Thoughts from Seoul, Korea

In my two Western Pacific Deployments, I have been to Korea multiple times. Without succumbing to banalities, I'd say cautiously that it is a place with particular entertainments, and particular headaches. The entertainments consist mostly of fantastic knock-offs of brand-name goods (purses, especially), exceedingly good clothing (from leather jackets to tailored suits), cheap and plentiful alcohol, and shady "juicy bars" where one may go and have the pleasure of purchasing a drink for some young ladies and enjoying their conversation. On the latter activity I've told you all I know, really. I assume that the young ladies are available for further services, too, but I don't know. I never desired to find out. And to my knowledge, neither did my comrades. But on the whole, in these three things a youthful, deployed, and perhaps lonely servicemember may find in Korea some solace. In my squadron, trips to Korea were regarded as good deals.

The one time it was a bad deal was Exercise Foal Eagle, which I have already described. Over those two weeks I experienced to a very small degree the legendary misery of Korea: the bad weather, the pervasive and light-killing haze, the cold. I say it was a very small degree, because there were hot showers available, and we did sleep in tents, and the food was passable. Really, the only missing "luxury" was laundry, but one can fit clothes for two weeks into a single seabag. It wasn't all that bad. And there were some benefits as well, such as character-building, some decent flying (including a chance to look over the Demilitarized Zone into North Korea), and a chance to live near actual Koreans. Shopping in their stores and using their facilities is a long step from the tourist-centered places we were used to visiting.

But the best glimpse I had of Korea was a visit to it's capitol, Seoul.

I don't pretend to understand Korea very well. From my time in Yechon (during Foal Eagle), I noted a determined aspect to Koreans--an America-like emphasis on success, fiscal and military. I'm sure there are regional differences between South Koreans, but to my occidental eyes Seoul is the center of the nation. Under the guns of the North Koreans it lies, threatened and defiant, and it has reinvented itself during the long years since it last was destroyed--1953--as a center of industry, finance, and culture. Hemmed in by Korean and American military bases and known for having the most exciting nightlife north of Bangkok, Seoul seems to represent the challenge and triumph of Korea. And so I was eager to go.

But before I continue, I should admit that I know embarrassingly little Korean history. Up until 1945, I know, it was traded between and influenced by various Chinese and Japanese empires, both of which hated. Upon the Imperial Japanese surrender which ended the Second World War, it was partitioned as Japanese territory (which it had been for the past 13 years) into two "administration zones," the north part overseen by the Soviet Union, the south overseen by the United States. Unsurprisingly, the Soviet Zone decided to set itself up as a hard-line Communist regime, while the South became a representative democracy. And in accordance with Communist ideals, which mandate that the remainder of the world be brought into the Communist fold by any means necessary, in 1950 the North Korean government decided to use force to unify the divided country. The Korean War began.

Most of what I just related I learned in the National Museum of the Korean War, a remarkable tribute to Korea's struggle for freedom. Monumental statues depict the Koreans who fought and the places they fought, with not a few reminders that the conflict was in essence a Civil War that split families and tore a people apart. Most poignant were photographs of students rallying in South Korea to ask American help in stopping the invasion from North Korea. The war was much more to South Korea than a political stand against an undesirable government, it was a life-or-death struggle for that highest human desire, freedom. This messy, brutal attempt at domination represented the true threat of Communism in that time and tested the American Exceptionalist perspective which promised to aid other nations in their quest for freedom.

Initially overwhelmed by Soviet-armed and organized North Korean military units, the small American units and the entirety of the South Korean military was pushed back to a small pocket in the southeast corner of the peninsula, dubbed the "Pusan Perimeter." It is hard to imagine today, and hard for me to express in words, how frightening this must have been for other small nations around the world abutting Communist states. With one greedy bite, a Soviet-backed state looked to crush a free people into submission to the Communist ideology. Anodyne statements to the effect that "communism is all right in theory" or that "we shouldn't interfere with others' rights to choose their own government"* forget the desperate struggle of South Korea to resist wholesale and brutal colonization by another power. I think it fortunate that the United States rose to the occasion and broke the pressure on the "Pusan Perimeter" with an amphibious landing at Inchon, where along with South Korean units the Marines encircled the invading armies and began pushing them north.

The rest is not quite just history. China came to the aid of international communism, attempting to help the fleeing North Koreans finish the fight they started. The battle of the Chosin Reservoir was fought against overwhelming Chinese reinforcements before the armistice was signed, splitting North and South Korea again into two countries. Wholesale destruction of Seoul and other cities in South Korea as well as hundreds of thousands of refugees strained national resources, and the constant (and vocalized) threat of further invasion from the north made recovery even more difficult because of the need to maintain a modern and powerful military. And yet in the years since the armistice, South Korea has rebuilt their land and their economy, they have hosted the Olympics, and they have sent troops to aid American campaigns in the Middle East.

Freedom in South Korea is manifestly not simply the state of affairs. It is not something that simply exists. They fight and sacrifice for freedom every day, serving mandatory enlistment and running an economy that can support the military they need to protect themselves and their choice of government. And yet they are still at war, for though the armistice is still in effect, a truce has never been signed.

We say often in America, "freedom is not free." We mean it, I think, and we intend to remember that the path toward human liberation has been contested each step of the way by people and entities that desire power over others. But the simple and stirring truth in the statement came upon me like a conversion as I toured through Seoul's national museum of the war. The bitter and appalling struggle to resist tyranny, the surprising gratitude which venerates those from other countries who fell in their struggle (in the case of the United States, the fallen are recognized by individual state), the triumphal development of modern arms to continue to protect this abstract concept of freedom--there, in Seoul, it is demonstrated just how costly and precious freedom actually is.

*I don't advocate the forcible reconstitution of other countries to American civic structures. I am making no statement here except that it's important to protect countries from any forcible reconstitution of their civic structures, especially totalitarian ones.

The Korea Deployment

Part 1 – The Arrival

“Hey man, I’m sending you on Wednesday.” I lifted my chin slightly, like I always do when confronting bad news or criticism. Wednesday was indeed bad news. I’d counted on having most of a weekend before leaving. “We just needed some guys to go early, to help set up. I wanted people familiar with all the systems.”

I cursed silently, looking the Major in the eyes. I hoped he couldn’t read my inner monologue. I replied, “Roger, sir. Make sense.” I had to admit, it did make sense. I did know the systems better than anybody in the squadron, really, except one person—and he was senior to me. Things being based on seniority and proficiency around here led to some cold, hard decisions. Oh well. As the recruiting poster said, nobody promised me a rose garden.

“Thanks Schrags.” The major turned to go.

And so I left early. Scheduled for the first C-130 out of Iwakuni, actually. I was going to Yechon Air Base, Korea as advanced party for exercise Foal Eagle 2010. It wasn’t a good deal.

