My Farewell to Arms

I stood on the steel staircase landing and looked out over the river, which had seemed impossibly big when I first saw it. The brackish, heavy air stirred around me and carried with it the scents of heat, of humidity, of mud and gently decomposing vegetation. It was, for me, the smell of the Corps.

A trivial errand had brought me to DMO, which stands for "Distribution Management Office." It was one of those ever-changing acronyms in the Marine Corps--it had been TMO, or "Traffic Management Office" for as long as I could remember. It had the same function now as it did before, which was taking your military orders and translating them into a government contract for a moving company, so you could be moved as painlessly as possible. Perhaps at one time it was staffed by Marines, and moderately efficient. Now it was staffed mostly by civilians, which I viewed with a healthy distrust. Most, I'm sure, were diligent and hard-working...but the Marine spouse who I'd spoken to earlier, and who set up my move, had received me like a bad cold and lectured me in a voice both whiny and severe about the limitations of my particular move.

Unfortunately, I didn't have my check-out sheet--on which I was required to get her signature--when I had first seen her, which meant today's trip to this dilapidated brick building. The steel staircase felt like a patch, added recently to cover some defect in the original building. An apt metaphor for DMO itself: a sad, uneasy hybrid of the Marine Corps and the vast, suffocating apparatus of support that grows like fungus on the military organization.

The first time I saw the river, I stood on sweltering asphalt outside Bobo Hall. I had just stuffed some 1500 calories in my face while Drill Instructors screamed and strutted all around me. Terrified of their attention, I bolted my food and ran outside to the comparative safety of my place in formation and my "knowledge," the little read handbook I had to read in every spare moment not occupied by instruction. As I meditated intently on Lieutenant Bobo, who to cover the retreat of his Marines had jammed the severed stump of his leg into the dirt of Vietnam to stop the bleeding, and who won the medal of honor for it, I noticed that this "river" flowing past was tremendously wide. Wider than the Columbia River, by far. Nearly as wide as Lake Washington.

The pungency of the air contained many memories. There is a particular smell to Virginia--maybe just to Quantico--that is known to every Marine Corps officer. A smell that reminds of early mornings and aching chests after a run, or the slimy cool of the Quigley, or the itch and suppression of a flak jacket, vest, and pack in the treeline. It reminds of Drill Instructors with massive arms and veins popping out all over their neck and face as they scream, of taciturn Captains exuding contempt and disappointment at another failed attack, of the heavy numbness of pack and rifle and road and the back of the Marine in front of you, which sets in and carries you through the hours of a forced march.

The overwhelming feeling of being yanked back to the very beginning, of returning to where it all started, is gone. I am back in my car, and irritably searching for a parking spot near the IPAC (Installation Personnel Administration Center, a sweatshop of administration Marines struggling to handle all the administration problems of tens of thousands of other Marines assigned to Quantico). In the back of my mind, I'm wondering what other memories I've buried.

I'm trying to control my astonished wonder at the ghostly green nearness of the mountains. They slide by, fast and deadly, invisible unless I swing my goggles at them. Then they are dangerously close. But I'm conscious that it is my friend in the other jet, struggling to earn his qualification, and we need these attacks to go well. So I drop my gaze under my goggles, watching the displays. Weapons page, set. HUD to the left DDI. I glance to my left and see the other aircraft zip through two small mounds, level with us. I frown. I know we, the wingman, are supposed to stay above our lead for safety. But my pilot is also the flight evaluator, an experienced and outstanding pilot. I wonder, as I nervously flick my eyes between the HUD, the approaching desert floor, and the lead aircraft slowly rising above us, if my pilot is maneuvering to look at something, or to test the other aircraft, or simply is holding a more disciplined altitude than the relatively inexperienced lead. Am I imagining, or is the ground getting closer? How close are we? Wait, I can't tell. The altimeter says 2,160 feet. Without thinking I say, "RADALT to the HUD." Suddenly G-forces come on, and we angle upwards. The RADALT alarm sounds our proximity to the ground as the pilot adjusts it. The altimeter, showing 2,230, instantly shows 240. There's an instant of nausea, as I marvel that we were flying less than 300 feet above the deck with absolutely none of the safety precautions in place to a collision with the ground, if for but a few seconds we fail to pay attention. Then I realize we're coming up on the target, and I hurriedly bring up the Litening Pod display on the right. Over the ICS, I hear my pilot say, "RADALT to the HUD. Thanks."

I joined the Marine Corps chiefly to be free of my parents' financial support. But a latent streak of romantic adventurism awakened as I arrived on that hot, humid asphalt in the summer of 2003. There was the icy, nauseating fear of the drill instructors, but also this strange exhilaration in the company of my fellow candidates. We were doing great things, in our own way--hiking distances, and performing tasks, and learning things that only days before had been unimaginable. And the sea stories of the prior-enlisted, or the drill instructors (delivered in the form of harsh instruction) made me hunger to travel and take this wonderful, small world of right and wrong, good and bad, of exertion and mission to exotic places. There was the middle east, where the battle of An Nasiriyah had concluded. There were stories of the DMZ in Korea, the Central Training Area of Okinawa, and rumors of Afghanistan. There was more heat in Camp Lejeune, and mountains in Camp Pendleton, and I wanted to see it all. I was in love--and I have remained so until the very end.

One thing true of Marines everywhere is their consciousness of history and tradition, from leathernecks to cake ceremonies, Belleau Wood to Frozen Chosin, and always the revered names of our antecedents like Bobo and Barnum and Chesty. Marines, when prompted, will talk for hours on the lineage of the "blood stripe" on their trousers or the origin of the phrase "Gee-Dunk." I know all the old histories, too, and will no doubt repeat them more often as an veteran than I ever did as a Marine Officer. But I think the real well-spring and deposit of tradition lies in the time-honored Marine institutions that remain, virtually unchanged, into our modern times.

I shivered. The biting wind mocked both the desert-pattern windbreaker I wore as a "warming layer" and the magnificent desert mountains rearing all around. It was just before dawn, and the sky was beginning to lighten behind the ridges. Twenty-five yards in front of me, a row of man-shaped targets quivered, and between them and me strutted the campaign-covered marksmanship instructors. We waited for the sunrise, which promised warmth and would allow us to begin shooting. I wasn't looking forward, however, because there was something oddly familiar about this situation. It wasn't deja vu, but something more like finally seeing a building you've only before seen in pictures. I recognized this.

