This story happened in early 1967 in the city of Olongapo, Philippines. Now 52 years later things are different, so my screenshot below of the area is different but I will try to explain. At the bottom of the picture the Cubi Point naval air station is marked. In those days there was a pier where the aircraft carriers were moored for liberty calls. Straight up from there is Olongapo city. On the right side of Olongapo is an industrial site that used to be naval station Subic bay. There is a thin black line between Olongapo and the industrial site. That line is an offshoot of the Santa Rita river. There was a footbridge there between the naval station and the city. The offshoot of the river was a smelly, polluted stream perhaps 15 or so feet wide. We sailors did not know its name so it was called 'Shit River.'
I doubt anyone knew the true name of the river at that time, but every sailor knew what you meant if the name 'Shit River' came up in conversation. The river was dark with filth and there were huts of natural materials woven like large baskets on stilts all along the shoreline. One side was Olongapo and the other side was an eight-foot chain link fence marking the boundary of the Subic Naval Station. I think there was a large laundry along the river and for the life of me I can’t imagine how they could ever get white uniforms clean, but they did, although they did have a slight aroma with them. Maybe the laundry had their own filtration and sterilization process.
A sailor would leave the base; walk over an arched footbridge and into town. All day and into the evening there would be kids in the water and on boats hailing sailors to toss them some pocket change. I was always impressed with the generosity of young sailors, even if it was slightly off course from anything you would see in church. Guys would reach in their pockets and toss coins to the kids who were very adept at catching them. The kids were so poor that if they did miss, they would dive below and retrieve the coins as they sank to the bottom. The hustlers would be in boats trying to catch the coins before they got down to the level where the kids in the water could have a chance at them. So some sailor devised a way to donate and have a little fun along the way. The boat crews had one kid in the back with a paddle, keeping the boat stationed near the bridge and in the best spot for catching coins; the second kid stood one foot in the boat and one on the rail so he could lean out and snatch coins. Their fun was in tossing the coins just at the end of the kid’s reach, causing him to lean out and rock the boat. A perfect toss would cause the kid to lean enough to fall in the river. I never liked the way the kids with boats took advantage of those without.
The hustle at the bridge evolved through the years, became more serious and less fun. The kids would surround a sailor after he crossed the bridge and start poking at him to locate his wallet and then try to pick his pocket. That escalated into a group slowing the sailor down, and then one with a razor blade would try to cut the bottom of the pocket off and let the wallet fall out. The down side of that was they sometimes cut out a chunk of his ass in the process. That operation changed to one that I was personally assaulted with; the crowd slowed me down, then one kid came up with a can of black shoe polish and told me to give them five dollars or have the shoe polish all over my white uniform. I lunged for his arm, caught it, twisted it like a pretzel and politely informed the lad that if there was one spot of shoe polish that made it to my uniform I would break his (expletive deleted) arm. I held the arm tight and waved at a “Jitney” (a World War Two Jeep that the Army left behind after the war and the locals decorated with colorful paint, decorative dangling balls of yarn and used them for taxis). The Jitney slowed down; I climbed aboard and let go of the kid’s arm as the Jitney pulled away. We exchanged pleasantries as the Jitney drove away, with me in a still clean, sharp uniform.
Olongapo, like Cavite (a Naval Air Station some distance away) had one long street from the base that went further than anyone I know ever felt the need to explore. Olongapo had a standing out-of-bounds order though. A sailor could not leave that main street. I don’t know the reason why, but it didn’t matter, I never left it. There was never any reason to go further into the wasteland that surrounded it. Everything was there along the street. I never liked Olongapo as I did Cavite. Olongapo was like a big city combat zone, where Cavite was low key and peaceful; I could walk anywhere in Cavite and not be harassed.
One evening Frenchy (his nickname) was, for whatever reason, out-of-bounds in the area up near the shit river bridge. Frenchy was under full sail from drinking all day. I never did find out what the reason was, but he was wandering down the dusty roads past the thatched huts when he saw the Shore Patrol Van round the corner. He ran into two different huts, screaming: “hide me, hide me.” The families in both evicted him, leaving him in plain sight of the Shore Patrolmen who were quickly on the chase. Frenchy ran down the road with the Shore Patrolmen in hot pursuit! They were shouting expletives at him to get him to stop, but to no avail. They nearly caught up to him, when he turned and ran up the steps and into a hut on stilts, ran through a family’s dinner and out through the back wall of the hut. Frenchy told us that as he realized he was falling, his thoughts were: “oh my God, I’m going to drown in Shit River!” Frenchy was yet another sailor who couldn’t swim. He hit the water and sunk to the bottom. He was lucky to be close enough to the shore that he could bob like a cork and move himself back toward safety.
