J. B. Hogan

Three Days

The day before he and a couple of his buddies from Wing HQ were to leave for Tokyo on a special three day R&R, Hays' lower left wisdom tooth started acting up. Next morning it was sore as hell and his jaw was swollen up like he was chewing a small cud of tobacco.

"Damn," he complained to Masters and Upshaw as they crossed the flightline to board a C-130 transport for Tachikawa, "my tooth's killing me."

"Maybe you should go later," Masters suggested.

"Sarge'll let you go on another one," Upshaw added.

"I ain't takin' the chance," Hays said, "if I don't go now, I might not ever get to. They might change it on me."

"I don't know, man," Masters said, "you may not have much fun."

"It'll ease up."

"It's all swole up," Upshaw said for Masters' benefit, "like a summer tick on a fat hound dog."

"Nothin's keepin' me from this R&R," Hays insisted over his buddies' laughter and the roar of C-130 engines, "I'm having fun no matter what. I got the money, I got the time, we got our orders. I got some pain pills from the medics. I'm going if it kills me."

"You been lucky lately anyway," Upshaw said. "Maybe it'll get better."

"I can't believe you pulled that $150 pot the other night," Masters said, as they reached the plane. An E-4 gave their orders a quick look before letting them on board.

"Me neither," Hays said, thinking back to the big Acey-Deucey game two nights before. He vividly recalled the sweaty, feverish moment when he put $150 on the table-just shy of two full weeks pay at E-4, over three years in service, overseas and per diem combined- matching the pot. Three hundred dollars. And the double deck had run out. Larrabee was dealing and he had the touch for burning people. Hays had an ace and a deuce. The best you could have.

Larrabee shuffled, Woods cut, everybody held their breath. Hays felt like his heart had stopped. Larrabee tossed down a seven. Not even close. Everybody got really excited. Hays thought he was going to faint. He pulled in the $300. Incredible. Then Larrabee showed the cards on either side of Woods' cut. A deuce and an ace. One card in either direction and Hays would've been stone broke. Instead he was rich. And on his way to Japan, back to where he'd spent two years already. Although this time down south, at Tachi. No frozen north, but Tokyo, the imperial palace, the Ginza. A practically infinite number of bars and whores.

"Hot damn," Hays said through closed teeth, "we gonna have us some fun."

He fingered a wad of bills in his pocket and again relished his victory. But the wad was considerably smaller than it had been two nights ago. He'd already lost $65 of his winnings on slot machines in the Airman's Club in Korea. Still it was a substantial roll. He clambered into the interior of the C-130 with Upshaw and Masters. He let them think he still had all his winnings. He was sure his luck hadn't really run out yet.

Since the C-130 wasn't rigged for people, Hays and his buddies sat on the big back door of the plane among a collection of jeeps, tires, and what looked like parts for tanks. There were a couple of rows of harness seats on either side of the plane but except for one burly Staff Sergeant courier and a Japanese officer they were also filled with supplies. In the center of the craft were maybe twenty long narrow metal boxes. With American casualties in the war running at their highest levels ever, it didn't take a genius to figure out what was in or going to be in the boxes. Unconsciously clamping, releasing, clamping, and re-releasing his aching jaw muscles, Hays pretended he couldn't see the boxes. Through the haze of his pain, he tried to concentrate on Masters telling the E-4 why they were in Korea.

". . . after they captured the Pueblo," Masters was saying, "they shipped our whole base over here. It went from about 1200 guys to nearly 6000 in three days." The E-4 whistled appreciatively. "We been livin' in tents and workin' twelve hours a day since we got here. Hell, we was all restricted to base for the first six weeks. It looked like another war was comin'. Shit, man, we're sandbagged in to the hilt."

"How come you guys are going with us back to Japan?" the E-4 asked.

"R&R," Masters explained. "We all work at Wing HQ," he pointed to Upshaw and Hays, "one of our sergeants wangled it for us. Hell, we can go anywhere. These orders we got don't have a destination on 'em."

