Before World War Two, the island had been occupied by Japan, but before that it had had an even longer history of independence. Okinawans have never considered themselves Japanese, and the Japanese in turn have always treated them like a poor sister. Most wanted a return to independence.

In those days, the island was still U.S.-occupied territory, governed by an Army three-star general — a situation much resented by Okinawans. (When the occupation ended, the U.S. returned Okinawa to Japan.) It was also crawling with U.S. military facilities — another cause of friction. Infantry units were located in the more remote areas in the north. Farther south were the base- and logistics-type units. Among these was Camp Foster, located in the southern third of the island near Kadena (the U.S. Air Force base) and the major city of Koza, one of the island’s two largest cities. The other, Naha, is the capital.

By 1970, this once-tranquil and beautiful island had become one large camp town for the American military. The devastation of World War Two had been followed by a huge influx of American military forces, and that in turn had been followed by seedy commercial strips, complete with bars, girly clubs, and pawnshops set up to service the troops. Women, booze, and drugs were readily available outside the gates.

As the cab entered Koza, Zinni noticed flames ahead; sirens were screaming. By the time they’d reached the main road in the city center, the driver had grown visibly anxious. For very good reason. A large, angry, chanting mob was roaming up ahead, many wearing red, communist headbands. Overturned cars were ablaze.

Some rioters, spotting the cab and the American inside, started running toward it. Without waiting for instructions, the driver threw the car in reverse, turned down a side street, and then raced through a maze of back-streets, his passenger bouncing around in the seat behind him. The driver was explaining all the while in broken English that the rioters were Okinawan communists, demonstrating against the occupation. Though he kept trying to reassure Zinni that they’d be okay, the whole city was in turmoil. They seemed to run into angry crowds at every turn, requiring yet another close-call getaway.

At last, with visible relief, the driver had them on the street leading to Camp Foster’s main gate.

His relief quickly evaporated. Massive numbers of Okinawans with red headbands and long bamboo poles were charging a line of Marine guards in riot control gear, using the poles like jousting lances to knock over the guards. The taxi again raced away, as the driver sought a safe way into the camp.

They eventually discovered a gate that wasn’t under attack, and the cab finally pulled up to its destination. Zinni rewarded his driver with a generous tip in gratitude for his courage and driving skills.

“Don’t judge all Okinawans by what you’ve seen,” the driver said in his broken English as he pulled away.[24]

Zinni checked in the next day. Since his evacuation had left him nothing from his last command, he had to get new uniforms and set up new records. Going about this business, he picked up interesting and disturbing information about his new assignment:

Though the previous night’s riot had been exceptionally bad, it was not uncommon. The race and drug crisis then coming to a head back in the States had reached Okinawa. Racial tensions were high. The threat of serious, large-scale violence was real. Between the communist demonstrations outside and the frequent race riots inside, the nights at Camp Foster tended to be exciting.

The race problems extended into the city. One Koza district, called “the Bush,” was dominated by the “Bushmasters” and the “Mau Maus,” gangs of black military men wearing distinctive gang garb. No white military man dared enter.

Inside the base, the gangs, in their gang uniforms, had taken to demonstrations — against real or perceived injustice, to let out rage, or sometimes just for the hell of it. Racially motivated incidents occurred daily. Some were minor, just knuckle-rapping displays and jive talk, but others were serious — like knifings. There was a white backlash as well — a Ku Klux Klan cell and cross burnings. And the racial divide was not simply black versus white. The Hispanics also had complaints, as did other minorities in the ranks.

Among the demonstrators were groups that were simply violent: gangsters and — literally — murderers. Other groups (largely out of the inner cities) felt oppressed, objecting not just to the Marine Corps but to society in general and its long-standing treatment of African Americans. Others saw everything white as an enemy, and still others had specific, military gripes of all shapes and sizes. One big one: Though the Corps was taking in ever- increasing numbers of young black officers, the senior officer ranks were still lily-white. The minority troops had reason to resent this.

Meanwhile, the Camp Foster guard force was unable to cope with the increasingly bloody racial incidents. Not only did other 3rd FSR units have to provide untrained, and therefore also ineffective, augmentation to reinforce it, but the 3rd Marine Division, located in camps at the northern end of the island, had to keep rifle companies on alert as reaction forces.

As he wandered around on his check-in rounds, Zinni noticed units practicing riot control formations and use of special riot control equipment. He knew that racial tensions were high throughout the military, made worse by growing opposition to the war and feelings of intergenerational betrayal; he was also aware of violent incidents in Vietnam and back home; and he’d himself handled a small riot as the officer of the day on duty in his battalion back at Camp Lejeune a few years earlier; but he’d never actually experienced significant racial problems in the units he’d commanded.

“This is a camp under siege,” he told himself. “We’re sitting on a powder keg.”

As the weeks passed, and as he came to personally face the problems of this command, Zinni grew to appreciate the depth of the issues he was then encountering for the first time.

The emerging Vietnam War legacy was evident.

During Vietnam, the need for bodies had been so great that recruiters were sending people into the military who never should have been there. The draft was in place (even the Marine Corps accepted draftees); the initial training was reduced; and, later, promotions came too fast — ignoring the normal leadership development. People were suddenly wearing grades they were too inexperienced to wear; they did not have the education and training needed to perform complex jobs. Many sergeants weren’t real sergeants; and many lieutenants, captains, and even higher should not have held those ranks.

There were also misguided attempts to turn the military into a big Head Start program for dropouts and other low achievers. Chief among these was Project 100,000—a Robert McNamara brainchild — which dumped a hundred thousand young failures into the military in hopes this would lead to a better society. Things didn’t work out that way. Project 100,000 simply unloaded the problems of society on the military. As if that weren’t bad enough, judges were using the military as an alternative to jails or rehabilitation.

The result of all this: The military were forced to accept below-standard troops, who were incapable of coping with the demands of service.

On top of all that, the growing drug culture had impacted heavily on the military. At Camp Foster — and at every other military facility — the number of troops caught, treated, and discharged for drug use was on the rise. This turned out to be Zinni’s first experience with it on a large scale. Like other leaders of his generation, drug use was alien to him. He was scrambling to understand it. “What makes so many people want to do this to themselves?” he would ask himself time and again. “Doesn’t beer do the job?”

Back home, wearing a uniform was not popular. Nobody was coming home a war hero; there weren’t a lot of ticker-tape parades. It was even hard to find Americans who’d actually chosen to fight in Vietnam. Most who served there had been forced to go.

After working through the administrative requirements and meeting the commanders, Zinni was assigned to command the Headquarters and Service Company of the regiment’s supply battalion — his fourth company command. Since command of a company was what being a Marine captain was all about, he felt grateful for that at least.

The H & S Company was a collection of troops with a variety of occupational specialties[25] and technical skills, who worked in numerous units throughout the battalion. The computer data processors, the cooks, the motor pool, the maintenance and housekeeping people, and so on were all placed in the H & S Company for administrative and command structure and for military training and proficiency (since they were Marines, they were still expected to be able to shoot), but otherwise they’d all go off every day to their own various offices or workplaces.

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