Then suddenly I remembered. E. B. Sledge had been here, had described it in his World War II memoir With the Old Breed. He had described this whole institution: the unspoken expectation of marksmanship, the cold, the weapons, the instructors, the targets, the pits. He might have been to this range, actually, for he described the remote Camp Eliot which still existed, a mountainous wilderness of hiking trails now sitting under the approach path to Miramar Marine Corps Air Station. Before the modern Marine Corps, before helicopter flight, before Iwo Jima and his own battles of Peleliu and Okinawa, before and Khe Sanh and "The March Up" in 1991, Private Sledge had qualified on the timeless ranges of the Marine Corps. Just as I was doing.

A study of history, too, shows that this legacy runs further back than 1942. The two regiments of Marines who went to France in 1918 were reluctantly included by the Army because Congress knew they were already basically qualified soldiers--they had essential marksmanship training, essential training that was reduced for the Army's conscripts in order to more quickly field combat units. It's likely that the Marine doughboys of Chateau-Thierry and Belleau Wood knelt on the same hard ground with their Springfield rifles, re-fought their grandfather's civil war battles just as today's Marines re-fight Vietnam and the early battles of the long war in the Middle East.

The general rubbed his hands briefly together in a nervous gesture that could have been his transition to a new topic, a physical equivalent to saying, "um." But I detected some glee in the movement, and so readied myself for a joke. And I was not disappointed. "When I was a young Lieutenant in the late seventies," he began, "my platoon lived up in Camp Margarita on Pendleton. And we lived in these really crappy barracks. There was a single squad bay, with a partition at one end for me and my platoon sergeant's desks. It was crumbling and dirty, no matter how many times we field day'd the place, and the showers were always backed up and the toilets never worked. And being a conscientious and enterprising lieutenant, I filled out the chit every Friday specifying the discrepancies and requesting maintenance to come to fix the plumbing. One day, as I was dropping the chit off in the Facilities section, the gunny who was there said, 'hey wait a minute, Lieutenant.' I turned back and said, 'yes, gunny?' He motioned me close--" the general made a comical beckoning motion--"and said, 'now I like you, Lieutenant. You seem like you're really trying to do the right thing here. But I gotta say, those barracks you're living in are condemned. They're scheduled to be replaced in the next five years, so nobody's going to spend any money to fix them at all.' And he pointed to a drawer, where I could see every chit I'd ever written neatly filed." The general paused as an appreciative chuckle swept through the Lieutenants. "Well, I went back and continued writing my chits, but I was a little satisfied to know that there would be new buildings soon." He paused for a second. "Fast forward to the early two thousands, when I became the CG of 1st Marine Division. Shortly after I arrived back on Camp Pendleton, I drove up to Camp Margarita to see the new barracks. By then I was wise enough not to be surprised when I saw the same old crappy, crumbling barracks standing there." A muted laugh from the audience. "But I parked my car and headed into the same old squad bay to find a Lieutenant sitting at the same desk behind the same partition, doing some paperwork. He jumped up quick when he saw mygeneral's star, but I calmed him down--" another muted laugh--"and asked him how the Barracks were. 'Well, sir,' he replied, "the toilets don't work and the showers are always backed up! I write a chit every Friday after field day, but I'm told...'" Here the general paused for dramatic effect, with the air of an impending punch line, "'that these buildings are scheduled to be torn down in five years and new ones built in their spot!'" The laughter was loud and long.

The amazing thing about the Marine Corps is this vital continuity of experience, the feeling of being part of something meaningful, with roots in the past and a mission for the future. Generations of Marines have field day'd crumbling buildings and ships, and written chits that were ignored, and felt the lash of a salty, scornful, authoritative tongue on their sincere efforts. Generations of officers have struggled to care for their Marines who are coping with substandard living conditions, and have with secret pride rejoiced in the Corps' preference to spend money on training rounds and field rations rather than cushy barracks with serviceable plumbing. The great work of the Marine Corps, to win battles and make good citizens, continues in the small details and virtues that are comical, and ridiculous, and the very lifeblood of the military.

In the gathering darkness I watched them line up in the LZ. The shouts and complaints, audible in the still air, told of their exhaustion. Steam rose from their necks and faces, and I shivered. Forcing myself to be still, despite the lack of warming layers (which I had conspicuously stripped), I waited until the student platoon commander told me they were ready "to step." Hoisting my pack smoothly I took my spot at the front left of the column, and started walking.

By now it was dark, and large flakes of snow were falling. I could feel their despair behind me. Despair is not too strong a word, because after their first wake-up-and-full day-of attacks in the field, they were beat down. Bad. I knew how they felt--the sweat, clammy and gritty with dirt but now freezing, the shaky legs and ankles, sore from walking up and down and alongside hills all day. It didn't help that I was marching them past their quarters in Graves Hall, whose windows shone with warm light. There was despair dragging behind me as the dark closed in, and the sad and terrible finality of falling snow extinguished any hope of warmth and light. I had been through it all before, and I knew why ancient people worshipped the sun.

But the despair was born of fear, and baseless fear at that. Soon, I knew, we would arrive at our next LZ, and the snow would keep our sleeping bags dry in the freezing air. I knew we soon would be happily bivouacked. And so I strode remoselessly on, swinging off the paved road on to gravel. Here the carefully constructed model officer I projected to the world fell apart, for I tripped on a pothole and face-planted, with 80-odd pounds of pack helping to drive the point home. Almost immediately, the students had picked me up and were asking if I was okay. I growled at them a thanks and continued to stride, angry and embarrassed but otherwise unhurt. After several paces I commented to my student platoon commander that at least I gave them something to use against me at Mess Night.

We tramped across the wooden bridge, and climbed raggedly up Cardiac Hill. As I strode away from the top, I heard murmurings behind me that swelled, slowly, until someone finally yelled, "stop!" I stopped, turned around, and asked who had fallen back. The students, in huddled postures, told me the name of the two Marines who hadn't kept up, and again I felt their despair clutching at me. The night was cold, the woods were close, and two of their peers were lost somewhere behind. Angry at their weakness, I told my student platoon commander to keep the platoon there, and I took a squad leader with me back down the hill. Eventually I found my Marines, struggling and slow, morale as bad as I'd ever seen. They were uninjured, however, so I told them to continue after us and I walked back to the main group.