Korea is usually a choice destination. Mostly, we go to Osan Air Base, known as a cushy, full-service Air Force Station. The kind of place where the Q (our term for the Bachelor Officer Quarters, abbreviated “BOQ”) is about as nice as an upscale hotel, there’s a Chili’s restaurant on base, a decent gym, and a chapel for guys like me. Religious guys. Also notable for the maze of streets outside the main gate, chock-full of shops hawking NFL jerseys, leather products, jewelry, custom suits, and handbags. Since most of those products are originally produced in Korea to be sold at a fantastic mark-up in the US, it’s a way to get authentic and fashionable objects cheap. Or it’s at least a way to get a pretty good knock-off. Naval Aviators like myself have been getting G-2 leather jackets manufactured to the original specifications in Korea for a quarter of the usual cost in the United States. Everyone usually gets excited about Korea.

Except for Yechon. Yechon is in the middle of nowhere, far from bazaars and amenities. A small Korean Air Force training base, its chief “amenity” of interest for our Marine higher-ups is a collection of three fields to which we can deploy. And by deploy, I mean set up tent cities from which we live, work, plan, brief, and conduct aircraft maintenance in a “field” setting. Just to show that we can. You know, if we needed to go to an empty piece of freshly-conquered territory and set up an airfield. Just in case. Because we’re “expeditionary,” like. We can operate from “austere environments.” Unlike, of course, those comfort-loving Air Force zoomies who prefer to live, launch, and recover from vast and luxurious airfields and waste the not inconsequential fuel and aircraft flight time of their uncounted tanker aircraft to get their fighters and attack jets to the fight. Or the Navy squids who come with a ready-built and fully-appointed airfield sitting just off-shore. Of course, one might say that six months in an enclosed, steel city is “austere” enough. It’s really the Air Force guys that get my goat. No hard feelings of course. But living in the field is hard and well, it’s hard to be hard.

So there I digress. It won’t be the last time, I promise. But there I was on Wednesday morning with a fully-packed ruck-sack and a fully-packed seabag. With every undershort and undershirt I owned, in case the laundry wasn’t available. I didn’t expect it to be available, as you might guess. The vagaries of an “austere” environment, and all. It’s funny, really—there’s nothing like the prospect of austerity to make you enjoy luxury. I swear a shower and a clean shirt meant more to me the night before I left than it ever had before. But there I go digressing again. In any case, a dear comrade was also scheduled to leave that day, on a second C-130 taking off an hour after mine. We hoofed our heavy luggage into the Passenger Terminal, which on Iwakuni is a spartan room not far removed from a Quonset Hut (and in fact is surrounded by several Quonset Huts that house offices of the Visiting Aircraft Line—Quonset huts, no doubt, that were originally raised in 1945 when the Marine Corps occupied the airfield after V-J day).

The Marines traveling with us had to be there much earlier than we did, worse luck, because their NCOs and Staff NCOs weren’t going to risk their being late. Because that would not do at all. Reflect poorly on the Marine Corps, like. Especially since zoomies were flying our transport C-130s. The C-130 Marines were apparently unavailable. Probably reluctant to leave their cushy hotel rooms. When my comrade and I arrived, the other Marines traveling with us lifted accusing eyes over their playing cards and cheap paperback novels and left an awkward question unasked in the air: “where the hell have you been?” Fair point that—they had been awake and present hours before us. So we dropped our bags in the pile and settled lowly into our seats. In the knick of time, of course. Irresponsible officers.

An hour later, the droning of a C-130 could be discerned through the paper-thin windows. A pushy young Marine in charge of the terminal organized us to “palletize” our luggage, which is a nice word to describe the mad rush of a working party that grabs all seabags and ruck-sacks in a given pile and slams them unceremoniously on a pallet, where they are crushed together with cargo netting to make them secure for transport. It’s old military wisdom that you carry anything breakable on your person. It can’t be too heavy, though, because after you’ve treated everybody’s valuable possessions as horizontal punching bags you get weighed with all your carry-on baggage. Apparently it’s important for airplanes to know how much cargo they’re carrying. Not really a factor in the ol’ F/A-18D hornet, as the 50-pound brains at Boeing and China Lake figure out what we can and can’t carry slung under the wings. We just know what we can’t carry. It makes things a little easier. Not so for these “tactical airlift” platforms, however—they could carry anything from much-needed combat supplies and equipment to a bunch of disgruntled Marines who got up too early to be carted to an “austere” environment for two and a half weeks.

We had a cargo mix-up between the two C-130s, of course. One of the Air Force crews decided that as they had landed early, they were damned well going to take off early, and to hell with the schedule. So for reasons unbeknownst to us poor devildogs, the original order of departees was reversed. Everybody scheduled on the first C-130 was switched en masse to the second, and vice versa. Not the luggage, however. Of course not. It was already palletized. No changing things now! So, ironically, we flew out with the other passenger’s personal items. The only thing that would make it worse is if one C-130 broke, stranding both crews without their pack-up. As we contemplated the odds of suffering that particular disaster, I remembered with a twinge of unease that our sleeping bags were packed also. And Korea was supposed to be cold. Awesome.

The plane ride, of course, was noisy and nauseating. There’s something about a long windowless aluminum tube that disrupts the inner ear—especially when it turns to and for, ascending and descending all the while. But like most of my brethren, I stuffed in some earplugs and went to sleep. I awoke to variations in the constant thrumming of the engine that told my aviation-sharpened senses that we were descending. A pale, dim gray light was visible in the cockpit, one story up from my seat in the cargo bay. I deduced that it was cloudy. And after we finally jolted to the runway and felt the sharp deceleration of the pilot reversing the thrust direction of the propellers, then waited as the aircraft taxied to the main building, then felt the sudden seep of cold air from the rear of the fuselage as the crew dropped the cargo gate, then shivered for twenty minutes as they offloaded the cargo (more important than a bunch of dumb jarheads, obviously), I saw that I was right. I stepped finally into the mist-shrouded and mountainous world of South Korea.

Vignette 1

Huddled slightly in the cold, he stares through his breath at the computer screen. Dim gray light from the late morning sifts in through the low clouds and the translucent plastic window of the “work” tent. It’s another dismal spring day in Yechon. Receding behind him are the sounds of activity: thumping of boots on floor boards, swift clicking of keyboards, voices raised in argument or laughter. He is, for the moment, forgotten. Now, if he's lucky, no one will call on him for a while, and he has some freedom.

