Memories of Hiroshima

Four jarheads thought to make the most of their tour in Japan.  Just a couple months into a six month overseas “cruise”, we planned a weekend trip to Hiroshima.  Being young, adventurous and, by then, fully infatuated with Japanese culture, we planned the trip despite the perceived irony four United States Marines visiting a city destroyed by US nuclear weapons presented.  A city we would find out was dedicated to worldwide peace.   We later found our slight apprehension mostly unfounded, with one small and revealing exception.  And it was a trip of lasting memories. 

Hiroshima is a 40 minute train ride from MCAS Iwakuni.  We arrived mid-afternoon.  If you’re familiar with Marines you will know that a jarhead’s favorite pastimes are drinking, fighting, and dare I say it, sex.  Our main interest was the planned visit to Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park the following day, but the night belonged to…other interests.

With pockets loaded with as much yen as our US dollars would exchange for, we embarked on a perusal of the Hiroshima nightlife.  After a quick dinner we wound up in a club that we were under dressed for and which was quickly burning through our yen.  Although service was polite, there was no way to communicate other than by pointing at a picture menu.  Depending on how adventurous we were, this had the potential to be disastrous.  And was.  I wound up with a neon blue drink that was the equivalent of mentholated battery acid.  After the amount of yen I dropped on it, I was determined to finish it.  I actually attracted attention as I walked around with it.  I assume I was the only person dumb enough to order that nocuous concoction. But, you know, it got to be tolerable near the bottom of the glass. 

With our brains in a cloudy haze and being many yen poorer, we decided to move on to what we hoped would be a place more accessible to the likes of Marines on a budget.  As fate would have it, we found a quant hole-in-the-wall  populated mainly with non-Japanese; many Americans, but mostly Europeans.  We thought this quite fortuitous, but were soon proven wrong.  It seems that United States Marines are a distinguishable group. This bar was primarily frequented by beret wearing, peace-activist socialists who spotted us as Military cut, war-mongering capitalists (the beret wearing isn’t  metaphorical, there were many craniums sporting one that night).  There was so much tension in the air, I wasn’t sure we’d get out of there without partaking in a Marines number two favorite pastime (see above for a Marines three favorite pastimes).  We managed to mingle a bit, but it was obvious this wasn’t going to end well, if we stayed.  Braving a question of the bartender, we inquired of a place more suited to the likes of us.  She was very accommodating, with detailed directions to a club she thought we’d love. 

The club was located on the top floor of a building a couple blocks from the neo-hippie joint.  After the elevator ride to the top, I needed a head call (that’s Marine jargon for having to pee) and used the head (Marine jargon for  bathroom) located just outside the club while my party went in.  It’s weird to say, but I had never run into a group of men more cordial, especially in a bathroom.  It was a bit unsettling.  I left the bathroom and walked toward the club.  As I entered the club, I was greeted by a bunch of Japanese men who seemed tremendously happy to see me!  One man in particular came up to greet me with great enthusiasm.  The thing was, he was wearing a neon blue dress (much the same color as the mentholated, battery acid drink I had earlier), gaudy costume earrings and high heeled shoes.  The beret wearing, commie bartender had given us directions to a bar for transvestites.  I turned to look for my friends, just in time to see them getting on the elevator, leaving me only their devilish grins.  Some friends.  As  I waited for the elevator to make it way back up so I could make my escape, blue dress man earnestly beckoned me to come back as the rest of the crowd laughed hysterically.  When I met up with my so-called friends on the first floor, they laughed hysterically, too.  And so did I.  

After that, we found a beer vending machine on our way back to our hotel (they actually have those on the streets!), made some purchases and called it a night.

The next morning, four hung-over jarheads got up, cleaned up and made a short walk to the Hiroshima Memorial Park Museum.  The building known as the A-Bomb Dome lay across the river from our hotel and in sight along our walk, settling upon us a somber and reflective mood.  As we meandered  through the Peace Memorial Park on or way to the museum, the weight of being there pressed on us as we were of but a few non-Japanese there that day.  We stood out; four young Marines, engrained with proud bearing, striding with purpose, all the while being conscientious of who we were.  

We walked through the museum, looking at the statics, reading the placards and seeing the devastation caused by the nuclear bomb.  Seeing the destruction brought about by war, in general.  We experienced lives inextricably changed.  We vicariously felt pain and lose.  It was a moment we’d not forget.

After leaving the museum, we walked around Peace Memorial Park, taking in the different monuments and artifacts that were throughout, and reflecting on all we had seen.   As we walked around, I was approached by a young Japanese woman and asked if I would take a picture.  I said I would and held out my hand for her camera.  I’d misunderstood. What she wanted was for me and my friends to be in a picture with her family.  It was at her grandmother's request.  I looked and saw an old woman who looked like she could have been alive during the World War II bombing of Hiroshima.  I don’t know for sure , because I never asked.  She had a picture taken with me and then with all of her family together with all four Marines.  She turned to me and thanked me in Japanese.  I didn't understand her words, but I could see it in her eyes.  She seemed genuinely grateful that we had taking the time for those  pictures.  For some reason I didn’t think to have a picture taken with my camera and I regret that, but I will always have that memory. 

The train ride back was a solemn affair.  Sure, we laughed about neon blue drinks, transvestites and street corner beer vending machines, but we also talked about how ironic it was that it was foreign peace activists who hated us and not the Japanese, even ones presumably old enough to remember that infamous day of August 15, 1945.  That’s an irony I still think about to this day. 

Four jarheads thought to make the most of their tour to Japan.  Well, I think we did.