Some packs were off, the quintessential expression of defeat for students. I ignored the questioning (pleading?) glances, took my place at the head of the column, and began walking. There was a sullen scramble behind me to pick up and begin again. But it was easy going from here, as the road was flat, and soon we'd turned in the treeline.  The slow Marines had caught up. The trail endd at another LZ, where there were other platoons and some vehicles, engines humming comfortably. I had my students take off their packs and sit on them, and talked briefly about the next day's event. Then I let them go make up their sleeping positions. Before lying down, I checked in with my firewatch Marines and chatted briefly with the Marines who were still awake.

From my sleeping bag, slowly warming up with my body's heat, I finally appreciated the beauty and the stillness of snow, delicately outlining every branch and quieting the world. After that night, I never felt any fear or despair in my Marines, and I hoped they learned the lesson: with a Mission to accomplish, and Marines to lead, they can get through anything--or rather, certainly through harder trials than a snowy night hike.

For nearly nine years (thirteen if you count my time in ROTC, which most don't, but which seemed quite military to me at the time) I have loved and served this institution. I have shivered in wet foxholes, and soaked in coffee to stay awake through the small hours while preparing some report or another. I have honed my skills at air-to-air combat and close air support in readiness for conflict, used some of the same Quonset Huts at Iwakuni as the Marines who occupied Japan in 1945. I have suffered the disappointment of my peers and superiors and (worst of all) my Marines, and have taken joy in our shared successes, and I have grown up. Grown to know that I could truly give to a marriage, truly give to my children, truly face danger and difficulty and uncertainty and yet do something constructive.

I have many sea stories to tell and re-tell in nostalgic moments to come. The Naval Service still holds sway over my heart and the thrill of new, dangerous places is only a memory away. But I have found a greater love in my wife and child, and a hitherto unknown desire for peace and quietude. So it is time to hang up my uniform. I taste, one last time, that particular air of the Marine Corps: brackish water and effort and heat and the joyful burden of scrutiny and responsibility. I look out at that river which started it all, the strange brown river as big as a lake and a visible sign that home was far away and I was, then, somewhere completely different. It was exciting, terribly exciting, and I followed that excitement a lover.

But now, with happy memories, it is time to go home.

Semper Fidelis.

Adaptation, self, and disturbing interests

Humans are adaptable creatures. I was reminded quite suddenly of that fact this afternoon, when I resurrected my iPad from it's sentinel on my desk and caught up on some Hulu television shows (ok, so far I'm sounding like a technological caricature of a person). I also checked my email inbox, where I was looking for some news...and whoops! there it was. A long-overlooked email from a former professor of mine.

This email in question was a response to a message I sent him on the occasion of receiving some literature from my former college. I was deployed at the time, and struggling with separation from my new family and the almost constant activity that attends military operations. The mailing was a both a wrench and a breath of fresh air: it recalled the second-happiest period of my life, my time at Notre Dame. And as I re-read that email, written two years ago from the sleepy agricultural Japanese village of Komatsu, I wondered at all that had changed.

Like many, I turn to the familiar when I encounter adversary. Actually, that's like all of us. One of the benefits of studying ethics under Dr. Steven Olsen is that I can understand some of the impulses that govern my behavior. And he has demonstrated in neurological studies that humans ALWAYS go to the familiar in some form or another when faced with adversity. Choosing the different requires opposition, either in the form of a person who says, "no! don't do that! do this instead!" But I digress. In any case, during the particular adversity of that deployment--which seemed to consist of equal parts missing my wife, struggling to keep up with our day-to-day flying and movement schedule, training flights, and hangovers--I found refuge in my old refuge, books.

If you've clicked the link, you know that the book in question was Moby Dick. It might have seemed a little odd to my squadron-mates that I would curl up in bland, minimalist, and weirdly overstuffed sitting area with my Kindle while they were more concerned about taking the new guys out to Karaoke as a means to forcing them to perform 'Paradise by the Dashboard Lights' and nicknaming them Meatloaf (perhaps the new Marine Corps order on hazing has a part in this discussion? I kid, I kid), but they were used to my oddness. After all, they found it endlessly entertaining that my college degree was in something so vaguely titled, "Great Books" and they marveled at my effortless use of words outside their vocabulary. And though they eventually knew me better, perhaps, that my reader here, they initially drew the same conclusion: namely that I was nerdy, affectedly academic, and pompous, and that I probably was homeschooled too. Actually, I was not.

It's just, well, I have always had an affinity for reading. A psychologist would no doubt have a field day delving into my past and figuring out why my childhood friends were books, rather than friends, but here I am and then, in adversity, I went straight back to a good book, and forewent the Karaoke (although in retrospect I'm sorry I did, except that maybe otherwise I wouldn't have written that email, or rediscovered it now, or sat down to write a rambling reflection on it).

And so as I revisited this old email, my adaptability presented itself in the subject of the last books I read: The Rise of the Wehrmacht: The German Armed Forces and World War II, Stormtroop Tactics: Innovation in the German Army, 1914-1918, and my current projects, The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich and The Gathering Storm (Churchill's memoirs on World War II). Apart from maybe wondering if I've discovered some evil attraction in Hitler's awful regime (something some of my, er, acquaintances will no doubt say they knew already), the discerning reader will note the sharp shift from the pure artistic literature of Moby Dick and Paradise Lost (referenced in that old letter) to the very serious topic of European military history during the two world wars. So, I have adapted.

My wife sometimes tells me that I've assimilated too much into the 'Marine Culture.' I find this hard to believe, since I keep my hair as normal-looking as possible without pushing the boundary of stated grooming regulations and I don't have any tattoos on my body that say USMC, or depict an Eagle, Globe, and Anchor, or that announce my MOS (looking at you, grunts!). But then I realize that I have traded in that thing I really loved--a great story, artfully told, illustrating something True about life--for something more narrowly focused to my profession. She was right, and I have to say that while chagrined I am also grateful that she stood athwart my regress and told me to stop. I repeat: so, I have adapted.