Outside in the gathering dark engines whine as aircraft are started and taxied. The sound is loud and helps mask the presence of others; as his mind wanders the sound becomes a comforting source of white noise, the medium of emptiness and rest. His imagination, once filled with green formation lights glowing along the sides of aircraft and the lighted displays of the cockpits, flies off the airfield faster than any fighter. His thoughts alight in Southern California, eight thousand miles away. Home.

The tasks at hands slowly unstick from his consciousness and fall away completely. The plywood for walling off briefing rooms, the aircraft log-books for the plane with the right engine problem, the computer network set-up that cannot be completed until the aircraft arrive on deck, the Fitness Reports he has to review in his inbox, the need to exercise—they all fade slowly into that delicious white noise along with background chatter behind him. He exhales again and shivers as his breath wafts out over his work-station, then begins the email, "Dear Kate..."

Part II – The Camp

You know those stylized oriental prints? I’d call them Japanese prints, because that’s what most people call them. I dare say most of them are Japanese. But that’s not the point. They’re easy to recognize: sharp, impossibly steep and many mountains; plenty of ominous mist; a red sun or moon? Crazy art, of course. Usually with a pagoda, a samurai, or a kimono-clad lady in the foreground. Perhaps all three. Cartoonish. Well, it hit me as I stared around at South Korea that those prints were actually depicting more or less a real scene. I’d seen those saw-toothed ridges with far too many peaks, too close together; I’d seen that ominous mist; I’d seen that reddish sun (I couldn’t see the sun when I stepped off the C-130, but I would later). It was just like those prints. There were no samurai or pagodas, but maybe those are Japanese things. This was, after all, Korea. But the landscape was both pretty and alien.

I didn’t have much time to contemplate it, however, since our palletized luggage was sitting there and it wouldn’t unload itself. Of course, as an officer I didn’t really have to help—but it doesn’t do to say such things aloud. The essence of Marine Corps leadership is example, and it’s sort of the thing to do to get your hands dirty. Besides, I wanted to get things unloaded quickly and settle as best I might amidst all this austerity. And I don’t like watching other people work without lending a hand. So we conducted a palletization in reverse. The zoomies slung back the cargo net, and every Marine grabbed two or three seabags or rucksacks and amid much cursing humped them over to a waiting 7-ton, whereupon each Marine tossed each bag up to the cargo bed, eight feet above the ground. Not too gentle with our gear, we Marines. Sorta mirrors the way we treat ourselves. And each other. The zoomies watched incredulously. I’m sure they have luggage conveyor belts on their base.

After unloading all our gear we piled into rented minivans for the trip down to our living quarters. There’s apparently a single road on base that winds past the flight line, ducks down a slight incline, forks right as a dirt vehicle track, and ended up at the dusty field where all our tents were pitched. We filled an area the size of a soccer field—and the presence of two goals at either end confirmed that a soccer field was exactly what we’d occupied. In orderly rows the tents stalked, two per “block” with wide paths between. Inside there was wooden flooring that left open a single dirt walkway the length of the tent, while cots were arranged on the flooring every few feet. It looked deceptively neat when I first walked in, of course; there were no Marines there yet. But it was crowded. Even empty it was crowded.

Outside the newly-arrived Marines were roughly sorting the bags by squadron and tent. I picked up my dear comrade’s gear, wondering if he’d soon be here with mine or not. I found a cot in our tent for him, saving a slightly better one for myself. First come, first serve, and anyway we were both close to the heater and far from the door. For maximum warmth and minimum disturbance, of course. One must think about these things.

Fortunately, the other C-130 was delayed but not broken. It arrived after I’d toured the camp, and everyone was finally re-united with their warm clothes and personal effects. It was a happy reunion. Nothing like an austere environment to make you appreciate what luxuries you have...like a sleeping bag, for example. In any case, as he dropped my stuff in the tent I considered our situation.

The living area was right below the departure end of the runway. About 300 feet, actually. As aircraft took off they thundered scarce hundreds of feet above our heads in afterburner, sending deep vibrations through the metal tent poles and assaulting our ears. A little offset was an ingenious pair of “hygiene tents,” which had sixteen shower heads apiece and nine sinks. Behind those tents stood large bladders of water that would be heated and emptied three times a day when sinks and showers were available for washing and shaving and the like. Pretty chic for an austere environment, no? It didn’t matter, of course, that the sinks were small and cramped or that the mirrors reflected a distorted picture from their stainless steel surfaces. It didn’t matter that the shower stalls were communal and uncomfortably close, or that dirt tracked in quickly coated the stall floors with mud, or that they occasionally failed to drain and would become shallow, grimy pools. The great and wonderful news was that we wouldn’t have to shave with cold water from a canteen, or go without showering for days. Thank God for that!

The “services” were located about a quarter mile up the runway and consisted of a medical tent, a mess tent (for non-military types, “the mess” is where food is served), a chapel tent—with no Catholic services, of course—a little gym packed dustily into the sweat factory of a small tent, and an internet tent for those fortunate enough to have packed a computer (and kept it unscathed through the bag transport). The mess hall served freeze dried food in bulk, but it was hot and not too bad. It also provided fresh fruit and coffee almost every meal, which together neutralized the choking down of re-warmed eggs and chicken and made meals quite the red-letter occasion. Later in the exercise an exchange truck showed up along with a Korean Bazaar hawking cheap t-shirts and accessories, but that suffered but poor business at Foal Eagle, the reason for which will be explained shortly.

The work spaces were up next to the ramp, an aviation term for a vast expanse of concrete for which to park airplanes. As North and South Korea are still technically at war, and Yechon is a military base, the ramp was parsed by revetments into individual parking spots. A revetment is usually an earthen mound built up higher than the object it encloses, and serves to protect something from the blast and fragmentation of an explosion. The aren’t much use against precision weapons, of course, which generally will be guided inside the revetment and thus negates it’s defensive effect, but artillery and “dumb bombs” are usually nowhere near accurate enough. Long experience had shown me that the trappings of war are everywhere evident in Korea. The permanent revetments at Yechon were corrugated steel siding built up to about fifteen feet and filled with dirt. The maintainers set up their work tents in one of the unused revetments; the planning and briefing areas were with command post in a barbed-wire enclosure under the fringe of a small forest on base. Again, tents. Though things were a bit nicer here, as wooden boards were laid for walkways between the various spaces, field-mobile generators provided electrical power, and a ruggedized satellite piped in internet and telephone service. A cut above actual austerity, really. Not that I was complaining.

So yeah, it was camping. The tents were drafty and creaky and more than a few had visible pinprick holes through which the light shone in daytime, the roads were dusty and we walked them back and forth ceaselessly (occasionally stepping out of the way of a passing forklift or cargo truck), and the jets audibly assailed us at all hours of the day. But we had shelter, showers, hot food, internet, and phones. Things weren’t all bad.

