The Happy Doldrums

Deployment is a strange experience in many ways, especially at the end. There's a letdown feeling that the mission is ending, where the 'mission' is a set length of time instead of a particular event, and some unspoken wondering if we (the unit) really left it all out on the field, if we could have trained harder, or experienced more, or made a little more of a difference. What exactly did we accomplish in these six summer months away from home, and did we make it worth the absence from family and friends?

I'm speaking of course of a UDP--Marine Corps slang for "Unit Deployment Program"--an institution that rotates units to Japan for six months. A tour to the fight in the middle east, I imagine, is different: the end of a deployment is filled with a desire to turn over the mission, hoping that the replacing unit can take successes and continue them or make up for any failures. The stakes are higher, and so are the passions. I don't know what that's like, I'm afraid.

But I'm two weeks from leaving Japan, and the relentless driving pressure has given way to a sort of limbo. Equipment is packed, and since our new mission is to get ourselves home, we are taking it easy on the aircraft. No more 'dynamic maneuvering' flights, no more concern with our combat-oriented avionics, no more studiously rehearsed tactical briefs or six-hour detailed debriefs. Much of our equipment is packed, and the squadron spaces are stripped down and sterile in accordance with the Marine Corps ethos on material goods instilled in basic training: leave the place better than you found it. All of a sudden, there isn't much to do, and the desire to be home lies heavy in our thoughts.

So we find new distractions. It's an old truism that we work harder during deployment because there aren't the distractions found at home--weekends in San Diego, families, and so on. But really, the hard work on deployment is the distraction: a way to protect against the feeling of separation and powerlessness regarding our loved ones and our homes. The other truism regarding deployment is that "Social drinking during WestPac is chronic alcoholism in the States," which is another form of distraction and really the chief source of bonding during these painful, non-combat deployments to Japan. And so, with nothing really to do at work, we begin to play.

One stereotype of Japan that has run through this deployment is Karaoke. A happy discovery we made this go-round was Club Niagara, a seedy one-room bar within walking distance of the main gate of Iwakuni. The owner is American, though of former military background, and one wonders why spends his life running a Karaoke dive in this small provincial town in southern Japan. It doesn't do to look to close, however--we're all running from something if we're in that bar, and there's a mutual respect to be payed between expatriates who, like Hemingway in Paris, are looking for something to make them feel free. Fortunately for all involved, Club Niagara offers only the relatively anodyne pleasures of beer and American songs for singing, both of which are easily recoverable after a night. I didn't tempt fate and ask for the absinthe, however.

As far as drowning one's sorrows, however, there's nothing quite like anonymous Karaoke. I say, 'anonymous,' because the arrangement of Club Niagara is ingenious: the monitors displaying the lyrics are behind the bar, facing the masses. So when your song comes up,  you take the mic and with everyone else in the bar face the televisions. No stage fright, no audience--just you singing with a bunch of friends, even if they're only friends for one night. And whether you're all belting along horribly to "The Winds of Change," or rapping to "Paper Airplanes" (or crooning sadly to something by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, which was my poison of choice), you can laugh the hilariously bad Japanese B-Roll of muscular guys on motorcycles, or melancholy lovers looking at lakes, or some other cliched scene set incongruously to the English words on the screen.

And at the end of the night you can brave the security patrols of Marines in the severely professional service uniform, and take the songs into the street, and try to find your way back to base in the dark, narrow, silent Japanese streets. Hopefully you're full of enough friendship and amusement--and beer--to fall asleep when you get into your dormitory.

The nice thing about finishing the deployment in late summer is that there are more things to do on base. For one thing, the nice weather makes nocturnal pursuits such as were just described much more pleasant. For another, the pool is open.

Oh, how we loved the pool. The single guys checking out the female lifeguards, who were mercifully college-age and not still in high school, the diving board cannonball competitions, the unashamed male tanning episodes in preparation to impress loved ones back home. It was the perfect meeting place, the perfect summer hangout, the perfect place to relax. Sometimes, since the days were long and there was precious little work do to, we could sneak over there after getting home from the squadron with a book and our iPod and catch some delicious afternoon rays. The best was when we could hit a workout (also preparation for impressing the loved ones back home), jump in the pool, catch some sun poolside until it closed, then hit our mandatory Friday night O'Club visit.

