Chapter 12
Bung Bung
For Bill and the others off of the Mercy temporarily assigned to shore duty, each day in the Philippines was gruesome and grotesque. Weeks had passed since the ship took on a new load of wounded patients and departed back to Brisbane. Gone were the days of lounging around the ship at sea, waiting for what comes next. Subic Bay Naval Station was rapidly being rebuilt by US forces after the Japanese burned most of the remaining buildings to the ground, as the Americans had done before they abandoned it to them in 1942. His days now consisted of harvesting souvenirs off of piles of dead Japs before casting them into a pit on top of the other bodies. There were a couple hundred bodies in each hole in the clearing. There were dozens of holes that were already filled and packed down by the weight of a D7 bulldozer rolling over them. The clearing in the jungle was now the graveyard for thousands of dead Japs who would never return home, and their families would never know their fate.
The entire operation was overseen by a single Navy chief, Santiago. He was the product of Olongapo, the town on the other side of Naval Station Subic Bay. He grew up on the streets of Olongapo, learning to lie, cheat, steal, and fight just to survive from his very first days of memory. Olongapo was a shanty town clinging to the banks of the filthy Shit River. The river resembled more of a flowing junkyard and sewage treatment plant that was never treated. On the banks of the river, children played and picked through items thrown into it while the human waste of the town slowly inched along. The torrential rains of the annual monsoons would swell the banks of Shit River and push all the previous year’s waste into Subic Bay. The town had spent decades servicing sailors and marines from Spain, the United States, and Japan. America eventually acquired the Philippines after winning the Spanish-American War of 1898. A couple of years later, the Americans squashed the last of the Filipino resistance and maintained control until the Japs invaded in 1942. The base had been burned to the ground by both the departing Americans when the Japanese invaded and again by the Japs when the Americans returned. Tens of thousands of Filipinos had been beaten, raped, and murdered by the Japs over the previous two years. Olongapo was not exempt from this brutality.
As part of our agreement with the Philippines prior to the war, the US government agreed to take in a few thousand Filipino men into the Navy. They would not become citizens, but they became eligible to immigrate if they completed four years of honorable service. Chief Santiago was one of those candidates who never left the Navy. Since they were not Americans, the Filipinos could not get a security clearance. This meant they were relegated to the supply and deck department jobs: cooks and boatswains’ mates mostly. Santiago survived by boarding a departing US ship before the Japs invaded in 1942.
Upon recapturing the base, Petty Officer Santiago was returned to help coordinate logistics, rebuilding the base again. The fact that he was from Olongapo and his ability to speak fluent English, and even some words and phrases in Japanese, the Navy felt was an asset in the reconstruction. He was promoted to chief and placed in charge of clearing bodies from the surrounding jungle. Johnny and a couple of other transfers from other ships were now stuck doing the dirty work from sunup to sundown. Every morning, they would be rounded up in front of their tent on the outskirts of the base by Chief Santiago and a driver in a military truck. The men piled into the back and were then driven into the jungle to their next open pit and pile of bodies in the clearing.
After a couple of weeks of work, the entire crew became suspicious of Chief Santiago’s activities. New men would be assigned to the temporary group while others received orders to report to another ship. All of the men doing the heavy lifting were white, and any of the Filipino men that ended up on the crew did the easy jobs of driving the trucks or serving lunch when they did have sack lunches, which was rarely. The Filipinos always disappeared within a few days, replaced by a white guy that was either on restriction or in a temporarily assigned duty. These were guys usually waiting for their ship to arrive in Subic Bay. There were hundreds of bodies each morning dumped in a pile waiting to greet them. At the beginning of each day, Santiago would sit at a table under a tent on a folding chair next to the open pit for a few hours. The purpose was to inspect all the items that were taken off the uniforms and bodies of the men the day before. The items were collected in buckets and dumped onto the table in front of Santiago. There were rings, knives, necklaces, and pictures of Japanese sweethearts carried in the pockets of the dead soldiers. He would pick through the items and keep what he wanted. The rest were then thrown into the pit with the bodies before soil was pushed over the top. Santiago and his driver would then disappear into the jungle, leaving the men by themselves with little more than water and sack lunches for the duration of the day. Towards sundown, the truck would return with only the driver to take the men, covered in blood, mud, and the stench of death, back to the quarters. After a cold shower and a tray of hot food, their filthy overalls were washed in a 55-gallon drum of sea water and hung out to drip dry. The men would then crawl into their bunks and be asleep within minutes.
Technically, they were helping to rebuild the structures on the base on a temporary basis until their ship arrived in port. In reality, their records were turned over to Chief Santiago, who dropped them off at the makeshift personnel office personally. The men would then get orders from Washington based on the manpower needs of the Navy. Until then, they were assigned to Naval Station Subic Bay and Chief Santiago’s working party until further notice.