Vignette 2

He made his way gingerly to the back of the long tent, stepping gingerly on creaking plywood so as not to disturb the line of cots running the length of the structure on either side of a center aisle. The cots were erected on floorboards, but the center aisle was nothing but dirt. Actually, tonight (like nearly every night) it was a soggy morass of yellow mud.

Were people sleeping, it would be a treacherous journey as, shielding the light of his flashlight so as not to wake his comrades he’d negotiate strewn seabags and backpacks, lines of cord on which hung wet clothing from the constant rain, and the occasional end of a cot sticking out farther than the rest. But fortunately the light was still on. Most of the Marines in the tent were reading or watching movies on laptops as the hours ticked onward. Sleep was on everyone’s mind—it was the only thing that made the time here pass quickly.

As he reached his cot, he knew something was missing. He looked blankly at his little area for a moment, balancing over the muddy aisle. Suddenly it hit him. His backpack! He cursed quietly, remembering he’d left it up at the work spaces. He needed it.

One of the few luxuries at Yechon was the Korean Gym. The Korean Air Force, of course, did not live or work in tents. They had normal dormitories and facilities that were probably pretty nice. Only the Marines were practicing “expeditionary warfare” by enforced austerity. The gym was really a sort of community center, for it had a small restaurant (irreverently called the “Yum Yum Chicken Shop”), a bowling alley, some pool tables, and—wonder of wonders!—a large shower and locker room. The reason he needed his backpack was because he kept his toothbrush and all the rest of his toiletries in the backpack in case he had an opportunity to sneak a shower in that gym during the day. Without it, however, he couldn’t hope to shower or shave the following morning. He’d have to go back to the squadron spaces and pick it up.

He cursed again. It was raining hard, as it had been all day, and the walk up to his backpack was a little over a quarter of a mile. It would not be pleasant.

He shuffled around in his seabag and extracted his gore-tex parka and pants. Cinching them both tight over his flight suit, he clapped a fleece beanie on his head against the forty-degree weather and pulled his hood down low. Carefully he made his way back to the tent entrance, paused for a minute as if having second thoughts, the plunged into the wet outdoors.

Outside was a world of falling water and slippery mud. The floodlights illuminating the tent city showed nothing but hard, driving rain, and the shadows of ruts and tire tracks in the mud gleamed treacherously under his lowered gaze. He walked carefully, so as not to slip, ignoring the rainwater rolling down his face and the gore-tex trousers he kept having to pull up.

After several hundred yards he made the road. The going thereon was easier, since he didn’t have to deal with the mud. He strode purposefully, eager to end his errand. He could feel the rain saturating and soaking through his parka. Away from the lights the world was dark and wet.

The squadron spaces were another illuminated wilderness of mud and falling water, only this time the spectral shape of concertina wire and rifle-toting guards stood out in sharp shadows. Presenting his ID and shivering in the cold brought on by his sudden stop, he ducked into the camp, found his backpack, and began home. By now his feet squelched inside his boots and it was harder to keep the gore-tex pants up as they were weighed down by water. But more than halfway finished with his task, he walked rather more quickly down the hill to the tent city.

After another slippery trip over the mud, he ducked back into his sleeping tent and brushed off the water near the door. Most of the lights were off by now, as his comrades began falling asleep. Making his way back to his cot he stripped off his wet outer garments and hung them up, did the same with his flight suit, and changed into a waterproof track suit for the quick trip back outside to the hygiene tent. All that for the ability to brush my teeth, he thought wryly. I hate this place.

Part III – Camp Life

Remember how I said that things weren’t all bad in Yechon? Well, they weren’t until the first night. Really, to be expected—you know what they say, “If it sounds too good to be true…” I was totally unprepared for the hard, implacable cold that set in when the sun went down.

This was no mere nightly chill such as we find in San Diego, laced with the fragrance of flowers and the softness of the sea. This was no crisp coolness, the delight of autumn evenings. This was continental, wintry cold, dead and dry and soul-sucking. I thought I was prepared. I had all three modular elements of my sleeping bag put together, making it as warm as possible. I was wearing a fleece over a t-shirt and undershorts. And yet I awoke at 3:00 AM by the crushing cold. I couldn’t escape it. With each movement my bare legs or arms would come into contact with some unwarmed patch of my sleeping bag, sending shards of pure, evil cold into my core. Shivering, I quickly sat up and struggled into polypropylene long underwear. Warmed by my struggle and by the added layer, I was able to fall asleep again. Yet I still woke up cold...and as I climbed reluctantly out of my sleeping bags I noticed that the water bottles next to our cots had frozen. Inside the tent. Next to the heater. It was apparently still winter in Korea despite the late April date.

The reason for the 3:00 AM wake-up became obvious the next morning. Our “field expeditionary” tent heaters were these little metal cylinders that burned kerosene like a jet engine (in fact, to make logistics easier they burned the same fuel as our aircraft). They didn’t feel very efficient, but that was mostly because they had a cavernous tent to fill with warm exhaust. They also ran out of fuel after eight hours of operation—hence, the 3:00 AM freezing wakeup. Standard. In any case, there were two cold hours spent in the sleeping bag that night before the requirements of nature and the inevitable dawn drove me shivering into the dread Korean winter (ok, spring really) for a morning shave and shower.

Being a prideful military organization, and mindful that there were foreign military personnel to impress, the rules on uniform wear were pretty tight. There was to be no hanging out or loitering, like, in anything less than appropriate civilian attire or full “uniform of the day” when in the camp. Otherwise we might embarrass ourselves in front of our warlike Korean hosts, what with the chained wallets, affliction T-Shirts, and high-end exercise gear that Marines like to wear these days. Though I can’t for the life of me think that we had much to be proud of in front of the Koreans—they probably thought we were crazy enough living in the tundra and mud of their soccer field instead of somewhere indoors. South Korea being a civilized country and all. But that’s neither here nor there; in fact that’s where the brass are. Far above my pay grade.

In any case, those clothing strictures did not apply the hygiene tent. So shivering into my running suit and clapping a fleece beanie on my head, I cobbled together a towel and shaving kit and headed to the sinks. The ground had frozen solid and was a warren of ridges and ruts under my sneakers. I would learn to love a solid ground beneath me in a few days, after the rain set in. There was a ten-minute agonizing wait in line outside the tent before finally, thank God! entrance into the warm moist environment of steamy showers and hot shaving water.

The hygiene tent worked with an admirable, if awkward, efficiency. A quick and self-effacing disrobe, five minutes at the sink, two minutes in the shower, a five-minute period of dressing and packing up (careful not to get more mud than necessary on our persons or gear), then a quick cold shuffle back to the tent. This would be my morning routine for two and a half weeks. Sometimes there would be a line, and the Marines running the tent would yell and belittle and threaten to cut off our water in an attempt to make us more efficient. But if there’s a right way and a wrong way to do such things, well, the yelling and threatening is one hundred per cent the Marine Corps way. Not that it was really necessary, as the cold does wonders for the efficiency of a morning toilette. From there it was a quick walk to the chow hall for freeze-dried eggs and hot coffee (which we’d make last as long as possible) and then a jaunt up the hill to work.