Now the Friday night visit to the club was a requirement all deployment, and a source of much debate. The junior officers (captains) hated it. The social ones had other plans: trains to Fukuoka or Hiroshima and the hotter nightlife there; the introverted ones simply wanted to go to their rooms, video-chat with their wives, and sleep. There seemed to be little point to go to the club and mingle with the same demoralized and ever-changing crowd of permanent personnel, DOD teachers, and those bad-news wives who were, ah, just a little too flirtatious with us (who were certainly not their husbands). Most of the time we ended up eating cartons of free popcorn, playing endless rounds of shuffleboard, and eventually starting up a game of Crud (a wonderfully violent and complicated game played on a pool table). Sound fun? It mostly wasn't.

But it paid off occasionally. During our time spent at Kadena Air Base, we could assert our collective man-hood against the Crud teams of other units, Marine and especially Air Force. The Air Force, it should be noted, prefers a 'finesse' game of Crud, where we like to dominate physically. Stereotypes, anyone? And, remembering our victories and ignoring our defeats, by the deployment's end the Friday night at a club was more like the senior stroll down a high-school hallway than a chore. Here at the end, we lazily tune up our game in anticipation of our relieving unit (due in several days) and talk about all the ways we're better than they are. Like those high school seniors who have proclaimed all semester that they can't wait to leave, we begin haunting the Club even on nights that aren't Friday, a little reluctant to depart.

Only a little. Because as we turn to hedonism with gusto in these last weeks of deployment, we are looking for distractions to carry us through this piece of limbo. Because what we really want, what I really want, is to get this thing over with and get home. A year and a half ago, I waited sadly to go home to San Diego because while I knew it was better than the wintertime Iwakuni I had just experienced, there was nothing really waiting for me there. My future was in doubt. Now I can finally cut the painful distance between my wife and I, and return to where I belong by her side.

It is a strange unfettered experience, here at the end of deployment, and our doubts at the utility of going to Japan instead of the Middle East gain strength as we belt ballads into microphones and beer bottles, spend an hour perfecting a can-opener, or swagger around the beat-up pool table in a Crud game. But there are no doubts about what's coming--home--and I happily do anything that compresses the time between now and my homecoming.

Tales of the Green Guide: The sacred island

I have a passion for sightseeing. My sweet and good-humored wife found this out when she visited me in Japan and had to share me with a Michelin Green Guide (which I still jealously guard). I don't know why exactly cultural exposure is so exciting to me, but I'm a little ashamed to admit that becomes sort of competitive and strenuous when I do it. I simply can't resist the impulse to devise a grueling schedule to visit as many three-starred sights as possible. I did the very same thing nearly nine years ago when I studied a semester in Spain, and one of my fellow students said she could always find me "charging across a plaza with a Green Guide in hand and ten other students floundering behind."

Well, despite my obsession our marriage survived the Japan trip. My sweet and patient wife, who initially hung on to my rapidly touring self with excitement and eagerness, eventually decided that bicycling up a hill on a narrow road with no shoulder and much oncoming traffic ("but they're tiny Japanese cars," I soothed unconvincingly) was maybe a wee bit intense for a supposed second honeymoon and pleasantly "offered" to return to the hotel and wait for me in the rooftop bar. Being a good and responsive husband, I abandoned the idea of more "extreme sightseeing" and we passed the rest of our vacation in an acceptable compromise between the sights and relaxation.

In any case, I wonder still why I had never yet visited the island of Miyajima while on deployment. It was a coveted three-star attraction in my Green Guide, it was a short and inexpensive train ride from my base, and it has a mountain to climb with temples on the top. Extreme sightseeing, convenience, and a high rating from Michelin--the holy trinity of tourism. And yet until recently I had never been. I think, actually, it may have had something to do with the required intensity of my sightseeing. Knowing subconsciously that I never do things halfway, I avoided such a big commitment. But last weekend I could wait no longer. The brilliant August weather of Japan and the fact that my second WestPac of this duty assignment was winding down made it impossible to put off any longer. So I gathered some friends last weekend and we decided to make the trip.