Each morning, the men assigned to the working party were driven to the other side of the base, closer to the fence line separating the base from Olongapo. The barracks were spartan. It was just a large Army tent with cots and no pillows. There were showers situated under a large tank with faucets fashioned to the bottom. The tent had mosquito netting surrounding the sleeping area, but men went in and out of the tent in the middle of the night to use the makeshift latrine, allowing mosquitoes to sneak in on a regular basis, carrying whatever disease they picked up from Shit River. The men were just far enough away from the rest of the base to be isolated. How long Chief Santiago had been assigned to lead the task at hand was hard to tell, but he never slept in the tent.
One night after a long day’s work, the exhausted men were lying around on their cots or washing the only uniform they had with a bar of soap while they showered. Santiago surprised everyone by returning with two trucks just before 1900. Bill and the men thought he was going to be bringing dinner; instead, the soldiers were told to load into the trucks, and he was treating everyone to dinner out in town off the base as a reward for working hard throughout the day. “Enjoy da pood and beer on me. Your orders are with da admin department on base. You be back on da base bepore da sunrise. Make sure you hab your military ID card to get back on to da base. Ebberyone on the trucks, now! ”ordered the chief. Bill had no idea what to think. Santiago’s thick accent was almost comical. He was pretty sure he said they were getting their orders tomorrow on the base and he was treating them to dinner and beers. Bill, like the others, was hungry and climbed in the back of the truck with the other grumbling men, all bitching about their circumstances. Some of the men were wearing wet clothes, but Bill was lucky to get a shower and change into his only clean dungarees and undershorts just prior to Chief Santiago’s return.
Bill loaded into the second truck, and the men looked out the back of the vehicle as it lumbered over the roots and ruts of the jungle path back toward the entrance to the base. The ride to the base entrance was maybe ten minutes from their tent. As the truck lumbered across the base, the men could see there were lights strung up in various areas across the base out the back of the truck. The work at the hospital and other buildings was happening around the clock. There were various buildings, stands, tents, and large sheds serving as temporary storage across the entire base. There were also hundreds of sailors, soldiers, and marines roaming around the base in groups of three and four as if they were on liberty. It reminded Bill of the more relaxed scenario in Brisbane. The men were being given a few days of liberty before they shipped out to their next battle. Johnny was surprised to see there were also several Americans and Filipinos wearing civilian clothes on base.
The trucks slowly chugged across the base to the entrance of Naval Shipyard Subic Bay. The pungent stench of Shit River was the nauseating welcome to Olongapo. No education was needed to know how the flowing open sewer got its name. No sooner than they had gotten to the other side, the two trucks rolled past a street sign that read Magsaysay Drive. The trucks continued a bit and then turned onto a side road somewhere in Olongapo and stopped. Bill could hear the door to the cab open and close. The pavement had stopped at the edge of the base and did not extend into Olongapo. Bill realized this as he climbed out of the back, into a settling cloud of dust and diesel exhaust.
“Okay. Everybody out?” Santiago peeked into the back of the truck to check. “Welcome to Olongapo. Men, I have your paychecks. You can cash them tomorrow on the base. Or, if you need money, you can use one of the banks in town.”
“What about dinner, Chief?” One of the men asked.
“You eat whatever you want. You want beers? You want girls? Everything is here for you. OK. The first name is Jackson, Jebbery.” The chief held out a check, and one of the men grabbed it.
“I am free to go?” Jebbery asked.
“You are free to go. You must report back to the base in the morning for duty.”
“Don’t need to tell me twice. See ya later, fellas,” Jackson said as he walked down the street. Chief Santiago only laughed and continued. “Peeper, Robert.”
“That is Pepper, Chief,” the young man in a still wet pair of dungarees took the check from his hands. “
“Dat is what I said, Peeper.” Chief Santiago smirked as he handed the man his paycheck. He could have cared less about the pronunciation of the men’s names. “Have a good time,” Santiago yelled back as Peppers walked away. Santiago continued until he got to Meade, William. Bill took his check and said nothing to Chief Santiago. He turned and walked away in the direction of the others. Bill saw Jebbery was already talking to two Filipina girls across the street. Bill was stunned the streets were packed with soldiers and sailors spending their money. The Japs hadn’t been gone a couple of months and the place had already transitioned back to catering to the Americans. Olongapo had been damaged from the fighting but had rebounded faster than the more permanent infrastructure being rebuilt on the base.
Bill put his check safely in his wallet with his identification card and placed it in the front pocket of his dungarees. He noticed a guy cooking skewered pieces of meat over a small grill along the street. The smell was amazing. “How much?”
“10 pesos,” the man replied.
“One dime?” Bill was uncertain of the exchange rate.
“10 pesos,” the man repeated.
