Or I should say the pluckiest of us felt. The rest of us nodded seriously, waited for our appointed betters to depart the area, and under the auspices of the blue light embarked on a veritable orgy of eye-rolling and muttering about the substandard entertainment provided by this deployment.
Well, we duly got the squadron packed up (and I was grateful now that I was not responsible for heavy and sensitive computer equipment of the MPC, but rather only required a work computer and some files) and flew into Komatsu. It was a clear, sunny Saturday morning and a very short flight. Still feeling surly, and curious, to see this pastoral Japanese town supposedly terrified of the crazy American Marines, I was awkwardly greeted by a Japanese dignitary of some sort, who smiled benignly and shook my startled hand, before I picked up my personal effects--stuffed in the ever-capacious, ever handy, well-used seabag--and strolled over to the large apartment block that was to be my home for the next two weeks.
This was my first real introduction to Japanese life. First, I had to take my shoes off before entering. Now I'd expected this--I'd been told countless times that it's forbidden to enter Japanese residences (and most restaurants) with shoes on. But until now I'd only ever visited touristy places, and lived in American quarters on an American base. In the simple act of unlacing my boots and throwing on some slipper-sandals for the trip to my room, I stepped into life as a guest of the Japanese. There was no great revelation to this, I caution. But it was very interesting and very enjoyable.
The first thing to mention is the food. Like many American bases, the Japanese have an on-base store and restaurant. The latter part of the structure was converted into a chow hall for Americans three times each day, and giggling polite Japanese ladies served the food behind the counter. I am sorry to say that the meals were awful. I should say here that I like Japanese food. But what they served us was a caricature of American food--exclusively deep-fried, unimaginative junk. I think they were trying to make us meals that we would like. They probably thought that all Americans eat nothing but french fries and assorted other fried food. It was a trial. The fruit, however, was delicious and fresh. We ate a lot of that.
The other big surprise was the Japanese bathhouse located on the top floor of our apartment block. We had been warned about this, too. Our prudish American sentiments might be offended, we were told, at the Japanese custom of relaxing in this bathhouse naked. Some among us refused to go at all costs. None of that male nudity for them! Others attempted to enjoy the steaming pools and saunas at off-peak hours, where their use of a bathing suit or a towel would not be subject to the affronted stares of our hosts. I decided if I were in for a penny, I might as well be in for a pound (or a hundred yen), and trooped up one evening with a towel, some shower sandals, and a bucket with soap and shampoo to see what this Japanese male bathhouse ritual was all about.
First of all, it was definitely a retreat. Compared to our spartan rooms and common areas, the wood panelling, sumptuous carpet, and gleaming generous faucets were luxurious. A little foyer provided cubbyholes for one to put clothes and shoes, and I surreptitiously followed the lead of some Japanese in stripping completely and heading off into the interior. Once inside, the first room was a carpeted living room with massage chairs and a television, in which clothed Japanese enjoyed the services of the chairs and some conversation. Further in, the floor turned to tile and the towels moved from the waist to the neck. On one side of a room running the length of the building there were three tubs filled with water of varying heat. The rest of the room was furnished with knee-high shower nozzles, under which men sat and scrubbed themselves. Their nakedness was, er, awkward...especially since they took no notice of it. In several parts of the room men carried on apparently normal conversations while thoroughly showering. As I was unwilling to experience quite that much Japanese culture, I repaired to the loneliest nozzle and quickly showered there. Then I walked over to the tubs in some unnoticed embarrassment at my nakedness.
The succession of hot water and saunas that followed was quite nice. There's something to be said for a good long soak; it clears the head and seems to purify the body. Some assert that a sauna causes the body to sweat out toxins, and I could almost believe it to be true. Fortunately my fellow bathers were too interested in their own conversations to pay me any attention, so awkwardness was kept to a minimum. In accordance with bathing protocol, I returned to the shower before dressing, and was just beginning to feel something like resignation to the surprising nudity around me when I caught sight of my naked self in the plate windows at the far end of the shower room. Realizing both that it was dark, and someone outside could see into the shower room, and that the shower room faced the flight line at the same instant, I wondered if any of our Marines working the night shift (of which several were female) could discern one of their own seven stories up. That was not a welcome thought. I dressed rather hurriedly and departed. From then on I ventured no more to the bathhouse--it was an interesting experience, and even a positive one (the saunas and the tubs, at least), but certainly not for me. I'm happy to admit my prudishness in this regard.
Trips off the base were spiced up by the obvious trepidation of Japanese locals and the constant presence of a Japanese plain-clothed policeman. The latter, we heard, was not there so much to keep tabs on us as to reassure the citizens of Komatsu that they weren't to be abandoned to our notoriously crazy ways. As regards to the attitude of the locals, well, it was decidedly odd to feel watched every second and in every action. Some places had signs declaring they refused to serve us. We were good-natured about it (after all, we were guests), and concentrated our forces on the places that welcomed our business--especially the Karaoke lounges. Those places might as well have been in a different dimension, since once inside we were almost encouraged to get drunk and bawl out songs to Japanese-produced music videos of American pop songs. In those smokey and close dens, the local patrons evinced hilarity at our antics and seemed not at all perturbed by our presence...especially as I recall we pretty much hogged the mike. After such nights the presence of our Japanese police shadow was quite useful in showing us the way back to the base.