"No kiddin'," the E-4 said, "I didn't even pay any attention."

"Yeah, we're up there with all the brass," Masters bragged, "we got this Colonel Y----." Hays tuned the conversation out. He was feeling very poorly and Masters' BS wasn't going to help. Upshaw noticed Hays was looking pretty wobbly.

"Hey, dude," he said, "you all right?"

"Huh?" Hays answered from his fog.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. . . just hurts, that's all."

"Whyn't you take some of them pills Doc give you? Maybe they'd help."

"Not yet," Hays said, "I don't need'em."

"Couldn't hurt."

"I'll wait."

Hays held both hands against the sides of his face, putting pressure on the jaws. When he released the pressure, his bad jaw didn't hurt so much. He did that off and on for ten or fifteen minutes, all the time staring at the floor. Masters and the E-4 kept talking. Upshaw read the Stars and Stripes.

After awhile, Hays got up and walked over to a small window by one of the big side doors and peered out. They must be getting close to Japan, he figured, watching a collection of tiny green islands go by. He watched the islands for several minutes until a sharp pain pushed him to walk some more.

He went up towards the cockpit, then back along the side where he'd looked out the window, looped past his buddies, and sidled through the metal coffins up to where the Staff Sergeant and the Japanese officer sat several yards apart.

With a closer look, Hays could tell from the officer's uniform that he was from the Japanese Air Self-Defense Force. Two years of seeing the off-blue khakis and the geometric-like rank on the shoulder plates made the ID easy. Hays tried a smile at the officer. The officer looked back impassively. He carried a U.S. handgun, not a .45 but a standard barrel .38, in a holster hooked to the back of his uniform like the many U.S. pilots Hays had seen strutting along the flight line in Korea.

Hays looked around and rubbed his jaw. He considered starting a conversation but the JASDF officer seemed to be frowning at him. Hays felt the bottle of pain pills in his fatigue shirt. The JASDF officer turned quickly towards him. Surprised, Hays jumped back. The officer reached beneath a blue coat he carried on his lap. For a split second Hays thought he saw the flash of another blue barrel. It happened so quickly and the JASDF officer was motionless again so rapidly, Hays immediately doubted what he'd seen. Why would the damned JASDF pull a gun on him anyway. It was crazy.

He must've just thought he'd seen it. A hallucination. That idea really made him feel out of balance. With a peek back at the JASDF, Hays walked slowly, uncertainly away. He took two of the pain pills out of his pocket and swallowed them without water. He nearly gagged. He wished like hell that they would get to Tachi. He felt like drinking a quart of Johnny Walker all by himself, and he hated straight booze.

After a couple of minutes, in which he took several, what he hoped were surreptitious glances back at the officer, Hays realized his escape from the JASDF had put him right up next to the Staff Sergeant courier. This guy was truly massive, from the top of his too-small hat to the tips of his patent leather-shiny black brogans. He was carrying a .45. It was holstered thickly and awesomely at his more than ample side.

The briefcase the courier watched over was hooked to him by about a foot of link chain attached to one big wrist by a handcuff. The courier had a broad, flat forehead, bushy eyebrows, a crooked, no doubt many times broken nose, and a jaw doing a good impression of human rock. Through blurring eyes, Hays saw that the courier was reading something. He moved a little closer and squinted to see what it was. It was a Popeye comic. Off and on the courier would laugh heartily, slowly turning the pages. Hays almost even laughed himself. The courier looked up at Hays and smiled. Hays couldn't believe it. The guy was missing several front teeth. Hays suppressed a laugh and almost farted. This guy must be the perfect courier, he thought. No one in their right mind would get anywhere near that briefcase as long as that guy was hooked to the other end of it.