“I don’t have pesos. All I have are dollars.”
The man nodded his head. “Beer? You want beer? 10 cents.”
“You have beer?”
“San Miguel. Best beer. You eat. Sit down, I get you beer.” The man disappeared into his little hut behind him and reappeared with a bottle of beer named San Miguel. Bill had never heard of the name but figured it was safer than the water to drink. Bill took a swig of the beer. It was cold and refreshing compared to coffee or water. He couldn’t think of the last time he had a beer. It had to be in Brisbane. Bill sat on a barrel that doubled as a seat and noticed the table was nothing more than the remnants of a large wooden spool the Americans had probably discarded and he managed to retrieve from the base. It would be worthless to anyone else, but it was perfect for his one-table operation. There were no plates or utensils. The little man handed Bill a bamboo skewer with small hunks of meat on it and then put another skewer of raw meat over the coals of his fire. It smelled delicious and tasted better. It was pork or beef, he assumed. It wasn’t fish and it wasn’t chicken. Bill pulled another piece of meat off the skewer and chomped on it. There was a flavor to the meat he could not recognize, but it was delicious. Bill looked around at the people passing just feet away from him and across the street. It was almost exclusively American GIs with Filipina women or guys walking by themselves. There was music coming from speakers outside of what appeared to be a small bar across the street inside a tent with Christmas lights hung up inside. Bill didn’t recognize the song, but he surely recognized the voices of the Andrews Sisters. They were singing about Rum and Coca-Cola. It had to be a new song. Bill shook his head. He was stunned. He never thought the first time he would have heard a new Andrews Sisters song would be on an island in the Pacific thousands of miles from home. The bar owner clearly got the phonograph off the base. But that also meant he needed a phonograph player to play the recording. Bill figured they had the phonograph player before the Japs came and somehow managed to survive and hide it during their occupation. Bill sipped on his beer and chewed on the meat while he absorbed his surroundings. He was stunned how the jungle guy pulled it off in such a remote place. The Filipino people were surely industrious, Bill thought to himself. He pulled the last piece of meat off the skewer and looked at the little man cooking the other piece of meat.
“You want more?”
“What is this?"
“Monkey,” the little man replied. Bill paused for a minute. His relationship with the monkeys had changed drastically from the first time he saw them clinging to the fence line and scurrying all over the jungle. In the beginning, he was intrigued by their actions and their similarities to humans. The monkeys copied the temporary workers and began sorting through the piles of dead Japs as soon as they were dumped off, and the truck receded back down the road it came. The monkeys assumed the men were searching for food on the bodies and copied the practice, finding none. Instead, they would shit and piss all over the area and constantly attempt to steal the sack lunches from the trucks. The Filipinos had obviously been eating them for who knows how long.
“Yes, please.” Bill nodded as he took a swig of beer. The man again left his little grill to disappear into his hut and return with an open beer. He set the cold beer down in front of Bill. Bill chugged the rest of the beer in the first bottle and let out a belch. The little Filipino guy ignored the belch and turned the skewered monkey meat on his small grill.
It was hard to fathom how the area was buzzing with activity. The cross traffic at the end of the road looked like the main intersection with more vehicle traffic. The majority of traffic was pedestrian, and the roads were not paved. It was impossible to ignore that there were several sailors and soldiers walking hand in hand with Filipino girls in the streets. They all looked like they were having a good time too. There were military jeeps driving, bicycles, and man-powered rickshaws with Filipino teenagers and young men running in front of the two-wheeled contraptions ferrying passengers around Olongapo. Bill looked towards his host, and the guy handed him another skewer of monkey meat. Bill wondered if the little guy was serving a Jap soldier the same monkey meat skewer and cold beer last year while the girls walked along with Japs. They were not just walking along; they were having sex somewhere.
“You want more?” asked the little guy again.
Bill nodded his head, agreeing to another round. He assumed the guy had his own story of the war and was lucky to be alive like the rest. “Yeah, it is delicious. The beer is good too.”
“Beer is good,” the little guy repeated and again disappeared into his shack, returning with another cold beer.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bill noticed Chief Santiago walking with a bucket into a similar shack beside the makeshift bar under the tent across the street. The bucket looked exactly like the ones that were used to collect the items off the dead Japs earlier in the day. The chief did not emerge from the little hut. “He can’t live in there, can he?” asked Bill aloud to himself. The little Filipino man pulled another skewer of monkey meat from a pan under his small stand and placed it on the grill. He seemed to be intentionally ignoring Bill, allowing him to feel as if he had some privacy even though he was no more than two or three steps from him the entire time. The smiles on the faces and occasional laughter that could be heard were clear signs the Japs had been defeated. Bill tried to imagine the shoe on the other foot with thousands of Filipino men roaming around in the cold snow of winter with guns in Iowa. Bill suspected the majority had never even seen snow. Bill stared at the guy’s feet as he stood over his little grill. Every one of the Filipinos was wearing bamboo slippers. Bill wondered if all the Filipinos made their own sandals or bought them somewhere. They looked comfortable compared to his boots. They would be a perfect souvenir from his journey; he could easily throw them in his seabag. He imagined himself walking down 5th Street in West Des Moines with bamboo sandals in the summer. People would turn their heads to stare at him walking almost barefoot.