Now I want to make it clear that I think it a very good thing that I read military history. After all, I chose to read these books on purpose. And no, Lakesiders (and casual Facebook visitors), it's not because I'm somehow contemplating Nazism (academically or otherwise). Having in some wise the education of young officers, who will shortly be leading young Americans into combat, in my charge, well I'd better be educating myself! But instruction is futile if it's not authentic, and the less authentic I become in my self-imposed mind-narrowing the poorer instruction I'll give.

I should have read the signs, of course. I was thrilled to discourse a bit on Aristotle when talking ethics to my own Alpha Company, 6th Platoon. I recently started listening intently to classical music in the car when driving to and from work. WETA, anyone? Today I dived into my iTunes collection of hymns. All tugging me back to that most enjoyable thing for me, encountering good stories and Truth. It's my hobby, the way some people enjoy conversation, or woodworking, or playing an instrument. I only wish my hobby were more social, but, well, I blame the homeschooling (or whatever gave me that aura), apologies to one recent student and all homeschooled readers. You're all probably smarter than the rest of us, by the way.

So, adaptability. Definitely a good thing. Allows us to bring our talents to bear in new pursuits. Brings us into conversation with 'the different' so we don't always end up reacting the same way. But it also can pull us away from whatever constitutes our favorite things about, well, life. I don't subscribe to the theory that there is some immutable 'me' inside every one of us (well, not 'me;' in your case it would 'you') that has existed since conception or birth and persists until death--humans are too complicated for that. We grow, and develop, and adapt, and usually find things than are more enjoyable that what was previously our favorite. And it's really only important that we gravitate to the things that make us happy. Unfortunately for my wife and my close friends, I now add 'history about the German Army of the two world wars' to that list of things that makes me happy.

And I will finish my two current books, because *hmpf* I am a father and it's important I set the example of finishing what I started, and then I'll move on to something a little broader in scope. I would welcome suggestions.

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.

The Other Japan

Of the many places I've been able to visit as a United States Marine, rural Japan (at first glance) does not figure as a highlight. After all, when not deployed I often flew on the weekends for some extra training--training that included a look at unfamiliar airfields. "Unfamiliar Airfields" in this case usually meant Las Vegas, or Palo Alto, or Phoenix Sky Harbor, or Boise, Idaho. Though I haven't seen the entire country through the lens of aviation, I've fought the complicated airspace around the capital, I've despairingly landed in deep-south backwaters, I've taken the long and circling approach into Key West, and even attempted a fly-over of a Cincinnati Reds game. During my two deployments to Japan I managed to add Northern Australia, Guam, Wake Island, a good deal of Korea, and (of course) Hawaii to the list. So I was somewhat ambivalent about trading small-town Iwakuni for small-town Komatsu, especially after a blissful ten-day tour of international Tokyo and imperial Kyoto. But despite my ambivalence, duty called. So I joined with the squadron in packing ourselves up for the temporary detachment north.

Komatsu, in case one is unfamiliar with the geography of Japan, is a very small town on the west side of the main island. Actually, it faces north, since Japan generally lies east-west in the center of it's 1500 mile length. It is about 100 miles due west of Kyoto, and is blessed with a pretty beach and clear blue water. It is the location of two Japanese Air Self Defense Force (JASDF) F-15 squadrons who were eager to tear it up with some Marine Hornets. What with all the training was in it. So they graciously decided to pay for our trip and well, since the whole reason we were deployed to Japan was to maintain international relations, show American commitment to our allies in this part of the world, and build interoperability with allied militaries, it just made sense. It was our only really exciting assignment during this deployment, unless you count our delightfully chilly and miserable little field exercise in Korea. Besides, what fighter pilot (or WSO) doesn't want to test his or her skills against a foreign adversary?

The more I thought about the whole thing, actually, the more it seemed like a good time. A little bit of a good time, mind you. Nowhere near as exciting as Guam, or Thailand, or Australia would have been. But better than stewing in Iwakuni. Of course, the fun police were in full effect, warning us ever so severely that the poor unexperienced denizens of Komatsu were unfamiliar with Americans, especially Marines, and we wouldn't be able to count the sort of help often offered by the nice people of Iwakuni--rudimentary English, directions home if we happened to forget the way or were partially inebriated, or a charitable refusal to call the police if we created some sort of disturbance. In fact, our ability to travel off base was subject to many onerous restrictions and warnings indeed that we felt like there was a large and exciting world of forbidden fruit outside just waiting to be plucked! Or I should say the pluckiest of us felt. The rest of us nodded seriously, waited for our appointed betters to depart the area, and under the auspices of the blue light embarked on a veritable orgy of eye-rolling and muttering about the substandard entertainment provided by this deployment.

Well, we duly got the squadron packed up (and I was grateful now that I was not responsible for heavy and sensitive computer equipment of the MPC, but rather only required a work computer and some files) and flew into Komatsu. It was a clear, sunny Saturday morning and a very short flight. Still feeling surly, and curious, to see this pastoral Japanese town supposedly terrified of the crazy American Marines, I was awkwardly greeted by a Japanese dignitary of some sort, who smiled benignly and shook my startled hand, before I picked up my personal effects--stuffed in the ever-capacious, ever handy, well-used seabag--and strolled over to the large apartment block that was to be my home for the next two weeks.

This was my first real introduction to Japanese life. First, I had to take my shoes off before entering. Now I'd expected this--I'd been told countless times that it's forbidden to enter Japanese residences (and most restaurants) with shoes on. But until now I'd only ever visited touristy places, and lived in American quarters on an American base. In the simple act of unlacing my boots and throwing on some slipper-sandals for the trip to my room, I stepped into life as a guest of the Japanese. There was no great revelation to this, I caution. But it was very interesting and very enjoyable.

The first thing to mention is the food. Like many American bases, the Japanese have an on-base store and restaurant. The latter part of the structure was converted into a chow hall for Americans three times each day, and giggling polite Japanese ladies served the food behind the counter. I am sorry to say that the meals were awful. I should say here that I like Japanese food. But what they served us was a caricature of American food--exclusively deep-fried, unimaginative junk. I think they were trying to make us meals that we would like. They probably thought that all Americans eat nothing but french fries and assorted other fried food. It was a trial. The fruit, however, was delicious and fresh. We ate a lot of that.