Miyajima is something of a holy island in Japan. It is the location of Itsukushima Shrine, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, which spreads its graceful architecture and red framing over a tidal flat, making it appear to float on the water. There are many other temples and shrines on the island, some of which are built quite high on the ridges, and (the Western favorite) of five-story Pagoda. Aside from souvenir shops and the like, there are no commercial or residential areas on the island, and it can be reached only by a ferry. Japanese respect the religious significance of the place by prohibiting American aircraft (such as the Hornets I operate) from overflying the island proper. It felt a little bit like the Forbidden City, though on a smaller and friendlier scale. I was excited to see it and loving packed my Green Guide a in the manner of child packing his or her favorite blanket. Admittedly, I was also yearning to try the mountain ascent.

The train we rode to the Miyajima stop was a slow commuter train. Since Japan is very mountainous in the south, the built-up areas cling tightly to the coast. For this reason the train ride presented long and lovely views of the sea. It was a beautiful day and it promised to be very hot. The short walk from the train station revealed Miyajima itself, a high-ridged and apparently untouched island that stretched across the open water to the east. It wasn't until halfway through the ferry ride that the famous temple and "floating Torii" game came into view. The deep green of the forested hills, the deep blue of the water, and the paler blue of the sky were magnificent. I stood with a host of multinational tourists in the bow and snapped picture after picture. The old tourist excitement clawed at me--the need to know about, to see, and to put my hands on the great achievements of humanity. As the berserker mist rose before my eyes, magnifying the temple attractions before me, I clutched tighter at my Green Guide in one hand and camera in the other. A small, sane part of my mind pitied my traveling companions. I hoped they could keep up.

The ferry dropped us off in a busy tourist bureau which offered free maps and polite Japanese guides speaking every language imaginable. The three of us picked up maps and headed off to the temple. As we exited the bureau, however, we stepped into a large plaza crowded with equal numbers of people and (of all things) deer! These deer, we'd heard, were protected because they lived on the sacred island of Miyajima. Hence, they were rather the pets of tourists, and all around us other tourists greedily snapped pictures with the animals, who for their part obliged by coming up to sniff expectantly at hands in the hope of food. One actually took a chunk out of my tourist map, then later made a play for my shirt. Saucy little minx! er, doe! We snapped pictures as greedily as the rest, delighted (I must admit) by the novelty of closeness with such normally shy animals. Eventually, however, we made our way along the road and came the shrine and the Torii.

The tide was out, so the buildings were not floating. They were no less impressive, however. Massive red-painted pilings and beams held up the graceful and slender buildings. The flat beach, the elevated shrine, the curving and pointed roofs, and the rearing green mountain above made an awesome sight. Rivers of ink have been spilled trying to accurately depict and describe the subtle complexities of eastern religion--Buddhism, Shintoism, Confucianism, Taoism. Though I have read a bit on several such belief systems, I can scarcely claim to understand them. But the beautiful shrine on Miyajima, it's colors and shapes and setting all skillfully combined to create an overwhelming impression of balance between the struggle and the rest, seemed an archetype of the eastern ideologies that are still, at heart, a mystery to occidentals. The crowds and snapping cameras could not dim the hauntingly balanced and therefore hugely calming effect of the whole edifice.

Exhilarated by the experience of the shrine, I snapped pictures along with the rest of the tourists. I conformed to the custom of digging a penny (a yen coin?) into the wood of the Torii and making a wish. Then we turned our faces upward at the forbidding ridge above and began finding our way to the trailhead.