“You want more?” the little guy asked as he gave Bill another skewer.
“No, three is enough.” Bill reached into his wallet and handed the guy a dollar bill. He noticed his check in his wallet and wondered about what Chief Santiago mentioned about a bank. What bank would be open after dark? The Philippines seemed to operate by convenience instead of any rigid set of rules and regulations. “Where do I get some sandals like that?” asked Bill as he pointed at the little guy’s feet.
“You want a plip-plop?” the man asked as he pointed at his feet. Bill nodded his head, and the guy pointed across the street in the direction of the little hut Santiago had disappeared into. “You can buy dem in da street. You hab big feet,” the little guy said as he pointed at Bills boots. The little guy handed Bill forty pesos change. Bill stared at the odd little coins. The numbers on them added up to forty. The guy’s math was correct. He stood up and grabbed his beer. He noticed other Americans in the street walking with their beer, so Bill took his with him as well. “Thank you, that was very good,” he said as he stepped back into the street, headed towards the shack Chief Santiago had entered.
As he approached, he could tell the little hut was indeed a small store selling trinkets. As he stepped inside, there was an older Filipino guy standing there that was not Chief Santiago. Bill assumed the Chief was in the back of the small establishment. It appeared there were fewer than a hundred different items offered for sale on various makeshift bamboo tables. Bill noticed there were several Japanese knives, uniform medals, and watches being offered along with apples, aspirin, baking soda, an adjustable wrench, a screwdriver, bars of soap, a box of corn flakes, and a hairbrush, but no bamboo sandals. On another table there were new toothbrushes, a pair of sunglasses, a Jap pistol with Japanese writing on it, and a silver ring with some Japanese inscription on it. It suddenly dawned on Bill that all of it had come from the base. Santiago was stealing off the base and selling items in this little hut that was out in the open. The MP’s could easily walk into his shack and arrest anyone in possession of stolen contraband banned to US military personnel. Stealing souvenirs off dead soldiers in the field to take home was one thing; reselling them to anyone in Olongapo willing to pay for the contraband would be an immediate captain’s mast. Bill looked at the older Filipino guy and asked, “Where did this stuff come from?”
The little brown-skinned man behind the bamboo table ignored the question and answered with his own question. “You want buy something?”
“Where did the knife and that emblem come from?” asked Bill, pointing to a Japanese insignia medal.
Again, the guy played dumb to the question and instead asked, “You want buy knife?”
Bill shook his head. “No, I asked you where you got it?” Bill wasted his breath in negotiating with the guy. He clearly was not going to answer, confirming his suspicion they were stolen off the dead Japs.
“I give you good price. How much you pay for it?”
“No, I don’t want it. I asked you where you got it? Is ol’ Chief Santiago back there?” Bill pointed to a door that obviously separated the front and the back of the little shack.
The little guy looked puzzled by the question. “You buy for 100 pesos?”
“Forget it.” Bill was stunned. This same asshole who had made him and the others sort through piles of dead bodies meant to be buried in a mass grave in the jungle was now selling the recovered items through a street vendor. Bill looked at the other bamboo table in the shack. It offered the same pilfered rings, bracelets, coins, a few Japanese military ID cards, a sword, another pistol, an American soldier’s helmet, and a baseball. All being sold as souvenirs right out in the open street. As Bill stood there, he noticed Chief Santiago did not emerge from the back. There was no noise either. Was there a back door? He wanted to say something to the chief. Bill wanted to call Shore Patrol and have him arrested or punch him right in the mouth when he came out from behind the bamboo door directly behind the guy. Chief Santiago never emerged from behind the door, and Bill exited the shack back onto the dirt street.
Unfortunately, there were no MP’s in sight nor a telephone. He didn’t even know a number to call even if he did have access to a phone.
“Hey, Joe. You want sexy time?” Bill heard from behind him. He turned around to find a teenage girl in a very short skirt, a tee shirt, and the same bamboo sandals. She too was light brown-skinned and looked as if a Mexican and an Asian person had a daughter. She was not what he would define as a ‘looker,’ but he was pretty sure he heard the solicitation accurately. “What did you say?”
The girl smiled and cocked her head. “You tink I pretty?”
Bill shook his head and took a swig of beer. “That is not what you asked.”
