Popos Lounge

It took three weeks for the USS RENVILLE to make Pearl Harbor, but she finally limped in on one boiler, a tired crew and double the number of Marines in her bays as she was designed to carry. Everyone on board was looking forward to Liberty Call in Hawaii.

Well, just hold on to your skivvies, there, Marine! Colonel Bronars decided that this Battalion was going to go through net drills until every last Marine got it right. Over the side, hands on vertical ropes only, then down into position on the Mike boats. Do it right, or do it over. And, do it over we did three times with full gear and equipment.

After all that, we were pretty well worn out. We were also a little bit P.O.ed; oh, perhaps a better term would be that our morale wasn’t as high as it should be. Add to that, no one in the Battalion had been paid in over a month, we were in Hawaii about to go on liberty, and all of us were completely broke.

Then, there was good news! Liberty Call would follow Pay Call the next morning. Next, there was the bad news. Our payroll records had not “caught up” to us, and each enlisted man would only receive a “Flying Twenty” twenty friggin’ bucks for liberty call in paradise? Hell, you can’t put on a good buzz or get laid on Hotel Street in Honolulu with twenty bucks, let alone put on a good buzz! Either one, take your pick.

Following that shocker was the really bad news for me personally. I was assigned as the Payroll Guard for India Company. Believe me, it was no special honor. I wouldn’t go on liberty until every other Marine in the Company had been paid, and only after the Pay Officer had turned in all of his paperwork.

I had a couple of questions. Battalion had a Finance Section and somehow they couldn’t pay us because some records would not reach us in time? Hell! We were three weeks at sea! Scuttlebutt was that the Kon Tiki had passed us twice. And, why only twenty bucks? I guess the brass figured that we wouldn’t have enough dough to get into trouble, and if we did, we wouldn’t have enough dough left to buy our way out of it.

The uniform-of-the day was to be tropical short-sleeved shirts and trousers, pee-cutters (that’s a hat which resembles a part of the female anatomy) and low-quarters (shoes). Try looking good after digging those clothes out of sea bag that has been bounced around a damp, moldy hold five decks below sunshine!

Pay Day! Liberty Call! And there I was standing before the 1st Sergeant signing for a pistol belt, a holster, a belt magazine holder, 24 rounds of ammo in three magazines and a .45 caliber M1911A1 pistol. I had never seen any of that stuff before in my life, and I was going to be a payroll guard!

One of our Lieutenants was to be the Pay Officer. I believe the rotten duty fell upon Lt. Williams. It was rotten duty because he, like me, was going nowhere until every last Marine was paid and every damned penny accounted for.

We got through the whole Company, and I was the last enlisted man to be paid. That’s because I was the guard, and if somebody got shorted, it was Marine Corps mentality that I shorted him. So, my “flying twenty” would have gone to the stiffed Marine. But, it turned out worse than that. The Lieutenant could not account for about $400.

The Lieutenant feverishly went through the payroll records, time and time again. The clock was also feverishly counting down the time available for my liberty call. I sat down with the Lieutenant, and we went through the payroll one more time. Ah! The mistake! We found it! He forgot to sign for his own pay!

Wait a minute. Why was he getting full pay and I was getting a freakin’ Flying 20? “Ask Battalion”, he told me. Okay. Okay. But the one thing he forgot is that the Marine Corps gave me a loaded .45, and I was just about in the mood to use it.

We turned in the payroll. I turned in the gun and all of its accompanying paraphernalia and finally went on Liberty Call.

My first stop was to look up an old high school buddy, Pudge. Pudge was the first of our gang to join the Marines, but was sent to Marine Barracks, Konoehe Bay because he was a “sole-surviving son”. We had a nice visit, and then I hopped a bus back to Pearl to see the USS ARIZONA Memorial. A tour bus was heading toward Hickam Field, and I hopped aboard to see the sights. By this time, it was late afternoon.

I have to hand it to those tour bus operators. They aren’t stupid. They figure if you’re on a tour bus around dinnertime, well, maybe you’ll want dinner. The bus stopped in front of a bar and restaurant called “POPO’s LOUNGE’. It was situated at the very end of one of Hickam’s runways and got pretty well shot up when the Japanese attacked on December 7th, 1941.

We passengers went in. While the Japanese tourists all settled in booths, most of the Americans bellied up to the bar. I was no exception. I ordered a burger and a beer, ate my meal and was quite content to wait for the tour guide to usher us back to the bus.

Then, there was what I thought was a real taunt. “Hey, looky here! A real Yoooo Nited States Maurine!” I turned and stared face to face with my equal wearing an Army uniform. I didn’t want a fight. Turned out, neither did he. Nor, did his buddies. They were just having a good time.

This soldier put his arm around my shoulders and invited me to join his group for a beer. What the hell? He was buying. I was almost broke.

The three soldiers were replacements on their way to Vietnam. They weren’t members of a unit like I was. In fact, they had no idea where they were being sent. They had come across on an Army-contracted troop transport, the USS General Whatever hell, they didn’t even know. Furthermore, they didn’t even care. I liked these guys.

I must have been their “guest of honor” because these guys were buying pitchers all night. They wouldn’t let me spend a dime. This went on until closing time, about four in the morning.

There comes a point, after all the beer and all the bullshit that nobody is talking anymore. I looked up from my side of the table, and all three of these guys were passed out with their heads on the table. Sad, we still had a full pitcher left.

Okay. It’s closin’ time. I’ll take care of the tip. So, I just picked up all the money on the table, left a couple of bucks for the waitress, then got a cab to take me back to my ship at Pearl. Sounds harmless enough, doesn’t it? But, you can’t do that and have dinner in Hawaii on twenty bucks.

The next morning I awoke and prepared to meet Sergeant Zaidinski, also known as “Ski !” for my training to become a radio operator. I wasn’t hung over and I did remember most of what happened the previous day. Then, I went to roll up my tropicals to put them back in my sea bag when the pockets got in my way. I reached in and pulled out over two hundred and seventy five ($275.00) bucks, American. That’s right! My “Flying Twenty” had babies!

“My God,” I thought, “I rolled those soldiers last night!” I sure as hell didn’t mean to do it. It’s an old Chicago rule: Last man standing clears the table. All I thought I was doing was picking up the change.

I dressed quickly and ran to the Company office. I told the 1st Sergeant that I had to see the Company Commander. It was very important. When I told 1st Sergeant Thorpe what happened, he told me I was in a world of shit!

I stood there in front of his desk at “Parade Rest” for almost an hour while Top went in and told the Company Commander, Lt. Kopfler what I had done. I could overhear a lot of “Oh, No’s”, some laughter and some discussion about what to do with me. That ranged from a court martial to turning me over to the Honolulu Police.

Finally, Lt. Joe came out of his office. He asked me what happened, and I told him. I also told him that I wanted to find the soldiers and return their money. He told me that that might not be possible.

So, he asked, what should he do with the money? I told him I didn’t want it. Kopfler looked me over sternly, as only he could do and said that if no one claimed the money by the time we left port, it would be given to Navy Relief. He asked me if I had a problem with that, and I said, “Sir! No Sir.” I was being left off the hook.

We left port. Three soldiers were out a couple of hundred bucks. Popo’s Lounge had a good night. And, Navy Relief got a great donation from India Company, 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines.

I’ve changed my habits if I close a bar. Sometimes it’s not always best to be the last man standing.

Author/ Jerry Czarnowski