The other big surprise was the Japanese bathhouse located on the top floor of our apartment block. We had been warned about this, too. Our prudish American sentiments might be offended, we were told, at the Japanese custom of relaxing in this bathhouse naked. Some among us refused to go at all costs. None of that male nudity for them! Others attempted to enjoy the steaming pools and saunas at off-peak hours, where their use of a bathing suit or a towel would not be subject to the affronted stares of our hosts. I decided if I were in for a penny, I might as well be in for a pound (or a hundred yen), and trooped up one evening with a towel, some shower sandals, and a bucket with soap and shampoo to see what this Japanese male bathhouse ritual was all about.

First of all, it was definitely a retreat. Compared to our spartan rooms and common areas, the wood panelling, sumptuous carpet, and gleaming generous faucets were luxurious. A little foyer provided cubbyholes for one to put clothes and shoes, and I surreptitiously followed the lead of some Japanese in stripping completely and heading off into the interior. Once inside, the first room was a carpeted living room with massage chairs and a television, in which clothed Japanese enjoyed the services of the chairs and some conversation. Further in, the floor turned to tile and the towels moved from the waist to the neck. On one side of a room running the length of the building there were three tubs filled with water of varying heat. The rest of the room was furnished with knee-high shower nozzles, under which men sat and scrubbed themselves. Their nakedness was, er, awkward...especially since they took no notice of it. In several parts of the room men carried on apparently normal conversations while thoroughly showering. As I was unwilling to experience quite that much Japanese culture, I repaired to the loneliest nozzle and quickly showered there. Then I walked over to the tubs in some unnoticed embarrassment at my nakedness.

The succession of hot water and saunas that followed was quite nice. There's something to be said for a good long soak; it clears the head and seems to purify the body. Some assert that a sauna causes the body to sweat out toxins, and I could almost believe it to be true. Fortunately my fellow bathers were too interested in their own conversations to pay me any attention, so awkwardness was kept to a minimum. In accordance with bathing protocol, I returned to the shower before dressing, and was just beginning to feel something like resignation to the surprising nudity around me when I caught sight of my naked self in the plate windows at the far end of the shower room. Realizing both that it was dark, and someone outside could see into the shower room, and that the shower room faced the flight line at the same instant, I wondered if any of our Marines working the night shift (of which several were female) could discern one of their own seven stories up. That was not a welcome thought. I dressed rather hurriedly and departed. From then on I ventured no more to the bathhouse--it was an interesting experience, and even a positive one (the saunas and the tubs, at least), but certainly not for me. I'm happy to admit my prudishness in this regard.

Trips off the base were spiced up by the obvious trepidation of Japanese locals and the constant presence of a Japanese plain-clothed policeman. The latter, we heard, was not there so much to keep tabs on us as to reassure the citizens of Komatsu that they weren't to be abandoned to our notoriously crazy ways. As regards to the attitude of the locals, well, it was decidedly odd to feel watched every second and in every action. Some places had signs declaring they refused to serve us. We were good-natured about it (after all, we were guests), and concentrated our forces on the places that welcomed our business--especially the Karaoke lounges. Those places might as well have been in a different dimension, since once inside we were almost encouraged to get drunk and bawl out songs to Japanese-produced music videos of American pop songs. In those smokey and close dens, the local patrons evinced hilarity at our antics and seemed not at all perturbed by our presence...especially as I recall we pretty much hogged the mike. After such nights the presence of our Japanese police shadow was quite useful in showing us the way back to the base.

During the one full weekend we were in Komatsu we were invited to field a squadron baseball team and play the Japanese base baseball team. Though meant as a fun bonding exercise, we regarded this as as serious challenge. The Japanese take baseball very seriously, and though their major leagues do not (in general) reach the caliber of American teams (except the Cubs, of course) they do field many players who are good enough to come and be stars in the United States. Also, on our various occasional jogs around the airfield we noticed many little league games in progress. So we figured we had the honor of America in our hands in a contest involving our national pastime. Accordingly, the day of the game we divided into four teams and played an elimination match that resulted in two teams being formed--basically a "varsity" team, that played the Japanese base team, and a JV team which played the Japanese equivalent JV team. The Japanese were very professional and showed up in uniforms, with uniformed umpires to call the game, and strong overhand pitching. It was a very sunny day and a great deal of fun--our JV team won narrowly (that was my team) while our "varsity" lost narrowly. So I'd say our national honor was maintained, though not by much.

The deepest glimpse into Japanese culture came, however, during our training flights. We have our own training requirements and they have theirs, but both sides required "red air," usually a section (two) of fighters to play the enemy. Normally the red air will act per the "blue air" flight lead's instructions, and die accordingly, until all fighters are within visual range (WVR)--at which point the gloves come off, and all players fight for their life in a melee until one side is completely killed. The last part, really, is why we were excited to work with the JASDF. Dogfighting. It is, as some say, the most fun one can have with his or her clothes on.

Now it's considered good manners that when one squadron provides red air, you provide it back on a later flight. A nice, professional quid pro quo. And so it happened that occasionally we would listen to the Japanese brief us and conform to their training needs, while other times we'd have to brief them. And it follows, of course, that after the fight the blue air flight lead would then debrief the full flight--arrows on whiteboards, sternly enforced etiquette of terms and speech, the whole nine yards. I should admit that we considered ourselves the master at this. The tactics and ethics of TOPGUN inform all we do, and as far as I know they are the grandaddy of such institutions in military aviation. With much sniggering we heard and repeated the story of one of our members, who had the misfortune to depart from controlled flight as red air during a 2v2 combat, then had the much greater fortune to recover more or less on the tail of a Japanese F-15. With admirable aggression said pilot smoothly selected an AIM-9 Sidewinder missile and pulled the trigger, calling his surprised foe out on the radio. In the debrief, the still-confused Japanese pilot neatly diagrammed out the flight, stopping the point where our comrade fell out of the sky and saying, "now here, Hornet pull SUPERMANEUVER. and shoot Eagle." He paused, then looked at the Marine and added pleadingly, "how does Hornet do supermaneuver?"

Needless to say, we were a little cocky.