“I suck your cock twenty pesos,” replied the girl without missing a beat.
Bill’s choked on his beer before he could swallow it. “Wow, you have a way with words, don’t you,” he said as he spat on the road.
“You want cold beer? Pibe pesos,” the girl said as she held out all five fingers on her hand. That was half the price of the guy across the street who was no longer at his stand. Bill shook his head, wondering where that guy took off to so fast.
“You have cold beer?” he asked.
“Cold beer right here. Pibe pesos. You sit down inside.”
“Sure, for nickel?” said Bill to himself, looking at the San Miguel bottle he still had in his hand.
“What your name?” she asked but made no further mention of the beer as if Bill had told her he was not interested.
“My name is Bill. What is your name?” Bill emphasized the word ‘is,’ hoping she would pick up on the missing verb.
“My name Gloria,” she replied instead. “I get you beer. You get me beer too, Bill? Ten pesos.”
Bill could not believe the girl just asked him to buy her a beer. Her name was surely not Gloria either. He figured she might be a good source of information or just fun to talk to while he drank a beer with her. “Two beers for tens cents?”
“Yes. Two beers.”
“Sure, here is 10 pesos.” Bill gave the girl the remaining coins he received in change from the guy across the street without counting them. He felt bad for her. He wasn’t sure how many Jap and sailor cocks she had sucked, but she wasn’t sucking his. She just wasn’t that good-looking. She disappeared into her own little tin shack hut next to the one selling Chief Santiago’s stolen contraband from the base. The girl returned within the minute as Bill turned around from looking up and down the unpaved street. “Where did you get a cold beer?” asked Bill.
“Prom da bucket,” the girl replied. The entire population can’t pronounce the letter F or the sound of the letters TH together? It was the strangest accent he had ever heard English spoken with.
“Where did you get an ice-making machine?”
“Ice in da bucket.” She was confused and changed the subject. “Where you prom, Bill?” Gloria asked as she rubbed her hand on his cock through his dungaree pants right there on the street.
“Wow, you are kind of up front, aren’t you?” Bill was startled by her forwardness.
She giggled and asked, “You want me suck cock, Bill?”
Bill looked up and down the street. No one was paying attention to them. “How old are you?”
“Me eighteen. How old you, Bill?” she replied.
Bill suspected she was probably sixteen. “I am 22. Are you sure you are 18?”
“Maybe 19. You hab nice cock,” the girl said as she searched for the zipper on his denim dungaree pants. “Me suck cock. You drink beer.”
“Oh, my god,” Bill said out loud as she skillfully unzipped his pants. She was going to do it right there.
“No, we are not doing that here,” Bill said as he clinched the bottle between his teeth and zipped his dungarees back up.
“You sit down inside. Get out of sun and relax. Me lub you long time,” Gloria offered, and Bill added the letter V to the list of English mispronunciations.
Bill looked over either shoulder, and still no one was paying attention to him. There was also no sunlight, as the sun had just set. Gloria had rehearsed her lines so many times she had forgotten the sun had set. There were probably a dozen Americans drunk and yelling further down the street without a concern in the world. The sun had just gone down, and the sin was already on display in every direction. There were obviously other GIs going into the little shacks or huts that had been converted into food stands, trinket shops, and bars. Bill was curious if Chief Santiago was sitting inside. Curiosity got the best of him, and he followed Gloria into the establishment.
The entrance was dimly lit and narrow, but behind the door opened up a large bar with a stage. As Bill’s eyes adjusted to the lighting in the bar, he noticed there were four or five other sailors in the bar talking and laughing with women in just their bra and underwear. He could not believe his eyes. Not one of the girls looked like they were uncomfortable in their relaxed attire either. It was still warm enough to sweat, but an electric fan rigged with palm leaves kept the smoky air circulating above them. The scent inside the place was a strange combination of perfume, beer, and something sour that was either piss or vomit hanging under the thick layer of smoke. Bill noticed the floor was poured cement. There was no cement in the streets or sidewalks, but whoever owned the bar somehow acquired enough cement for the floor of the bar. How was that possible? He looked around, didn’t see a restroom. They sat down at a bamboo table a few tables away from the others.
“You want my pussy?” asked Gloria.
“Oh my goodness, no meeting your mom first?” Bill laughed as he stared at the dark-colored pubic hair in her crotch she was showing him under a hiked-up dress. She wasn’t wearing underpants.
“Me lub you long time,” Gloria repeated.
“What an advertisement!” exclaimed Bill as he looked at her face and then looked back at her crotch. It was stunning; Gloria, whom he met five minutes ago, was showing and offering her crotch with the same insincere stare when she offered the beer. She may have been poor, but she also seemed genuinely stupid and relegated to selling herself on the street.
“You want touch my pussy?” Gloria offered as she stood up and moved her crotch within a foot of his face. “Me puck you long time por 100 pesos.”