Smiling feebly, Hays backed away from the courier, walking back over to the side of the plane to look out. Even though the pills were already affecting him, his jaw still hurt, his ears were plugging up-he hadn't noticed they'd begun their descent-and he was picking up a case of what looked like it might be bad gas. He felt like shit. He was entertaining the idea that he'd already died and gone to hell.

As proof of Hays' new theory, the C-130 suddenly hit a pocket of bad air and dropped a couple of hundred feet. Hays felt like he was going to lose what was left of his breakfast. The smell of half digested eggs filled his nostrils. He belched loudly. With an effort, he managed to make it back to his seat on a tire between Upshaw and Masters. Upshaw gave him a concerned once over. Hays massaged his jaw and rocked back and forth on the tire. He figured that if this wasn't hell it was damn close enough. Close enough for government work, anyway.

By the time they settled into the Bachelor Airmen's Quarters at Tachikawa, Hays was in a darkening tunnel of drugs and pain. The spacious Quonset hut BAQ held none of the charm it had had just over a year ago when he'd passed through on his rotation back to the world. While Masters and Upshaw cleaned up for a big night out, Hays took two more pills and lay on his cot staring at some bugs that may or may not have been crawling around on the ceiling. As he drifted off, he saw himself standing astride two rows of metal boxes on a flight line somewhere in some distant jungle. The boxes were moving around under his feet and he was fighting to keep them still.

"Hays," Upshaw shook his friend awake a quarter of an hour later, "Hays. Get up. We be goin' down to the USO center in Tokyo. Come on, get up."

"Wha..?" Hays mumbled, stirring, dragging himself back into consciousness. Upshaw helped him sit up.

"How you feelin', dude?" he asked. "I thought you was dead."

"Oh, oh . . . uh, better," Hays said, shaking his head semi-clear. "Where we goin'?"

"The USO center down by the Ginza," Upshaw explained, "some dudes here told us about it. It's real cheap and we can leave our bread with 'em so we don't be gettin' broke the first night."

"Is he going?" Masters asked, coming from the hallway into their sleeping area of the modular quonset hut. Each of Tachi's BAQ huts were divided into six or seven sections with cots for six men in each section.

"I'm goin'," Hays said, standing up slowly. "Nothin' stops me from havin' fun. These pills are doing all right. I'll be okay."

"Great," Masters said, "let's blow this joint and act like civvies for a couple of days. Wooo-ee," he hollered. "Tokyo! The Ginza! Booze and poontang till hell freezes over." "Hot damn," Upshaw cheered, "we be partyin' now, oh, hot damn."

Hays sat at the bar of the Flaming Tiger night club, trying to remember if he'd left his money in the safe back at the USO hotel or if he'd already spent all but $70 of the over $200 he'd brought. He grimaced and tried to focus on the inside of his billfold. He knew he'd broken a twenty for some drinks-rum and coke-a couple for him, a couple for a cute whore who hung around him until she saw him drop two more of the pain pills.

"You a fuck up, GI," she'd said, drifting away from Hays, who spilled his drink reaching for her. Now those two pills, augmented by the rum, were really kicking in. He ordered a fresh rum and coke and paid for it with a ten he found in his pocket. The bartender wiped up the mess on the counter, brought the new drink and the change in yen and set them in front of Hays.

"Arigato," Hays slurred. He felt really hot. The red flame decor of the bar didn't help much either. He wiped his forehead with the cool drops off the side of the drink.

"Look, Hays," Masters said, coming up beside Hays at the bar. Masters had a really pretty Japanese girl with him. "Look, dude, round-eyed poon." He pointed to a table in a corner across the room. There were three Caucasian women at the table. "Check it out, man. Stateside ranky."

"Yeah," Hays grunted.

"Well, go get it," Masters prompted, "go on."

"Go on," Hays repeated. It was more of a question than a statement.

"Move it," Masters said, pushing Hays away from the bar, "don't be a chicken shit."