The real difficulty, actually, was in the fact that the Japanese were very formal. It was unsettling to brief to an audience of stony faces, staring critically at the board. I'm sure we insulted some of them by sometimes speaking in the slow, simple tones usually reserved for dim children, but if they took offense they didn't show it. They also became very visibly embarrassed and apologetic if they made a mistake in the debrief. I should say here that it is very hard to keep the flight path of four highly maneuverable fighter aircraft in one's mind during the fight--generally you're lucky if you remember yours and the guy you happened to be fighting at one particular moment. So much for remembering all that after landing in bad weather! If you're a flight lead (and you're good), you might just remember your maneuvers and those of both enemies. But it's not unusual to have to ask your red air, "what did you do here?" on several occasions.

In one memorable debrief, a young Japanese pilot attempting to qualify for his section lead designation tried to diagram out an entire flight. In accordance with etiquette, he asked at each juncture, "Is this correct?" At one point he started drawing the maneuvers of his wingman (actually flown by his instructor) incorrectly, and three times the instructor made him re-draw the lines. After the third time--dismissed by a curt "no!" from the instructor--the poor Japanese pilot stood staring intently at the board for a very long several minutes that stretched unbearably for the sympathetic Marine red air. The red air, by the way, was forbidden from speaking at the debrief unless spoken to by holy edict from TOPGUN. So, awkwardness. Eventually, the instructor asked disgustedly, "do you...give up?" The student turned with slumped shoulders, bowed to the audience and stated sadly, "I give up." Then the instructor finished the debrief quite professionally. We joked afterwards (in sympathy, not cruelty) that we hoped the poor bastard didn't have to commit seppuku, but it was a revelation to see the stern instruction in the JASDF.

Funny stories aside, our adversaries were good pilots, and it was exciting to lead out a Japanese plane or two over the ocean to tangle it up in combat. They showed a great ability to maneuver the relatively clumsy F-15, and surprised not a few of us with their grasp of dogfighting tactics. Of course we had the best of it. Of course. All sea stories like this end with a victory.

And ultimately I felt like I caught a glimpse into day-to-day Japanese life: Not the wildly bustling Tokyo; or the professional kindness of Iwakuni residents; or touristy solicitation of Kyoto and Miyajima. It was just a chance to observe some Japanese recreation (baseball) and the stern, proud, highly professional attitude with which they conduct all their work. It was alien, and I was happy to get back to my comfortable room in which I could wear shoes. But it made me respect and love the real Japan--to my perspective, the other Japan--all the more.

Letter to a former professor concerning a liberal education

Dear Professor S-------,

I write to you from the midpoint of a deployment to Japan (my second in as many years) and, oddly enough, on the eve of my 10-year high school reunion. That, coupled with the recent Programa 2010 I received in the mail, has whirled my thoughts back to my own years studying the Great Books. That it took six months to arrive at my deployed location in rural Iwakuni is a testament to the vicissitudes of military life as well as a sort of metaphor for the long road I have taken from room 215 in O'Shaugnhessy Hall on Notre Dame's beautiful campus.

You must excuse me if I am a little nostalgic for those two old PLS classrooms on the second floor of that stuffy, grey-bricked and yellow-tiled building. It was always my favorite building on Notre Dame's campus, I confess—the discordant steps one had to take from the soaring, stained-glass-lit entryway into the crowded industrial hallways littered with flyers always seemed to me the soul of college. Whether students and professors entered the central-heating gratefully brushing snow or rain from coats or mildly regretting their exit from fall or spring splendor, the workmanlike intimacy of coffee shop and classrooms, small desks and big ideas never failed to inspire. And of course it was the big ideas that seduced me.

The interconnectedness of things and the efficacy of prayer are two concepts that have haunted me throughout my life, and I suffered just such a haunting upon opening the Programa. I re-read Moby Dick only weeks ago, wondering anew at Melville's fantastic story about seeking to appreciate, understand, and (in Ahab's case) arrogate the divine, only to find that the Cronin-award-winning essay was also about Moby Dick. I naturally read it through with pleasure, remembering quite well the quoted passages. A strange coincidence, no? I have marveled at similar coincidences since my memories began. And as before, this particular coincidence stirred in me memories and understandings long sifted to the bottom of my heart over the six intervening years that separated me from 215 O’Shaugnhessy.

I read with interested and excitement your Opening Charge. In my opinion the Program of Liberal Studies sets itself apart from any other university education not only by its strong and integrated academics (religiously integrated and substantively integrated, both of which you dwell on briefly in the Charge), but by its approach to the business of learning. There is an adage I learned from my parents that “anything worth doing is worth doing well,” which is a value often lost in an acquisitive and materialistic society. For legion students looking to be employable as they leave college, perhaps the nuance required in a genuine values-oriented struggle with their academics (whether the subject be an engineering problem, an accounting problem, or a literature problem) seems superfluous. If success in life is truly more “who you know” than “what you know,” the important thing is the actual degree and the contacts with which you graduate, not the transformation into an erect, thoughtful person offered by the university milieu (if I may borrow crudely the subject of Part I of your Charge). Anything worth doing is worth doing well, and to gather the community together for an "Opening Charge" to reinforce that not only are integrated academics worth doing on their own merits, but that they're worth doing well, is unusual and sustaining.

It surprised me to read that you began your advanced education in the fields of Evolution and Biology, since I made the mistake of many PLS students and assumed that all instructors were originally philosophy or literature professors. The passage from advanced knowledge to faith was well-charted in literature by C.S. Lewis, a favorite author of mine, and it seems to fit your own passage from ocean biology to philosophy and then to the Program in certain significant respects. I was lucky, however: I discovered that reason and faith were inseparable immediately after adolescence (or, in our world of lengthening youth, perhaps I mean “during late adolescence”) through the efforts of you and your fellow professors. The Thomistic concept of theology and natural science cordially and passionately exchanging knowledge each from within their own bounded spheres makes simple sense to me and seems to overlay neatly the entire discussion you bring up in the Charge of applying the principles of anatomical homology to behavior, intellect, and spirit. Casting the whole of human evolution as biomolecular processes, and applying that principle to human experiences, is certainly “a profound reductionism of the human to the animal.” The “striving upward” or “seeking upward” that is emphasized by your discussion of walking upright only confirms the conviction of our faith that we are ontologically different as human beings in our moral consciousness, our manipulation of environment to create symphonies and cathedrals, and our self-awareness to the point of death—we co-exist in a supernatural world wherein exist perfect values like Truth, Beauty, and Goodness. Thanks to the Program and its professors that conviction was allowed to flower within me before it entirely withered before the hot air and cold reason of modern education.