“Wow, that is nice.” It was the first time he had actually seen the crotch of a woman up close. It looked similar to the pictures of the Africans in National Geographic, but her skin was not dark. The space between her thighs was covered in thin pubic hair. As interesting as the view was, Bill was uncomfortable with Gloria. She had used this pick line and shown her pussy to an untold number of guys. Bill hesitated. “I don’t know, Gloria.”
“You no like? You no tink me pretty?” Gloria acted as if her feelings were hurt. “Me not sure what I tink to be honest.” Bill replied, using his best impression of her accent.
“Me suck cock, you lick pussy same time. No extra charge. 100 pesos por long time. You like.” She obviously didn’t get the teasing about her English.
Bill was contemplating the offer when he saw another girl walk alone up to the bar in her bra and underwear who was better looking. “Is that your friend?”
“You tink she pretty?” asked Gloria.
Bill nodded approvingly. There was only so much mileage to be had out of a conversation with Gloria. If the other girl was just as dumb, it would still be more interesting than talking with Gloria. “Does she work here too?”
“You want Beberwee?” asked Gloria. Bill laughed. She was trying to say Beverly. “Sure, I’ll talk to Beberwee,” teased Bill. Gloria didn’t care about the comment and let her dress fall back down. She was Jealous. She was showing the American her money maker, and he wanted to talk to the more attractive Beverly. She pouted as she walked over to the bar and told Beverly she had a potential customer. Beverly looked at Bill and said something back to Gloria. Beverly walked up to Bill’s small table, and Gloria walked out the door, undoubtedly back out in front of the place advertising her services.
“Hello, what your name?” asked Beverly.
“My name is Bill. What is yours?” Curious if she would give the same name Gloria told her. It surely was not Beverly.
“Beberwee,” she replied with a smile. It was funny the girls were assuming American names when they solicited the GIs. Bill played along with it. She was kind of cute.
“That is a wonderful name. Where are you from, Beverly?”
“I from Manila. Da Japs kill everyone. I live here now with da other girls,” she replied.
The comment caught Bill off guard. Did they sleep on the floor? “You all live here?”
“If you work here, you must live here. If you want me love you long time, you need to pay my bar fine,” explained Beverly.
He looked over at the other sailors who had girls sitting in their laps, drinking and smoking. “A bar fine?” He had never heard the definition before.
“You pay Mama San 100 pesos and she give you paper.” Beverly pointed to the older woman behind the bar. She looked rough. She had deep wrinkles in her skin and her hair was already beginning to gray. She was maybe only forty years old but apparently was in charge of the girls.
“Stay here a minute,” Bill replied as he walked towards the bamboo bar with his beer. He looked over again at the other sailors. There was no way those other guys would ever be that lucky back in America, Bill thought to himself. Girls just did not act that way in America. Bill noticed they were drinking a large pitcher of a pink-colored juice he was unfamiliar with. “Hey, what are those guys drinking?” Bill asked Mama San.
“Jungle juice.” Mama San answered after she noticed what Bill was pointing at.
“Yeah, I will have two of those. How much is it?”
“Da girls are 100 pesos or one American. Two jungle juice are 10 cents,” Mama San said coldly. Bill figured in a world where you sell beers and girls, a tough old bird running the women was probably the custom.
“You guys running a sale?” Bill joked, but Mama San didn’t get it. She just stared at him. “Yeah, sure, sounds like a bargain to me. I will take Beverly and a couple jungle juices. Here is a $5 bill. Can I get change?”
Mama San didn’t answer and instead dipped one of the glasses into a bucket to retrieve the jungle juice. She put the $5 bill inside her bra and started counting Bills change in pesos. Bill looked over at the other sailors and their drinks. They were the same color as the one drink she sat on the bar. Bill turned his attention back to Mama San. She returned with two jungle juice drinks, three hundred pesos, a rubber, and some coins. The glasses looked exactly like drinking glasses from one of the ships. Bill didn’t even bother asking or counting the coins. She handed him a note on a piece of paper. On it was scribbled ‘Joe’s Place. #9 Long Time. 2-24-45.’
Bill was confused. It looked like a receipt. “Thanks, I guess,” he said as he sat the empty beer bottle on her bamboo bar top, collected the drinks, change, and rubber, and walked back over to Beverly with the two fruity jungle juice drinks.
“Tank you por da drink,” Beverly said as she stood up and accepted the drink Bill handed her.
“Dat one is por me. Dat one is por you,” Beverly said as she handed Bill back the drink with the little bamboo skewer and slice of pineapple in it. She exchanged it with his. Bill looked at the drinks, and they looked identical except for one having the skewer of pineapple and the other not.
“Why are you changing drinks on me?” asked Bill.