Hays stumbled away and swiped at his drink, somehow snagging it as he awkwardly and somewhat reluctantly made his way towards the table of women. Masters and his girl watched from the bar.

"How you doin'?" Hays addressed the women when he finally reached them.

He stood there, wavering, leaning slightly to one side. The women chatted on among themselves. In his fog, Hays was able to make out that all three were good looking, with unusually short hair. He thought they must be service girls. He cleared his throat. Two of the girls talked on, ignoring him. The other, a curly haired brunette, looked up at him. She smiled. "Uh," Hays repeated, "how you doin'?"

"Hello," the brunette said amiably. The girl next to her, a sandy blonde, gave Hays a quick glance, then went back to talking with the other girl.

"H. . . H. . . Hi," Hays stuttered, more from the pills and alcohol than his usual shyness with women. He was too much out of it to be very self-conscious. The brunette watched him with more than a little amusement.

"Are you a GI?" she finally asked. Hays looked at her as if he'd just seen her for the first time. He struggled to clear his head.

"Yeah," he answered, lighting a cigarette and offering one to the girl, which she turned down. "Over here from Korea."

"Oh, R&R," the girl said. "This your first time overseas?"

"Naw," Hays said, sipping his drink while smoke boiled out of his nose, "was here before. Up north. Near Aomori."

"We've been up there," the girl said, pointing to her friends. They looked over and smiled perfunctorily. "It's pretty up there."

"You all in the service?" Hays asked. The woman talking to the blonde, a stocky, mid-western looking brunette laughed. Hays focused on her. She sort of pissed him off.

"No," the first brunette said, "we're USO."

"Oh," Hays said. He looked at the blonde and the stocky brunette again. Hard as it was for him to evaluate anything at the moment, he felt they were making fun of him. "Can I buy you a drink," he said gruffly.

"Thanks, but no," the first brunette said, "we're fine for now." The other two women giggled.

"C'mon," Hays insisted, "I'll buy you a beer." He waved for a barmaid. All three of the women were watching him now. "You guys need a drink."

"Us guys don't need anything from you, guy," the stocky girl said. Hays looked at her and suppressed a belch.

"Thanks, anyway," the friendly girl told him.

"I'll get you one," Hays said, as the barmaid came up. "Three beers." The barmaid left. Hays faced the three women.

"Thanks for the beers," the nice one said, "but we're just together, the three of us."

"Great," Hays said, not understanding. The barmaid brought the beers. Hays managed to find a twenty and gave it to the woman. A "hostess" watching Hays and the women moved into range. No one said anything for awhile. Hays just stood there in his reddish haze.

"It was nice talking to you," the nice woman said. Hays still stood there without speaking. "Bye," the woman added.

"Uh . . . I . . . ." Hays began.

"Goodbye," the blonde said sharply. Hays' head jerked back at the tone of her voice.

"Huh?" he grunted.

"Scram," the blonde said, "see you around." She and the stocky girl laughed. Hays definitely didn't like that.

"Hey," he complained, "you know what . . . ."

"Split," the stocky girl told him.

"Hmph," Hays mumbled. He wasn't sure what he'd done wrong. He didn't know why these women were mad at him.

"Get lost, buster," the stocky one said, "Beat it." She turned away and began talking to the blonde again. Hays looked at the nice brunette. She acted like she was watching something on the other side of the room.

"Well, hell," Hays said. "I'll be a sonofabitch."

With a shrug of his shoulders he left, the women's laughter in his burning ears. The "hostess" tried to take his arm. He pushed her away. Hays found Masters at the bar with the pretty whore.

"Well," Masters asked, "how did it go?"

"They ain't lookin' for guys," Hays said.

"Huh," Masters said, "I don't get it."

"What can I say," Hays said, popping another set of pain pills and ordering a fresh beer. He realized that his jaw wasn't hurting a bit. "My tooth feels great," he said.

"I don't know what you mean," Masters said.