Vignette 3

"Hey, you want to burn one?" asked Mac. To no-one in particular, really, though it was directed at Red Bone.


"Yeah man," came the response.


"Anybody got extras?" I could tell Mac didn't feel bad about asking, since most time he provided cigarettes for the rest of the squadron.


"Yeah man," replied Red Bone, consciously echoing his last utterance. He smiled a little with his eyes to let everyone know his sarcasm was meant humorously.


Craving the company, I popped up from my position next to the computer screen, and made my way to my cot. Navigating the crossing wires, the mud puddles in the central path that stretched the length of the tent, and the clotheslines was almost second nature by now. I quickly flipped back my sleeping bag cover, fished my fleece wash-cap out from under my pillow, and jammed my feet into my sneakers. Their smoke would not entail enough time outside to require a polypropylene layer or anything.


Following them, I bent down to push through the tent flap and suddenly emerged into a monochromatic world. The cold dark night stood face to face with the cold bright night illuminated by the floodlights on the hill. The generators hummed loudly and the gas-powered heating units roared quietly, effectively masking the squelching footsteps of Marines walking to and fro between tents, picking their way carefully between the ruts of vehicle tires and the patches of slippery mud. Shielding my eyes against the floodlights, I followed the smokers into the shadows behind the tent. I paused briefly to let my eyes adjust to the sudden darkness when the floodlight disappeared behind a dumpster.

As I stood their smelling the unadulterated cold, two jets rocketed overhead in sequence from the runway, growing from a sudden roar to an unbearable crescendo of shaking noise, long blue afterburner flames, and flashing red anti-collision lights. My ears ringing, I watched in awe, never having gotten over the magnificent power of fighter airplanes casting off the earth for the freedom of the sky.


The smoke pit lay next to a gully, a tree, and was marked only by a metal pail. Instinctively we huddled into a tight circle, and passed the lighter around. They inhaled gratefully at their cigarette while I stood, hands in pockets, and enjoyed the familiar smell of secondhand smoke.

We were suddenly aware of two Marines walking toward us on the outskirts of the camp. This was not unusual. However, one of the Marines was dressed in a shiny silver overcoat. Our conversation hushed slightly as we watched him walk by. I pulled on my cigarette to avoid making a facial expression, noting that the overcoat was really more of a hoodie, and the silver material appropriate to a space-blanket.


He passed, walking stiffly. He was aware of our sarcastically amused scrutiny.


"That's an interesting garment" opined one dark figure, jovially.


"Hey, it's cold outside. It's like a space blanket" replied another. Captain Obvious, I thought.


"Is your name Marty McFly?" queried a third. There was a pregnant pause, and suddenly we couldn't help it. We laughed. It only made things funnier to watch my comrades involuntarily cough out mouthfuls of cigarette smoke in their merriment. The silver hoodie was too ludicrously like "Back to the Future."


Our tight circle momentarily fell apart as the laughter grew. "Dude! Where did you park your DeLorean?" asked one of us, drawing new gales of laughter.


Slowly, happily, conversation returned, but this time to skim-boards, flux-capacitors, and 88 miles per hour. One by one, they finished their cigarettes and we trooped quickly back to our tents through the mud.


That was a happy moment.

Part IV – Flying

He stepped out of the “work” tent into the cold rain. Shivering slightly at the sodden shrubbery outside the barbed wire and the ankle-deep mud within, he strode down the wooden boards towards the mission planning tent. Some planks had become so waterlogged they had split, leaving a hole that could eat your foot if you weren’t careful.

Ducking inside the mission planning tent, he joined with other aircrew to look at the day’s special instructions and code words, incorporating them into the planning for their specific flight. That was the hardest part, he thought—the missions out of Yechon weren’t particularly complicated except for getting around the battle-ready airspace of the peninsula. But part of the reason they were in this exercise was to simulate the complexity of flying within the intricate coordination measures required in a hypothetical conflict, all the while sharing the airspace with aircraft from the Air Force, the Navy, and the South Korean Air Force. The actual training was in the flight procedures, not the tactics.

An hour later, they had updated a common card with that day’s correct information and planned their mission on the computers. Grabbing their flight bags, they trooped through a gray drizzle to a cold tent, empty but for a table and several chairs. He sat down to hear his pilot begin the brief.

The brief mostly covered the procedures for flying. It was more of a rehearsal than an explanation, and it took nearly all the allotted time. Remembering he had yet to get his flight tapes, when it was over he hurried out and down to the intelligence tent, where he signed out several pieces of classified gear and received a pre-flight brief covering the simulated situation. The exercise made things as realistic as possible with daily objectives and a shifting enemy situation.

Armed now with all the paraphernalia required for the flight, he joined his crew members as they slithered through the mud to the maintenance tents. They signed for the aircraft, buckled on their flight gear, and strode out to the airplanes parked in the revetments. The canopies were closed against the rain, so he carried his bag with him on the preflight and was careful not to set it down on the wet pavement. After he looked at the exterior of the aircraft, he paused, waiting for his pilot to finish, and then when they were both ready, the maintainer in charge of the launch opened the canopy. They quickly scurried into their seats and closed the canopy before too much rain could fall. They started the jet a few minutes later, checked in with their wingman, and taxied out of the revetment to the end of the runway.

He called for takeoff clearance. Despite the thick Korean accent of the controller, he deciphered, "Combat six-three, cleared takeoff runway two-eight. Switch departure." He tapped the comm switch with his right foot, and holding it down responded clearly, "Combat six-three cleared takeoff two-eight, switching." The noise of the jet engines increased through the helmet and earplugs as his airplane began slowly tracking across the pavement on to the runway concrete. Reaching down to the radio control, he turned the knob to the pre-set departure frequency and pulled the knob out to check the frequency digits.


The jet lurched to a stop on the runway and he turned to look at his wingman taxiing out behind him. As his wingman pulled alongside, the pilot began the complicated exchange of hand gestures that sufficed for communication. First the two fingers wagged two and fro, indicating "run 'em up," which was followed by another engine surge from both aircraft. He glanced inside the cockpit at the engine indicators to ensure they were both operating smoothly, then flicked his glance up at the Flight Control System display. No error indications.