How to describe the trail up? Well, I assured my wife that it was much more difficult than our bike rides. It was a succession of staircases cut into the hillsides and very much like a pilgrim trail. The path ascended along burbling brooks, through sun-splashed glades, and across steep slopes yielding ever more magnificent views of the water, of nearby Hiroshima, of my own erstwhile home in Iwakuni. But as the heat grew and muscles fatigued, my enjoyment of mountain brooks, sun-splashed glades, and magnificent views severely dimmed. I began glowering at fellow-climbers as I passed them, rejoicing grimly in the pain developing in my legs, and querulously inquiring at every turn when we were going to make it to the top of the mountain. I may have even used certain descriptors that aren't fit for the classy and family-oriented forum for which this memoir is intended. But I tightened again my sweaty grip on the trusty Green Guide, absently wiped my camera clean with my soaked T-Shirt, and leaned into the hillside. Fortunately, my traveling companions were Marines and perhaps used to such treatment--at any rate, they didn't complain. We were all equally committed to conquer the mountain of Miyajima.

Well, as you might guess, we made it. After two false alarms (Miyajima was such a tease)--one temple complex two thirds the way up, and an open rocky area several hundred meters before the peak--we got to the top, marked by a snack shop and a tall platform built to take advantage of the three hundred and sixty degree view of the Hiroshima prefecture and Shikoku Island. Our tiredness forgotten, we laughed happily at the sweating tourists laboring up behind us below, we marveled at the sprawl of Hiroshima, we noted the new runway at Iwakuni, and generally congratulated ourselves at the trek. Then we bought ice cream and water and started down. We made a quick stop to scramble among some rocks and take more pictures, but as time was ticking on and we wanted to make it back before the evening, we reluctantly left the exalted summit and descended into the tourist masses. It was a quick and somewhat painful trip. But we had done it. Sightseeing accomplished. One more three-starred attraction added to my list of cultural achievements. My Green Guide glowed approvingly on my lap all the way home.

The Long Shadow of Suribachi

"Did you see the list?" Chainsaw asks. I pull up short before his door, confused. "The trip to Iwo Jima," he adds, with a half-laugh. Under his blonde, RAF-from-the-Battle-of-Britain inspired mustache, he's smiling, though with the resigned air. "You're on the list."

My first reaction, God help me (or Chesty Puller help me, in this case), is dismay. "Sweet," I comment automatically. A trip to Iwo Jima? Any Marine's dream. But all I can think about is a lost day of work, and the pressure to display my reputed physical shape--which, I am acutely aware, I've been trying systematically, if not intentionally, to destroy over this deployment with booze, cigarette smoke, and a steady diet of peanut butter crackers, diet coke, and coffee. Another challenge, I think, and I'm so tired.

"That's awesome," I add inadequately. "I should probably figure out when that leaves." I regret that as I say it--it's meaningless, and forced, and an attempt to soften the blow for Chainsaw, who is clearly disappointed he's not going. He's a better Marine than I: he wants to go. I turn to walk away, but get only two steps into the brown-and-beige office area of the squadron's Administrative Department when my boss walks in behind me. "Hey Sir," I say to him in the fine tradition of military courtesy. I pause, awkwardly. "Thanks for getting me on the Iwo Jima trip." 

He looks like he has a bad taste in his mouth. "You're welcome," he replies. I forget if he elaborated. I know what he's thinking. He and I don't get along very well. He's an aggressive, excellent pilot and a very good instructor. He's also very orthodox in his position in the Corps: his purpose is to fly the F/A-18 precisely, employing it precisely in the delivery of bombs, rockets, guns, and missiles against the enemies of the United States. He (at best) tolerates the rest of his job: the solid, mundane business of keeping the squadron running--in this case keeping the squadron administrative affairs running. There's something lacking, he thinks, in my hesitant attitude toward the drinking, the teasing, the roughhousing, and the attitude of aggression that fits our shared job. I think he probably didn't want me to go, but did the "right" thing by adding me to the list. It's a fundamental tenet of Marine Corps leadership to get your subordinates the opportunities, and anyway this is my second deployment with the squadron--if anyone is ever to have considered paying their dues in this business, I have. Suddenly I'm grateful to him.

I finish the walk over to my desk, set my coffee down next to my laptop, and search for the email regarding the trip.