"I mean it don't hurt," Hays said.

"No, no, about the women."

"What do you think it means?" Hays said. Masters thought about it.

"Oh," he said, eyes widening, "I see."

"I feel like hell," Hays said.

"You're just messed up now," Masters said.

"Where's Lonnie?"

"He already split with a chick."

"Jerk," Hays said.

"Why don't you go with us," Masters suggested, indicating his girl, "we're gonna hit a coupla more bars before we go to her place. What'ya say?"

"Why the hell not," Hays said, opening his eyes wide to keep them from closing. "Why the hell not."

When Hays' head next cleared enough so that he could tell where he was, he was in another bar sitting at a table with a relatively young, pretty good-looking whore.

"Where the hell is this?" he asked the girl.

"The Naraka bar," she told him. "You lots drunk, ney?"

Hays looked around the bar. There were only another couple or two, Japanese, and a scrawny little old man tending bar.

"Where's Masters?" Hays asked the girl, suddenly remembering his buddy. "I was with him and his girl."

"You mean you friend?" the girl asked.

"Yeah," Hays said, "where is he?"

"They go already," the girl said, "do some bang bang."

"Oh," Hays muttered. He felt in his shirt pocket for the pain pills. They were gone. He checked his pants. Gone.

"Shit," he said.

"Go now?" the girl asked, misunderstanding.

"What?"

"We go my place now. Go do it, number one fuck."

"Yeah," Hays said, "okay. Let's go."

Outside, the girl hawked down a burnt orange cab. She said something to the driver; he reached over and opened the back door from the inside. The girl stood by the door watching Hays. He was breathing in the night air, trying to get straight.

"Pay now," the girl said, pointing to the driver.

"Now?" Hays asked.

"Now," the girl said. Hays dug around in his pockets but only came up with a couple of MPC one dollar bills. "Get your billfold," the girl said. Hays pulled it out. He had an MPC ten and a greenback five. He couldn't believe it was all he had left.

"How much," Hays asked the driver, keeping the wallet away from the girl's sight.

"Ten," he said. Hays wondered if the cabby had seen in his billfold. He started to get the money out but the girl grabbed the wallet away from him. "Hey," Hays yelled, "give it back."

"This is all you got?" the girl asked loudly. Hays looked around to see if anybody was watching.

"Give it here," he said.

"You number ten GI," the girl hissed.

Hays was afraid she'd get the local cops on him. He remembered nearly getting robbed by a whore and her neighbors in a back alley in Korea. All he wanted now was out of this place.

He'd lost all his money, his head hurt and he felt nauseous. He reached for the billfold. The girl grabbed the greenback five and threw the billfold in Hays' face. It bounced off and landed on the curb.

"Filthy, cheap GI," the girl snarled.

"Jesus," Hays said, "that's all I got left."

He stooped to pick up the contents of his wallet. The girl spit at him, missed, and ran off down the street exclaiming loudly in Japanese. Hays retrieved the billfold and stood up. He leaned against the cab and sighed.

"You still want taxi," the bemused driver asked. Hays took a deep breath and slowly released it. For the second time that day it occurred to him he might have already died and gone to hell.

"Okay," he told the driver, "you know the USO center near the Ginza."

"I know," the driver said.

"Great," Hays said. He got in the cab and collapsed onto the back seat.

"Ten dollar," the driver said, reaching his hand over the seat. Hays pulled out his wallet. He gave the MPC ten away as if it were all that remained of his very person. "Jesus Christ," he said.

He rested his head back and closed his eyes. The cab jerked away from the curb and raced out into the thinning traffic. Hays felt like he was drifting again. He realized that he didn't know where he was, that his jaw was starting to ache again, and that he'd lost his pain pills. He opened his eyes and for a moment watched the neon exuberance of Tokyo flash by as the cabby roared on through the night. Hays remembered he was broke. He didn't know what he was going to do. He still had two days of R&R to go.