Quickly he looked over his wingman's aircraft, staring hard in turn at the panels and the control surfaces, then underneath the aircraft. Nothing was loose, no surfaces were binding, and no fluids were leaking. He saw in the other cockpit both aircrew doing the same for his jet. The other pilot flashed a thumbs up, and over his instrument cowl he saw his own pilot initiate the takeoff gesture: palm flat, rotating slowly down to the throttle. As it disappeared below the canopy, the aircraft lurched with brake release and the engines rolled up quickly. Both aircraft began moving.


He looked back at the engine indications. RPM increasing quickly, matched by engine temperature, fuel flow, oil pressure, and the needles that indicated the varying degrees of nozzle closure. A few seconds later, the just perceptible change in engine timbre as the afterburners lit off. Feeling pleasantly the acceleration pushing him back against his seat, he turned to look at the wingman, tracking along the runway beside him. The scenery was flying by now. Smoothly he felt the aircraft's nose lift off and he watched his wingman pitch up beside him. They were airborne. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his pilot give the first exaggerated head bob: gear up. Then the second: flaps up. He watched his wingman's gear retract into the jet and as he felt the three thumps of his own gear he checked his instrument panel. Three gear mounts up and locked.


Depressing the comm pedal with his right foot again, he intoned clearly "Departure, Combat six-three airborne passing five hundred for one-zero thousand."


"Combat six-three, roger. Climb maintain one-zero thousand" came the accented reply
.

“Combat six-three, one-zero thousand." Pulling his foot off the comm pedal, he glanced at the ground passing swiftly beneath him. In the sunlight he saw farms spreading out below him, fallow after the winter. It was a pretty and organized country, with industry and commerce centered on the obvious roads running through the valleys while the many steep hills remained undeveloped and beautifully stark.


Turning his attention inside the cockpit, he adjusted the navigation toward the anticipated point on their route. Bringing up the fuel management page, he saw the external tanks emptying back into the integral fuel tanks. A quick check on his wingman before he bought up the air-to-air radar and began seeking aircraft that might conflict with his flight path. He quickly noted the sun angle and elevation for later. Then he looked outside again.


Climbing quickly, the aircraft now offered a much wider view of the countryside. A scattered layer of clouds at eight thousand feet looked flat and solid from just above, and the valleys below were disappearing in the characteristic haze of the region. All around him he could see ridges marching in serrated lines away to the horizon.


Noting that they were still flying the runway heading, he keyed the radio again. "Departure, Combat six-three like to turn left to TAMBO and switch Cobra."


"Combat six-three, roger. Cancel IFR. Switch Cobra." He swore under his breath. He didn't want to lose Air Traffic Control flight following just yet. But that's how they do things out here. Sighing inaudibly, he replied, "Combat six-three, switching." He keyed the other radio to talk to his wingman. "Button 16 prime." He rolled the radio to button 16 and checked the frequency, then transmitted "Cobra, Combat six-three, VFR one-zero thousand feet, direct TAMBO for the R-110." The aircraft banked left as he waited for a response, and the flight began the transition to their actual mission for the day.

Epilogue

“Sir, the CO said I was to take you wherever you needed to go.” I looked incredulously at the Lance Corporal. He stood sheepishly beside the passenger-side door, through which I could see all my bags. It was a second before I replied, “That’s awfully nice of the Colonel.”

He smiled at that. “Yes, sir.” I got in the car and gave him instructions to my barracks.

Yechon was over. Finally. The familiar buildings of Iwakuni, drab though they might have been, stood over me. The prospect of a real shower and real fresh food loomed large in my mind. I couldn't wait to be able to talk to my wife twice a day again...and actually see her face! It was good to be back.

I got a good deal on the end, you see. The ol’ major was a good guy after all. I was the first aircrew sent into that muddy little hole, so I got to be the first one out, albeit while flying in the Colonel’s back seat. Though that was kind of a guarantee, actually. If that aircraft broke, well, the Colonel wasn’t staying. He’d just take another jet. Perk of the rank, and all that. I was just happily along for the ride.

It was an interesting and mostly painful experience, Yechon. I got to look over the treeless slopes of North Korea, marching away abruptly at the band of virgin forest that occupies the Demilitarized Zone, and marvel at a hostile nation so poor its denizens must cut down trees for fuel in the winter. I got to laugh with the Koreans while eating Yum Yum Chicken. I got to see my beloved Corps take half a Marine Aircraft Group and deploy it to an "austere environment." I got to endure two weeks of rain, mud and cold. I think I got to be a little wiser for all that, though my comrades will (in all probability) tell you otherwise.

It was a good experience, I guess. At least after the fact.

Austen’s Aphorism on Love and Marriage

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife." So begins Jane Austen's outstanding novel, Pride and Prejudice, and though recently I agreed with it in principle, I lived practically in direct opposition. Nearly five years out of college I was consistently single and saw nothing to change that in the near future. The reason why I was so stagnant in my unsought-for bachelorhood I'd like to examine later, really. But that seemed to be a fact of my life.

I'd had good relationships before. Most of my relationships had been good, actually, until the period before the break-up. I thought myself reasonably loyal and devoted, I recognized an unattractive propensity toward insecurity and creeping selfishness which I tried manfully to stem, and with a few exceptions my girlfriends were pretty, good, and all reasonably stable. I had even considered marriage with one or two of the more serious girlfriends, but as I've since discovered I considered it only in an academic sense. At the time it was even an attractive option. For though I was young, possessed of the moderate fortune that devolves upon a young officer with the benefits of flight pay, a Captain's salary, and the forced penury of deployments, I was quite lonely.

Many of my friends were married, however, and my exposure to and observation of their lives left me with the impression that Jane Austen was correct. While on weekends I dragged myself to bars wearying in their repetitiveness, they repined at home in pajamas watching favorite movies with a constant loved one and friend. While evenings found me shamefacedly driving through the nearest fast-food joint for the third time that week, they enjoyed more healthy fare, made lovingly by them or their partner and be shared with said loved one and friend. Never did they face the humiliation of a phone call some Saturday afternoon as I would ask in a manly voice that ill-disguised my pathetic entreaty, "anything going on tonight?" It was all the more ironic, of course, that I have from adolescence developed particularly personal relationships. I am uncomfortable with mere acquaintances, and really only enjoy the nightlife in the company of close friends. So it was noth without a little bitterness that I patiently listen to their nostalgia for "the single life."

I am a practical man, of course. I could well see that the "perfect" marriages around me were not all beer and skittles. I watched friends and comrades deal with the difficult separation of deployments, the constant demands of children, or an occasional rogue and romantic memory of "lost freedom." I knew that if I were (hypothetically) married I would have to deal with the same. After exhaustive thought on the subject--which occurred generally during uncomfortable pauses in a dinner conversation where I made an awkward third--I figured that with my natural loyalty and affection I was rather better suited than most at handling such emotional turmoil. I concluded amid my crushing solitude of single life, whether in target-rich San Diego or during the deadly boredom of a WestPac of deployment, that marriage was something to strive for.