During the one full weekend we were in Komatsu we were invited to field a squadron baseball team and play the Japanese base baseball team. Though meant as a fun bonding exercise, we regarded this as as serious challenge. The Japanese take baseball very seriously, and though their major leagues do not (in general) reach the caliber of American teams (except the Cubs, of course) they do field many players who are good enough to come and be stars in the United States. Also, on our various occasional jogs around the airfield we noticed many little league games in progress. So we figured we had the honor of America in our hands in a contest involving our national pastime. Accordingly, the day of the game we divided into four teams and played an elimination match that resulted in two teams being formed--basically a "varsity" team, that played the Japanese base team, and a JV team which played the Japanese equivalent JV team. The Japanese were very professional and showed up in uniforms, with uniformed umpires to call the game, and strong overhand pitching. It was a very sunny day and a great deal of fun--our JV team won narrowly (that was my team) while our "varsity" lost narrowly. So I'd say our national honor was maintained, though not by much.
The deepest glimpse into Japanese culture came, however, during our training flights. We have our own training requirements and they have theirs, but both sides required "red air," usually a section (two) of fighters to play the enemy. Normally the red air will act per the "blue air" flight lead's instructions, and die accordingly, until all fighters are within visual range (WVR)--at which point the gloves come off, and all players fight for their life in a melee until one side is completely killed. The last part, really, is why we were excited to work with the JASDF. Dogfighting. It is, as some say, the most fun one can have with his or her clothes on.
Now it's considered good manners that when one squadron provides red air, you provide it back on a later flight. A nice, professional quid pro quo. And so it happened that occasionally we would listen to the Japanese brief us and conform to their training needs, while other times we'd have to brief them. And it follows, of course, that after the fight the blue air flight lead would then debrief the full flight--arrows on whiteboards, sternly enforced etiquette of terms and speech, the whole nine yards. I should admit that we considered ourselves the master at this. The tactics and ethics of TOPGUN inform all we do, and as far as I know they are the grandaddy of such institutions in military aviation. With much sniggering we heard and repeated the story of one of our members, who had the misfortune to depart from controlled flight as red air during a 2v2 combat, then had the much greater fortune to recover more or less on the tail of a Japanese F-15. With admirable aggression said pilot smoothly selected an AIM-9 Sidewinder missile and pulled the trigger, calling his surprised foe out on the radio. In the debrief, the still-confused Japanese pilot neatly diagrammed out the flight, stopping the point where our comrade fell out of the sky and saying, "now here, Hornet pull SUPERMANEUVER. and shoot Eagle." He paused, then looked at the Marine and added pleadingly, "how does Hornet do supermaneuver?"
Needless to say, we were a little cocky.
The real difficulty, actually, was in the fact that the Japanese were very formal. It was unsettling to brief to an audience of stony faces, staring critically at the board. I'm sure we insulted some of them by sometimes speaking in the slow, simple tones usually reserved for dim children, but if they took offense they didn't show it. They also became very visibly embarrassed and apologetic if they made a mistake in the debrief. I should say here that it is very hard to keep the flight path of four highly maneuverable fighter aircraft in one's mind during the fight--generally you're lucky if you remember yours and the guy you happened to be fighting at one particular moment. So much for remembering all that after landing in bad weather! If you're a flight lead (and you're good), you might just remember your maneuvers and those of both enemies. But it's not unusual to have to ask your red air, "what did you do here?" on several occasions.
In one memorable debrief, a young Japanese pilot attempting to qualify for his section lead designation tried to diagram out an entire flight. In accordance with etiquette, he asked at each juncture, "Is this correct?" At one point he started drawing the maneuvers of his wingman (actually flown by his instructor) incorrectly, and three times the instructor made him re-draw the lines. After the third time--dismissed by a curt "no!" from the instructor--the poor Japanese pilot stood staring intently at the board for a very long several minutes that stretched unbearably for the sympathetic Marine red air. The red air, by the way, was forbidden from speaking at the debrief unless spoken to by holy edict from TOPGUN. So, awkwardness. Eventually, the instructor asked disgustedly, "do you...give up?" The student turned with slumped shoulders, bowed to the audience and stated sadly, "I give up." Then the instructor finished the debrief quite professionally. We joked afterwards (in sympathy, not cruelty) that we hoped the poor bastard didn't have to commit seppuku, but it was a revelation to see the stern instruction in the JASDF.
Funny stories aside, our adversaries were good pilots, and it was exciting to lead out a Japanese plane or two over the ocean to tangle it up in combat. They showed a great ability to maneuver the relatively clumsy F-15, and surprised not a few of us with their grasp of dogfighting tactics. Of course we had the best of it. Of course. All sea stories like this end with a victory.
And ultimately I felt like I caught a glimpse into day-to-day Japanese life: Not the wildly bustling Tokyo; or the professional kindness of Iwakuni residents; or touristy solicitation of Kyoto and Miyajima. It was just a chance to observe some Japanese recreation (baseball) and the stern, proud, highly professional attitude with which they conduct all their work. It was alien, and I was happy to get back to my comfortable room in which I could wear shoes. But it made me respect and love the real Japan--to my perspective, the other Japan--all the more.