Iwo Jima!

Considered one of its three keynote battles, Iwo Jima looms large in the lore of the Marine Corps. It was a battle of firsts: the first U.S. incursion into what the Japanese considered their "home islands" and the first (and only) time Marine casualties (some 26,000) exceeded Japanese casualties (22,000). It was also the first time the Japanese used a new defensive technique in which they let the invaders come ashore, then attacked from fortified positions--connected by tunnels--tied in with traps to kill as many Marines as possible. Images of the battle's horror were slow to fade: Marines carrying backpacks of napalm discharged flamethrowers into Japanese bunkers and burned them alive; Marines dropped countless grenades down tunnel entrances as they fought yard by yard across Iwo Jima's signature black sand; Marines braved withering crossfire across the island's airfield to reach enemy defensive positions and seize control of the island. The most famous image, however, is the iconic shot of Marines raising the United States flag in the blasted rubble that stood on the peak of the island's only mountain, Mt. Suribachi. It was famously claimed, "the raising of the flag on Suribachi means the existence of a Marine Corps for the next 500 years."And somehow the battle represents the essential spirit of the Marine Corps--the willingness of Marines to accomplish any impossible task with gusto, their excellent coordination amid a signature armageddon borne of esprit de corps, the sheer grit and aggression and hardiness of an organization that takes pride in doing tough things well. Visiting the site of the battle is a dream come true.

And yet visiting is now somewhat difficult. The island was ceded back to the Government of Japan in 1968, and since then the Japanese have restricted access to set number of visitors per year. It's perhaps understandable--after the war, and acutely aware that they were utterly defeated, the Japanese were eager to show they could be partners in the American economy and allies in the Cold War (remember in those days that North Korea and Communist China were rogue states with very modern weapons). Hence there was a concerted effort to downplay many of the elements that precipitated Japan's war with the United States. Japan gave up their entire military except for a "Self-Defense Force" (shades of Versailles) in return for the promise of American protection, and they uprooted the military governing caste that can probably be traced to the feudal Shogunate and the armies of Samurai. Downplaying Iwo Jima (since renamed "Iwoto") is a natural extension of this. But when a squadron of 182 persons is allowed to send only 60 to the island for a heritage visit, well, it's frustrating. I am lucky to go--a fact which materializes to me in the hours that follow.

On the day of the trip, I rise early and pack my assault pack with a camelback, two canteens of water, and many energy bars. I put on my comfortable boots and make sure I have a camera and sunglasses. It's a sightseeing trip, but only those Marines sufficiently fit to run a "first class PFT" are permitted to go because the hike is so arduous. I'm one of the few officers selected because I earned the maximum points on my PFT, which is more a testament to my pain threshold than my fitness. So I'm a little nervous. Especially since the other officer going is Novia--a physical paradigm who looks like he could qualify for the Olympics in either power lifting or the marathon, depending on his preference. 

The sky is light as I leave my apartment and climb on my bike. It's before sunrise, but in August the light starts very early. I pedal slowly through the quiet streets on my way to the ancient Base Operations building. The smell inside is familiar--60 years of military transients sleeping on the cracked leather seats and, until about 20 years ago, smoking to pass the time as the traffic supporting the network of United States military installations across the western Pacific hopped through Iwakuni. Through the windows I can see the old 737-type airplane, in U.S. Navy livery, waiting for us to board. It's the sleepy time before the struggle, when one is sufficiently started on the adventure to feel excited yet not quite ready to go further yet. I stretch appreciatively and note that my shoulders are already feeling the weight of my pack...which is embarrassing, because it is scarcely more than 30 pounds.

Before we head to the airplane, we have to be weighed with our equipment. So we line up behind the scale, state our name for the clerk with the clipboard, and once registered we are off to line up outside the stairs leading up into the fuselage. Waiting to board, I note for the first time the heaviness in the air--cool, perhaps, but a little sticky as well--that promises full August heat. And we are heading some 500 miles south to begin our trip.