“No booze por da girls when working. One juice wit no booze,” Beverly replied. It was OK for a girl to show her pussy in the bar but not drink alcohol? Bill wasn’t sure who created the rules, but there seemed to be an obvious flaw in the rules. She pointed at the piece of paper in Bill’s hand, and he handed it to her. “You come wit me. You like. Boom Boom. Long time.”
“Sure,” Bill smiled and took a big swig of the jungle juice. It was delicious. It was a lot better than the beer. It was a bunch of fruit juice and some strong liquor he was unsure about. There was no better place to lose his virginity, Bill thought as she led him by the hand. No one was really looking, and the girl was cute enough. He was excited. “Sounds good to me.”
Beverly led Bill back to a side door beside the small stage with other girls in their bras and panties dancing with numbers pinned to their bras. Beverly was number nine. She led him further into the alley and into a tiny cinderblock room with a piece of tin fastened to the top for a roof. Inside the tiny room was a bed that was barely larger than a cot with a sheet on it and a pillow. Beside the bed was a side table with a dimly lit lamp.
“We hab until 8,” Gloria stated as she slipped out of her mini skirt and pulled off her top, placing them on the table next to her sandals, and stood naked before Bill.
“Wow, naked just like that.” Bill eyes grew wide. She was small in size, but her breasts and hips were proportionate. She smiled and seemed to be enjoying herself more than any other girl Bill had been alone with in West Des Moines. Those girls also had all of their clothes on.
“You take opp you clothes. Me suck your cock first,” said Beverly.
Bill took another swig of his jungle juice and set it down next to the lamp on the small table. “Sure, I guess there is no harm in that,” he replied as he unbuttoned his dungaree shirt and pants. He stood beside her bed while she sat down on it facing him. His cock was hard as hickory. Beverly grasped the shaft of his cock and stuck it in her mouth. Bill thought time had stopped as she slurped up and down on his cock.
She paused. “You like that.”
“That feels amazing,” was all Bill could say.
“You want to puck my pussy now?”
Bill was about to ejaculate when he pulled his cock out of her mouth. He had made his mind up. He was losing his virginity here and now. He wondered if she knew. “You are just not shy, are you?”
Beverly didn’t understand the word shy figuratively or literally and replied, “Me so horny. You buy long time till 8 tomorrow. You sleep here tonight. Me puck you long time.”
“I don’t know about that.” Bill was not feeling confident about sleeping in the tiny shack overnight. He was more interested in accomplishing his task and getting back on the base alive after his first night out.
“Me suck cock again. You will like.” Beverly replied and inserted his cock back in her mouth. It was an incredible sensation. Bill let her suck his cock until he just couldn’t take it anymore. She told Bill to lie down on the bed, and she straddled him, inserting his cock between her legs. Bill stared at his penis; it disappeared inside her pubic hair, only to reappear before she thrust her hips down on his hard cock again and again. She was fucking him. It felt even better than her mouth. She seemed to be enjoying herself, wagging her head back and forth as she rocked up and down on his manhood. Sex was indeed the greatest feeling he had ever felt. He didn’t have an orgasm and remained erect while she got off him and got on all fours on the cot. “Puck me prum behind.” She said as she turned around and pushed her ass up towards him.
“Ummmm?” replied Bill. From behind her seemed odd. She grabbed his cock and placed it directly in her crevice and started gyrating on his cock in and out of her pussy. It was amazing. He rested his hands on her ass. Her skin was so soft and smooth as she rocked back and forth on his cock. Her skin was a different texture than Caucasian girls. It was smoother. He stared down the crack of her ass, and he could see her asshole as she rocked her hips back to meet his cock. He tried not to laugh as he stared. The sound of the grunting and flesh slapping together was undeniable to anyone around what was happening in the little room. Beverly reached between her legs and grabbed Bill’s balls and rolled them in her fingers. She started squeezing them slightly, and Bill ejaculated.
“Holy shit. That was the best $1 I have ever spent in my life,” said Bill as Beverly stood up.
“Two dollar, not one dollar,” she insisted.
“Sure, two dollar.” Bill didn’t bother correcting her on the plural dollars.
“You tink me sexy?” asked Beverly.
“You sexy alright,” Bill took a swig of his jungle juice and noticed the condom had fallen out of his pocket when he took his clothes off. He didn’t wear the rubber. His heart began to sink. How many girls had Ol’ Beberwee actually fucked in her short career? Bill estimated she was around his age. It was difficult to tell. He started to feel a little vertigo, and the room started to spin a little bit. He had to get out of there. He might have paid for the long time, but he was suddenly wanting the short trip back to the safety of the base. He had been off the base less than an hour for the very first time and was already drunk and had sex. It was astonishing. He had to make it back to the base alive.