Put simply, the Great Books education (and the points you draw in your Charge) introduced me formally to the concept of integrity, the idea that we are interconnected entities of soul and body, and that by extension our actions in all cases must reflect our values. We cannot, at our core, compartmentalize and yet still claim integrity. Integrity means whole-ness, or structural soundness. And if truth and righteousness are good things, as my convictions and reason tell me, then they must apply to my entire life; to except pieces here and there (like a literature class, or a military order, or a personal doubt) is to fail to be whole and complete. It was just such a clear and joint application of faith and reason that resulted in my discovery of my wife; the intellectual razor of integrity cut away all the festering crust of doubt and conventional wisdom to present for my wonderment the great love I conceived and yet hold for her. So also formed my certainty that the execution of my profession well was worth the long nights and great personal investment it requires. What the Program essentially taught me, and what your Opening Charge reinforces, has made it possible for me to become a person I value. I honestly don't think I would have had the spiritual wherewithal to become a Marine, an Aviator, a husband, or a man without being invited and encouraged to stand upright against the weight of the world, even if just for 20 hours a week during three years of my youth, by the Great Books. I said it before in an email to Professor F-------, and I don't think I could say it better to you: "I am lucky, really, to have discovered so early in my life that earnest truth-seeking and pursuing righteousness are more lasting values than success or pleasure."

You were my professor for more than a few classes, and you therein guided me through a good deal of the transformation wrought by PLS. You also occasionally appeared at the 5:15 daily Mass at the basilica, which impressed me nearly as much. Your Opening Charge brought me back with a wrench to that warm intellectual life of seminar and thought, which was well-exemplified by Mr. Benz' excellent essay on Moby Dick. The practical demands of today's military tasks, or today’s personal obligations, or the fact that today I am deployed away from wife and home can seem irresistibly heavy, but that I can bear them at all is due to the upright posture I learned through PLS—its integrated, rigorous academics and its cultivation of community alike. Thank you for your wonderful Opening Charge, and for everything else.

Lovers in Japan

So important was our decision to marry, when I made it back in late September of 2009, that my then-fiance and I defied the odds and set about planning a wedding as soon as possible. Those were heady days, for though we lived in different cities we were enthusiastically in love, and the jet-setting from Chicago to San Diego and back again added spice to an already amazing romance. It was natural that we wanted to unite in short order--after all, once we knew we wanted each other forever, it didn't make much sense to wait.

The only snag in our plans was a scheduled deployment. I would be departing for Japan with my squadron in March 2010 ("sometime that month" was all we knew). That left us precious little time to plan this wedding of ours. We weren't going to do a halfway job, either, so the pressure was really on. Factor in the honeymoon and my own requirement of arriving back in San Diego with enough time to, you know, actually prepare for deployment...and from the time of the engagement in early October, we had barely four months to throw a wedding.

Sounds like a nightmare, right? Well, parts of it were. But my overall sensation was that of an irresistible flow. Providence struck first during our search for a wedding venue. As we were both enthusiastic alumni of Notre Dame, we naturally wished to be married in the basilica there. Such a wish is shared by all enthusiastic Notre Dame alumni (is there any other kind?), so at the time we called to inquire the basilica was booked solid for the next two and a half years. Booked solid, that is, except for two weekends in February 2010! I don't know what caused those slots to suddenly open up--I hope some poor bastard didn't get his wedding cancelled--but the weekend of February 6th, 2010 was perfect timing. It would maximize our time to the wedding, it would allow for a honeymoon, and there would be several weeks for Kate and I to enjoy matrimony before I had to leave.

Many other such happy coincidences occurred. The day of the wedding was beautiful--sun on fresh snow--and the honeymoon was just delightful. The greatest "miracle" of all, of course, was the tireless amount of work put forth by my wife and her mother, who together (and largely without my help) cut an eight-month process in half. I owe them a great deal of gratitude, and more certainly than I've been able to express already with my not inconsiderable eloquence. They together gave me three weeks of marriage before I left, and I cherished that. But it wasn't enough.

One of the most wrenching things I've been through is leaving my newlywed wife. It was even more bitter because the simple task of preparing to fly my aircraft across the Pacific robbed us of time together. It seemed cruel that I was so eager to really start a life with her, and all I had were three weeks of borrowed time. It was worse for her, I freely admit. She is a saint for her good humor those three long weeks in which I spent so much time at work (alas, necessarily!). When I dropped her off at the airport for her trip back to Chicago, it was very clear that I would have to find a way to bring us together at least once over the following six months.

And so plans for a second honeymoon were born! I wouldn't describe Japan as a typical honeymoon destination, but Kate and I were going to make it work. All we wanted, really, was to see each other. And so on May 24th, 2010, Kate flew out of Chicago O'Hare while I took the Shin-Kansen train from Hiroshima to meet up at Tokyo.

Unfortunately, we both missed the rendezvous.

Kate's flight was delayed. No fault of hers. And I, that consummate traveler through the Far East, on my second deployment to Japan, became confused as I tried to find the train to Narita Airport and ended up on a slow commuter train winding through the curious countryside east of Tokyo. It was both pleasant and frustrating to dawdle through rice fields and compact pockets of industrialization, jerking to a stop every 10 minutes or so. It was maddening to sit in silence with no way to contact Kate whatsoever--neither of us had cell phones. But some rudimentary Japanese and some rudimentary English eventually got me on the right train, and I arrived at Narita at last. I hurried to the arrival board, glancing wildly in all directions to see if I could spot my wife, and found out the good news. Kate's plan would land in half an hour.