The difficulty, of course, was finding someone TO marry. As a young Catholic male whose social life partook in the "Young Adult" community of a local parish, I found myself often amid droves of young marriageable women who fulfilled the my inconsequential requirement of being Catholic and who wanted (most of them) to be married themselves. A rich hunting ground, to be sure. The complex social etiquette of awkward social mixers and less awkward but less romantically stimulating bible studies even bore a passing resemblance to the old-fashioned and choreographed courting mores of Jane Austen's story. It was entertaining and fun to socialize and prospect among such a group, but I eschewed anything more serious than innocuous dinner-dates. The potential for gossip and the glass-house environment discouraged self-investment for all but the bravest, since one could too easily end up either pitied or reviled.

I don’t mean to disparage, by the way, that wonderful parish or the dynamic young men and women who made up its “Young Adult” group. They were all of them kind, generous, smart, and sincere. But I’ve found that in all close groups, despite the age of the people involved, there are always some characteristics of high school.

And so it was that the quietly settling foundation of my life was the irreconcilable combination of an academic imperative to marry and a certain hesitancy in entering the serious relationship that might actually lead to a marriage. My time-intensive job and increasingly married group of friends left little opportunity to meet other singles, and had I met any who wanted a serious relationship I would have had scarce time to develop it. I was also due to make several deployments in the near future, each of which would separate me a little further from youth and the young women I might have pursued. My strong Catholic moral principles put out of my reach for ever the kind of easy entertainment found among care-free young single professionals who imitate current "popular culture." And, frankly, the pressures of “dating” were intimidating.

Being naturally idealistic, I was always hopeful that I would find something to satisfy this small but conspicuous hole in my life. My first deployment offered a lot of excitement unrelated to romance, and promised thereby to break my brooding cycle regarding relationships. It also, as I discovered in situ, a good place to stockpile money. The isolated environment, military-priced stores, and busy schedule leave little time to spend money whether it’s burning a hole in one’s pocket or not. In the dark hours of deployment as I trudged home, exhausted from the studying, planning, briefing, and criticizing that is business as usual in my profession, often in freezing rain and well after dark, I concocted delicious fantasies of entertaining beautiful young women in style with my growing “date fund,” finally capturing for myself...well, that was the problem. My delicious fantasies would break down at the point where I’d actually have to imagine the person that would become my spouse.

My return to Miramar was exciting and happy for many reasons and though my “date fund” was flush and my disposition more cheerful, I still seemed deadlocked on the relationship side. All the old problems were still there. I made an effort to be sociable and weekly met eligible young ladies--Catholics all--but couldn’t really make anything stick (no “that’s what she said” comments, please). Was I too picky? I wondered in the gross parlance of our times. Was I unlucky? Had I missed my opportunity by screwing up a past relationship?

Well, things changed on June 24th, 2009. Elsewhere I’ve told the story of meeting my wife. We were married on February 6th, 2010. Happily. We still are (nearly three months later).

There are a lot of clichés about love in our world. Most of them, I’m slightly embarrassed to admit, are true. As I drew toward the big day of marriage, I found myself considering a lot of existential questions. I abhor complacency in life. So it was very important to me that I knew exactly what I was getting into and that I went about it the right way (again, no more “that’s what she said” jokes, please). Suddenly things I'd always considered inconsequential became very important: who stood by me on the altar, what gifts I would give to them, the words of the marriage liturgy. It became important that I wear my uniform, and that the marriage occur at Notre Dame. Such things were incidental, of course, to the sacrament, but like the sacrament they were symbols of who I was.

Now there is a cliché. That last sentence. “Symbols of who I was.” Who is anybody, really? (That’s an existential question, by the way.) The history that God will reveal to me on Judgment Day will include much from my life that has no place among my desired self and the austere, bracing symbols of my wedding ceremony. That history will not be confined to the spiritual and intellectual formation I received at college under the star-studded and gothic-groined ceiling of the Basilica. It will not be confined to the hard, clean virtue preached (and mostly lived) by the Marine Corps and Naval Aviation. It will include more sordid relationships than those epitomized by the cousins and great friends who stood by me on the altar--all young men who inspired me throughout life and brought me well-prepared to that wonderful day. It will show failures and moments of weakness that are momentarily straitened by the stern lines and gold buttons of my Marine uniform. For like my peers, I have had a colorful and confused life. Who I was at that moment is known but to God and my conscience, and I have no desire to examine the latter too closely here. Who I wanted to be was represented by those powerfully symbolic incidentals at my wedding.

The point of all this cogitation, of course, was about being the kind of man that was worthy of my bride. Again, a cliché. A sweet one. But like most sweet clichés, true. My academic interest in marriage had dissolved completely in the magic latter months of 2009 as I wantonly and gleefully squandered my “date fund” on plane tickets to and from Chicago and devoted all my free time to the relationship. The excitement, the sense of utter purity, the feeling of being lifted above the mundane world--those things had blasted my selfish little complacency and fear of loneliness beyond my comprehension, where they lay exposed as miserable, cramped emotional pits under the incandescent glare of my new love. I realized the true meaning of the word “regret" and wished that all the personal investment I had put forth into previous relationships was still available to spend on my fiancée. It wasn’t a negative regret, either. It sprang forth from the intense joy she gave me I and made every encounter with her more precious. I realized that where previously I had focused on marriage as a sort of luxury trade wherein I could pay with affection and loyalty and receive comfort, suddenly I wanted marriage because I desired connectedness with her, her unique person.

She was, simply, the beloved. Beatrice. A shining symbol of all that I valued and desired and an irresistible portal thereto. I wanted to present myself to her unstained and pure, such that I could, and in such wise as to secure her ardor, affection, and admiration. And so I learned from this new experience of regret that it was time to discard selfishness and self-indulgence and self-regard with those mistakes I made long ago, stepping forward as a dynamic and committed lover. It was time to "man up." The best part, of course, was that not only did my bride eminently deserve my love for all that she was, but that she also loved me. And so she stepped forward with me as an equal partner; a true and best comrade; a friend without peer.

All my previous life was transience. Since adolescence I had been groping at the love that stood with me on February 6, 2010, finding it only in teasing glimpses--through beloved literature, or in the accomplishing of some great task, or the comforting experience of a good friend. These were foretastes of the banquet that awaited me in my wife; they were discernible signposts in the muddy confusion of youth. "To know and love one other human being is the root of all wisdom." In marriage I feel the sweet release of heaven, for it is a new beginning to life--life better founded than before. It is a new beginning of reciprocated love and great regard, a new beginning of comfort in having a partner to share the load of this world, and a new beginning of happiness in knowing where your place is. Next to your wife (or husband, as the case may be). For better or worse. In good times and in bad. In sickness and in health. As long as you both shall live.