For a few brief minutes the airplane is filled with excited Marines, some worrying about the hike on the island, others trading war stories (others' stories, of course) from the famous battle, and still others speculating on how much old war materiel will be left decaying on the island. But once the engines are on, most passengers fall asleep in accord with the truest of military wisdoms: sleep when you can, because it's more often than you can't. I remain one of the few awake, watching miles of ocean beneath a lace of low clouds pass between pages of my book.

It is sunny and bright as we circle to land; a hot August mid-morning. The airfield looks a little shabby, with seams in the asphalt filled with tar. A utilitarian Japanese Base Operations building is the only notable feature, with Kanji character across the front. A formation of blue-clad Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Force (JMSDF) servicemembers waits in it's shadow to greet us--they are all smiles, eager to share this hallowed ground with Marines. I enter the building once to use the restroom, and am struck by how similar it is to U.S. Military installations--institutional hard floors, chalkboards, steel-framed windows, and neutral tones. For all that, however, it is utilitarian as only Japanese architecture is. I imagine there is a tastefully appointed meeting and office area upstairs with subtle hardwoods, soft gray walls, and plants. I admire the Japanese aesthetic of private, serene living spaces hidden amid their cramped, industrial cities.

We are not there to socialize, however. The Government of Japan only permits us to be on the island for six hours, and Mt. Suribachi is a long way off. We quickly form up for some final information and begin the hike.

The sun is hot and the road is easy at the start. There are some turns as we wind through the living quarters of the Japanese, and then as we move downhill in the direction of the water we see it: a rounded hump in the distance, prominent against the flat island and flatter horizon. Excitement grips us, and our squadron commander shouts down the line, "There's Suribachi, Marines!"

The road is paved for a while, then gives way to a  dirt track. It's still hard-packed and easy to walk on. The day is hotter, however, and we begin sweating through our blouses. After hiking an hour, we stop and strip down to our skivvy shirts. I see some Marines changing boots, and feel sorry for them. We're only halfway to the mountain, and the climb hasn't even begun. It's a long time since I hiked, but even so I know that you only mess with your feet when you can feel your soles about to fall off. For the first time I am worried about whether we'll all make it.

Along the way we stop briefly at memorials, stone reminders that tell of devastated units in the battle, coming back to remember their dead, or in a spirit of hope coming back to meet their enemies--reunions between the men who actually fought on the island. Marines snap pictures and discuss the history we read aloud at these sites. It's hard to describe the feeling, actually. It's not overly somber and reflective, but it's not like a carnival either. It's just, well, excited, a combination due to the presence of inspiring history and fellow Marines. The tropical sunlight doesn't hurt either.

Eventually, the mountain draws closer. Though strict attention to safety might indicate another rest before the ascent, our commander is now excited as well and choses not to stop. Fortunately, trees grow on the mountain sides and so we move from shade to sun as we labor along. It's a steep, switchbacked trail cutting through black rock cliffs. At one point the trail breaks out and offers a view of the ocean, and we see rusted hulks of overturned landing craft in a nearby bay, victims of Japanese defenses 65 years ago. Forlorn and frozen in the agony of combat, those shapes bring to mind the struggle that covered this black rock more immediately than the peaceful, crumbling, overgrown pillboxes we encountered along the path earlier.

We remind each other that while we climb this mountain hot and tired and with aching legs, at least we have a smooth road and no one shooting at us. And as our excitement turns to determination under the slope and the sun, we each reflect on what it would be like clambering over those scalding black rocks, trying to reach the top of this hill and deny the island's most dominating position to the enemy.

Marines are starting to fall back now. Sweating and blown, they put one foot mindlessly in front of the other until a switchback, where they rest for a moment on the flat dust in a spot of shade. For a while I stay with them, encouraging them to drink water and wondering if we'll have to leave one or two behind. Eventually, a Gunny tramps back briskly, cheerfully soaked in his own sweat but otherwise apparently unaffected. "It's ok, sir!" he calls out as he shakes my hand. "I got 'em now. You can get back to the unit." He flashes white teeth at me and I smile back. "Thanks, Gunny," I reply, and pick up the pace. I want to get to the top soon.