I can't describe what it was like to wait for her. I did all the usual things one does in airports when one is waiting. I bought a coke. I sat casually on a bench. I struck up the odd conversation with other denizens of the place. I noticed that the familiar sights of Japan--giggling schoolgirls in uniforms and in herds, stern well-dressed men of all ages smoking and padding past on their leather soles, gaudy bright incomprehensible signs flashing and shimmering advertisements--all looked a little out-of-place in the building, which looked so much like an American airport. I wondered what Kate would think of it all. I wondered if we'd recognize each other. I wondered what color her hair would be.* Each time a group of travelers would descend the escalator, my heart started beating fast and I would shift around, moving from an erect, impressive posture to a casual lean against a column as I tried to find a pose that was comfortable and attractive (we all have our vanities...especially regarding our bride!). I searched face after face, and several times I slumped, disappointed, as the latest group would peter out without yielding my wife. But then, in the middle of the upteenth group, I heard my name! And there she was, beautiful in a purple dress and auburn hair. And the lovers were reunited.

It was wonderful to sit together on the shuttle bus to our hotel. I was flattered that instead of being glued to the window, Kate was glued to me--for the hour-long trip we talked. It wasn't a rush of words, either. It was just normal conversation about us, about our anxiety at seeing each other after three months apart, about our plans for the next ten days. It was a rare and incandescent pleasure just to be able to see each other without the intermediary of a video camera. And when the bus dropped us off at our hotel, it seemed the world was made for our enjoyment--we laughed at the lobby, left in the 80s by the passage time; we laughed at the funny fixtures of our hotel room; we laughed at the magnificent view of the endless bright city stretching beneath us.

And though both of us would probably have preferred to visit Paris, or New York, or Barcelona for our second honeymoon, Tokyo didn't put up a bad show. The subways were efficient and claustrophobic, so we spent as much time out of them as possible, and we flitted from ancient temple to trendy upscale Thai buffet, from castles and moats to giant designer buildings boasting names like Dior and Hermes. One unforgettable night slowed down to a solid memory as hungry, we took a tiny modern elevator to the seventh floor of a building that looked like a video game and found a smokey, buzzing restaurant. Unusual for Tokyo there were no western patrons, and it soon became evident why: the hostess apologetically crossed her arms and said, "no gaijin." We, as foreigners, were gaijin--but we were hungry as well, so I hastened to offer some Japanese in a plea for a table. The manager showed up in short order, looking like a beardless Miyagi, and he kindly returned some Japanese and led us to a table. Through clusters of businessmen and women who smoked over their food and laughed in a most uninhibited matter, Kate and I sank into the comfortable fabric of a city bar, that place found around the world and patronized by locals. Though the menu was in Japanese and had no pictures, and though we ended up with raw beef, it was one of the best dates (and best dinners) that I can remember. I have much less memory of the sights.

Kate, more organized than I, had found good reviews of a small city named Kyoto. So in the middle of our trip we boarded the Shin-Kansen and raced south to the old imperial city at 150 mph. Kate's research had also found us a boutique hotel, with unique rooms and rave reviews, at decent internet prices. We were in high spirits.

Alas, Kyoto was harder to negotiate than we anticipated. With nothing but an address, incomprehensible in Japanese, we attempted the subway but ended up going the wrong way. We were afraid to try the bus for the same reason. So footsore that we were (after my obsession with sightseeing had dragged us all over Tokyo), we walked our luggage along the half-mile southern border of the imperial palace, dead-reckoning our way to the hotel. It rained a little, too. But it was worth it--when we arrived, we were ensconced comfortably in the basement bar, fed refreshing drinks, and apprised of the amenities. Then, much more comfortable, we were shown courteously to our room by a young man with the mannerisms of a quality real estate agent. The room was large and comfortable, elegantly appointed with modern furniture and a sitting area. After the bustle and pace of Tokyo (made more overwhelming by the incomprehensible and glittering signs), this little Kyoto enclave was a slice of heaven.

But it was to get better. That evening, hungry from our travels, we set forth after dark to find a place to eat. The hotel staff were very helpful, giving us a list of suggestions and apologetically warning us that many places closed relatively early. How different from the all-hours activity of Tokyo! So we strolled the cool, clean streets of the city and stumbled across a little, unassuming bistro named "Le Bouchon." A red motorcycle was parked outside, and it was warm and cozy within. A polite and casually-dressed young man welcomed us in, and handed us each a menu hand-written in French. That night we ate delicious crusty bread, rich and satisfying boeuf bourguignon, and washed it all down with a fine bordeaux. It was a French restaurant, exquisite and romantic. We couldn't have done better if we'd stepped into a forgotten alley in Paris, and we didn't want any better--we enjoyed three wonderful meals there during our stay in Kyoto, each one redolent with conversation and marvelous food. It turns out there is a great deal of French influence in the city, for every other restaurant offered french pastries and food. And so we began the amazing sensual experience of Kyoto.

Renting bikes and pedaling our way between untouched temples, zen gardens, and ancient districts cut with canals, forever under the green shadow of surrounding mountains, we honeymooned happily. The only discordant note was the somewhat brisk pace I set whenever the old obsession for sightseeing reared it's head. But Kate got me to relax a little, and put up with my schedule with good humor. We'd begin every day breakfasting in the hotel bar on artfully cooked eggs ham, and toast, then we'd venture forth into pristine sunlight. One afternoon we spent lunching in the Gion district on Japanese pancakes, listing to water burble by in the canal; on many other occasions we sat in green shady zen gardens. At one site we met some eager Japanese students on assignment to get a note written in English; we took a picture with them. And each night we retreated to Le Bouchon. We finally boarded the Shin-Kansen to Tokyo with melancholy. Added to the disappointment of leaving Kyoto was Kate's impending departure.

Only two more nights were left to us. The first we encountered some Americans at a British pub and caroused as only expatriates can. The next we found ourselves in Shinjuku for a final dinner at the Park Hyatt hotel, made famous by the movie Lost in Translation. It was a spare and elegant meal, high over the many twinkling lights of Tokyo below. There we talked about the trip, about ourselves, and about the sad three months left before my return to the United States. Though it was as honeymooners that we enjoyed Japan together, it was also as a married couple, for I began to experience the life together I yearned for despite the concurrent deployment.

It was a terrible wrench to bid goodbye in the airport. As Kate descended the stairs to the gate, leaving a yawning cavern in my life where the Shin-Kansen rails stretched emptily to the deadly boredom of Iwakuni, there passed between us a longing that will remain with me forever. The exotic lure of travel died that day, and my days became a long wait to go home.

*My wife cheerfully and charmingly changes her hair color about monthly.