“Where in America you live?” Beverly asked, now lying naked beside him on the bed.
“Haha. I live in Iowa,” Bill said and fell into a deep sleep.
He wasn’t sure how long he was asleep, but it was longer than he felt comfortable. He looked around quickly, and it all came back to him. Beverly was still lying beside him under the sheet, quietly singing a song in Filipino with her eyes closed. He could tell he had been asleep for a while because he didn’t feel drunk. Instead, he felt rested. The post-sex conversation with Beverly was not as exciting as the act itself. There was a cheapness to her that reminded him of Chief Santiago. They were both jungle grifters. He wondered what their real name was but elected not to ask. Santiago took advantage of the fact that the Navy made little effort to enforce much of anything outside the gates on the other side of Shit River. Beverly was one of hundreds, maybe thousands, of young girls who would be brought in from small villages around Luzon and even further. The Filipina girls themselves didn’t think much of the act of sex. There were only so many sex acts, and once they learned them all, they would offer their services to American servicemen for an equal split with the Mama Sans who ran the bars. The Mama San took half that money and gave the rest to the owner, undoubtedly a guy like Santiago.
Bill began to worry about what he may have picked up— a general disease from Beverly. “Hey, are you awake?”
“You want more?” Beverly asked.
“No, I am fine. I was just curious. Aren’t you worried about getting a disease from having sex with sailors?”
“Sometimes it happens,” replied Beverly. She went on to explain the girls had to go on to the base once a week to be checked by a US Navy physician who would check them for ‘sex diseases’. The Navy doctor would sign the girls’ entertainer cards and return them to the Mama San. The entertainer cards were to be stored with the Mama San, and all girls working in the bar were required to have a current card with updated status. If the girls had not been checked, or were operating without a card, the entire bar could be closed down by Shore Patrol. Once the girl’s bar fine had been purchased, the American could keep her for a short time, one hour, or long time, twenty-four hours; hence the pitch, “Me lub you long time.” The girls got more money for themselves for the full-day purchase too. It was astonishing, the conceptualization and implementation of the Olongapo way of life. Santiago’s corrupt playbook within the gates of the base and all the bars, girls, rickshaw runners, and guys grilling monkey meat along Magsaysay Drive was surreal for the American servicemen being serviced.
Any training and discipline instilled in a young Petty Officer Santiago had morphed and been honed into a master con artist with the rank of chief. Bill wondered who Santiago reported to. Was it a corrupt officer? How many guys like Santiago were in Olongapo? Whoever was at the top was surely as corrupt as Santiago. It was impossible the Navy did not know what was going on in Olongapo. Beverly’s description of the process of going onto the base for mandatory venereal disease checks made sense in an odd sort of way. Beverly stood up and slid her panties back on, then the dress and flip-flop sandals. Bill wasn’t sure if he bought the short time or the long, but it was time to go.
“This was fantastic, and I just wanted to say thank you, I guess. I need to get back to the base, actually. Do I just go back through the same way we came in?” Bill asked.
Beverly seemed disappointed in the request. “You no have to go, Bill. We can have some drinks and listen to the music.”
Bill disagreed. “No, I really gotta go. What time is it?”
“You no want buy me drink? Get drunk. Listen to music. We puck again and again long time,” she insisted. Beverly’s stock was dropping in value by the second. She was surely cuter than Gloria, but she was equally stupid. Bill shook his head and put all his clothes back on and tied his boots.
“Yeah, wow, that sounds fantastic, but I really do need to get back to the base.”
“You want bung bung? I give you bung bung, one dollar,” Beverly offered.
“Does bung bung know where the exit is?” Bill assumed Bung Bung was another degenerate from the bar.
“Bung bung, one dollar more,” she repeated and pointed at her ass. Was she wanting an extra dollar for him to fuck her in the ass? Do people actually do that? Bill thought only homosexuals did that, and he had never met one of those.
“No, I will pass on that. I think I can find my way back from the way we came. Thanks again,” Bill replied, and he walked out.
He could not get out of the tiny room fast enough. He was now worried there was a good chance Beverly was offering the bung bung because she had done it before. How could he have forgotten to use the rubber? He also felt unsafe in the alley. He was on the other side of the earth, after dark, and it would be easy for the situation to get worse. If sex was for sale for one dollar, then an ass-whooping and stealing his wallet couldn’t be much more. Santiago was the exact character who would have a couple of guys with weapons lurking in the dark to steal wallets too. Bill walked back along the narrow alley towards the bar, and Beverly stayed in her room. It was dirt below his feet in the alley and open air above his head. He could faintly see stars through the narrow opening. He still did not know what time it was. It was lighter in the sky, and the sun would be rising soon. Along each side of the alley were several cinder block rooms similar to the one he just exited. Up ahead, he recognized Gloria in the distance exiti