He got close enough to stand on his own when he saw a Shore Patrolman with a .45 caliber Navy issue pistol pointed at him. The Shore Patrolman’s veins were bulging from the sides of his red neck as he shouted: “you (expletive deleted) asshole, get your (expletive deleted) ass over here before I shoot your (expletive deleted) head off! They handcuffed Frenchy, loaded him into the van and drove him back on base to sickbay, where a hospital corpsman had him strip naked, shower, then administrated an entire bank of shots to protect him from every imaginable disease. They incinerated his clothes and returned him to the ship in hospital pajamas and slippers.
The story got better every time Frenchy told it and I only wish you could have seen his face as he told and retold the story. It was the highlight event of the cruise. I can see his face even now. Some things I never forget
Copyright Bill Weber 2006-2019 and beyond.
A sailor would leave the base; walk over an arched footbridge and into town. All day and into the evening there would be kids in the water and on boats hailing sailors to toss them some pocket change. I was always impressed with the generosity of young sailors, even if it was slightly off course from anything you would see in church. Guys would reach in their pockets and toss coins to the kids who were very adept at catching them. The kids were so poor that if they did miss, they would dive below and retrieve the coins as they sank to the bottom. The hustlers would be in boats trying to catch the coins before they got down to the level where the kids in the water could have a chance at them. So some sailor devised a way to donate and have a little fun along the way. The boat crews had one kid in the back with a paddle, keeping the boat stationed near the bridge and in the best spot for catching coins; the second kid stood one foot in the boat and one on the rail so he could lean out and snatch coins. Their fun was in tossing the coins just at the end of the kid’s reach, causing him to lean out and rock the boat. A perfect toss would cause the kid to lean enough to fall in the river. I never liked the way the kids with boats took advantage of those without.
The hustle at the bridge evolved through the years, became more serious and less fun. The kids would surround a sailor after he crossed the bridge and start poking at him to locate his wallet and then try to pick his pocket. That escalated into a group slowing the sailor down, and then one with a razor blade would try to cut the bottom of the pocket off and let the wallet fall out. The down side of that was they sometimes cut out a chunk of his ass in the process. That operation changed to one that I was personally assaulted with; the crowd slowed me down, then one kid came up with a can of black shoe polish and told me to give them five dollars or have the shoe polish all over my white uniform. I lunged for his arm, caught it, twisted it like a pretzel and politely informed the lad that if there was one spot of shoe polish that made it to my uniform I would break his (expletive deleted) arm. I held the arm tight and waved at a “Jitney” (a World War Two Jeep that the Army left behind after the war and the locals decorated with colorful paint, decorative dangling balls of yarn and used them for taxis). The Jitney slowed down; I climbed aboard and let go of the kid’s arm as the Jitney pulled away. We exchanged pleasantries as the Jitney drove away, with me in a still clean, sharp uniform.
Olongapo, like Cavite (a Naval Air Station some distance away) had one long street from the base that went further than anyone I know ever felt the need to explore. Olongapo had a standing out-of-bounds order though. A sailor could not leave that main street. I don’t know the reason why, but it didn’t matter, I never left it. There was never any reason to go further into the wasteland that surrounded it. Everything was there along the street. I never liked Olongapo as I did Cavite. Olongapo was like a big city combat zone, where Cavite was low key and peaceful; I could walk anywhere in Cavite and not be harassed.
One evening Frenchy (his nickname) was, for whatever reason, out-of-bounds in the area up near the shit river bridge. Frenchy was under full sail from drinking all day. I never did find out what the reason was, but he was wandering down the dusty roads past the thatched huts when he saw the Shore Patrol Van round the corner. He ran into two different huts, screaming: “hide me, hide me.” The families in both evicted him, leaving him in plain sight of the Shore Patrolmen who were quickly on the chase. Frenchy ran down the road with the Shore Patrolmen in hot pursuit! They were shouting expletives at him to get him to stop, but to no avail. They nearly caught up to him, when he turned and ran up the steps and into a hut on stilts, ran through a family’s dinner and out through the back wall of the hut. Frenchy told us that as he realized he was falling, his thoughts were: “oh my God, I’m going to drown in Shit River!” Frenchy was yet another sailor who couldn’t swim. He hit the water and sunk to the bottom. He was lucky to be close enough to the shore that he could bob like a cork and move himself back toward safety.
He got close enough to stand on his own when he saw a Shore Patrolman with a .45 caliber Navy issue pistol pointed at him. The Shore Patrolman’s veins were bulging from the sides of his red neck as he shouted: “you (expletive deleted) asshole, get your (expletive deleted) ass over here before I shoot your (expletive deleted) head off! They handcuffed Frenchy, loaded him into the van and drove him back on base to sickbay, where a hospital corpsman had him strip naked, shower, then administrated an entire bank of shots to protect him from every imaginable disease. They incinerated his clothes and returned him to the ship in hospital pajamas and slippers.
The story got better every time Frenchy told it and I only wish you could have seen his face as he told and retold the story. It was the highlight event of the cruise. I can see his face even now. Some things I never forget
Copyright Bill Weber 2006-2019 and beyond.
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