The slope lessens as we near the summit. Our commander slows the pace, attempting to bring the unit together before we finish. Several other groups, dressed in civilian clothes, pass us heading down. They look at our sweating, somewhat exhausted ranks with contempt in their faces, but we ignore them. They aren't Marines, probably, and if they are then they have no right to look down on us. Slowly the stragglers catch up, and then suddenly we are there.

There is nothing but sky and water around us, with just a little bit of ground below our feet. Before us is a memorial to the famous flag-raising, and two metal trees carry thousands of dog-tags from previous pilgrims. Though my mind tells me I'm not high enough, I fancy I can see the horizon curve away as I know the surface of the earth curves, and looking down I can see the entire island--invasion beaches, airfield, even the airplane we rode here, peaceful in the afternoon. The funny thing is that the island looks the same as it does in photographs from the invasion: my mind can transpose the landing craft pulled up on the beach, the smoke from shell impacts, and the Marines toting flamethrowers and submachine guns in the foreground. It is a powerful institutional memory that is transposed on the present, and I'm not the only one who sees it. Around me, Marines quietly snap more pictures, hang dog-tags in homage, and re-create the old battle in their minds. Their presence is comforting and inspiring--I feel more a connection to the ghosts of this place with them, I know, than I would without.

We present two awards atop Suribachi. Our commander says but a few words about our legacy and our responsibility to tradition, since on that lonely mountain we feel both acutely. And after a bare half an hour we head back down. We detour briefly to the main invasion beach for a final bit of history and some last photo opportunities. I take one of the mountain, with the beach and footprints in the foreground. It's how I'll always remember the island--forbidding, haunted, sacred, inspiring. A living portal beyond the material present to the blasted and hallowed past. Marines also scoop black sand into containers to take home, a physical reminder of the unique place in time and space that is Iwo Jima.

We are drained, emotionally and physically, as we walk back to the airfield. We walk fast, since our deadline for departure is closing in. The formation is strung out for hundreds of yards as the day reaches it's hottest point, and I find myself grabbing one of the worst stragglers to try to bring him in. He has given up, and I don't know why. I take his pack and strap it to my chest, start walking with him. But he is defeated, and even carrying nothing but a camelback he can barely put one foot in front of the other. I find I have to stop periodically and wait for him to catch up. But fortunately he is one of the few. The gunny from the mountainside is also motivating a straggler, and we pass each other several times in this ridiculous turtle race. Eventually we crawl on to the airfield, and I am struck at the transition from the spiritual experience on Suribachi to the utterly mundane environment in the shadow of buildings and our airplane out of here. Now I am back to a "problem Marine" who needs to be pushed to pull his weight, a Marine who will be a pariah to his fellows (who made the walk back without straggling), a Marine susceptible to heat injury and needing extra supervision. And so cajoling and encouraging, I get my ward to the airplane. It is time to go.

The cabin is deliciously cool, and icy gatorades are passed out. Most Marines drink two, then fall asleep for the duration of the ride back. I snooze as well, though I cannot sleep on an airplane very well, so I also watch the waves disappear south and Japan proper appear from my window. The rest of the day is dreamlike--the landing, the walk to the squadron, the bike ride to my dorm, the constant need for water, the dehydration headache. Although nothing physically has changed, I know I will carry the images of that place in my soul. It is not horror, or fear, or awe (though those elements are present), but rather understanding--a deeper identification with the Marine Corps and it's unique, treasured esprit de corps.

It was worth a day of work and the challenge of my selection for the trip. The daily life of deployment is hard work: flight plans, flight briefs, studying, preparing for the next detachment, trying to find time to talk to family at home. It wears Marines down. It wore me down. But after my pilgrimage I see a meaning behind the long quotidian toil, a sense of sustainment and responsibility for this area and this job of fighting wars, a sense grounded in the heat and sweat and the sunlight and above all in the image of that mountain and the battle over which it presided, a sense of identification with our Marine history and esprit de corps.

I will carry the images of that place in my soul forever.