Marriage, of course, has its own set of problems. There are differences of opinion and expectation, periodic arguments, and in my line of work the occasional but devastating pain of separation. There will likely be difficulties with children and sleepless nights and financial worries and anger and frustration as the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” strike home throughout life. Already I’ve experienced the unknown pain of being separated from my wife or of finding myself at odds with her, and I have no doubt that such instances will continue, as learning to live and grow together is a lifetime task. But I wouldn’t trade my difficulties now for my difficulties prior to June 24, 2009. The quality of my life now--married--is so far superior to my quality of life before as to defy comparison. My new beginning has been made with my Kate, and it is better by far than anything I imagined.

Austen was right: I did want a wife. But not in the way I imagined, nor in the way critics often construe her opening sentence. I wanted someone to love, someone with whom I could share life and all its wonders. And I found her: I am a new creation with Kate.

Romance from the West Coast

The vicissitudes of love--certainly one of the most common topics in human experience. Nearly every great story (and lately, the lowest of reality TV shows) refers to the human experience of love in all its elation and pathos. Like everyone else, I had experienced love. The many bright and happy moments therein could not conceal the aura of disappointment that I had no lover with whom share life. But one chance encounter is transforming. And that is the magic of love. The only difference between beauty and dreariness, happiness and melancholy, satisfaction and emptiness is this four letter word, small and banal to be sure but so large and important that it dominates our experience like nothing else.

In the midst of such a transformation, I wrote:

California is...interesting. It is rugged and pretty, even stunning. But there is a jaded nature about society here. It seems so sad that a people can spend so much time worrying about how they look and so much more time making themselves a certain way, and yet get so little enjoyment out of it. It's like they've all resigned themselves to the fact that they're as happy as they'll every be in their shallow unambitious world.

Remember when I told you that there was something jaded and shallow about living here? Yeah, well after spending all Friday sailing the blue Pacific and all Saturday on the beach(and getting a wicked farmer's tan in the bargain) I changed my mind. Between the company, the volleyball, the football, the swimming (in COLDwater), and the sunlight I felt sudden sympathy with all those young men who passed through here in World War II, fell in love, and came back to settle after the war. Saturday evening after leaving the beach I spent some time inthe apartment of some Notre Dame friends (both PLS majors like me) discussing books and enjoying what I'm convinced is a transitory piece of paradise. California seduces with beautiful scenery and beautiful people, and that may be all the true soul of the place, but co-existing alongside it are good people eager to live a happy life and ready to fully enjoy the weather, recreation, scenery, and simple unfettered lifestyle. You could say in some way that what previously hindered my enjoyment of California was its conspicuous glitz and shallow ambition. Too rarely did I ignore those things enough to appreciate the good people and opportunities for happiness here. Really, I needed to be able to share this place and it's wonders with some of those good people

As I drove on to base today, the sun suddenly rose over the scrub hills of east Miramar and smote the buildings and my mirror, momentarily blinding me. It was a beautiful sunrise, gleaming golden between soft layers of autumn clouds over the coastland. It was appropriate because after this weekend our relationship feels even more like a beginning.

I married this girl, and the transformation continues. When you know, you know.

Many the Miles

It has been five long and eventful years since I began cataloguing my experiences and thoughts for the world. It was an interesting hobby, probably characterized mostly by comical futility. But it's been fun reflecting on Infantry training, Flight School, Virginia and Pensacola and San Diego, the tough joy of squadron life followed by the struggle and wonder of deployment to the Far East. Indeed my feet have trod many miles, but this past weekend they found a place of rest and happiness that will carry through the rest of my life. This is that story.

Matt: As a freshman at Notre Dame in January of 2001, I found myself in a writing class. As it was part part of the required first year course of studies, the students were a random assortment and I wouldn't have a single other class with any of them for the rest of my college career. That, coupled with my chosen "Great Books" major, contributed to my ill-concealed contempt for the class as nothing more than a necessary evil. There was, however, one benefit to showing up each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and that was the fetching young lady named Kate who sat across from me. She was pretty and popular--and completely out of my league--and she definitely caught my attention.

Kate: I met Matt the first day of Spring Semester my Freshman year during a required Composition class. I don't remember if it was by chance that we ended up sitting across from one another, but I'm fairly certain that after doing a quick scan of the class, it is most probable that I specifically picked the seat directly across from the cutest boy in the room. Introductions were made, and Matt announced that he was from Seattle. For a girl from Chicago, Seattle seemed exotic and different, a place where the 'cool bands' originated, and coffee was produced in magical Charlie and the Chocolate Factory-eqsue shops. It was also the former location of "The Real World," so I naturally assumed people lounged around in their houseboats all day and compared the philosophies of Sartre to Kurt Cobain. As I shook myself out of the daydream, I remember Matt speaking. "This boy is brilliant," I thought, "brilliant!" He was confident and perceptive; an intelligent young man who wasn't afraid to discuss literature and/or sentence structure. Bingo! I made a snap judgment that THIS boy was THE boy for me.

Matt: One afternoon she approached me and inquired if I'd help her on a paper. I probably stuttered a bit in my attempt to answer yes, desperately trying not to let my surprise and jubilation spill out onto my otherwise "cool" exterior (by which I mean a comically ineffective poker face). So I awkwardly made an appointment (a date?) and accordingly presented myself one evening at her dorm. It was locked down as female residence halls always were at Notre Dame, but a kindly resident let me in and I braved the gauntlet of feminine stares along the hallways leading to her door. The next hour is a blur, but I gather that we sedately gathered around her computer, I offered some constructive criticism in a terrified and studied academic manner, and then I left. Afterwards I wondered if this pretty young lady wasn't perhaps at least as interested in me as she did in her paper, but immediately discounted the notion as highly improbable. She was out of my league. I avoided any potential embarrassment that another encounter might create and went about my college life.

Kate: I asked him for help on a paper, which is probably THE most transparent move I could have made. A paper? Really? Smooth move, Dolack. My Calculus homework certainly, but a paper? We must have discussed a time and date, probably in early February, where we would meet in my dorm. At the time, I was living in a crowded three-room dorm above the rector, with three roommates; our doors were guarded by a very intimidating security woman who spent her days patrolling our hallways and knitting hats and sweater vests for her gerbils. I'm certain I must have confided to my girlfriends that Matt Klobucher, that cute boy from my FYC class was coming over, because I don't remember anyone in the room. And then the big moment arrived. Matt Klobucher walked into my room to help me with my paper. And he did just that. He helped me with my paper, made a few comments about the sentence structure, and left. The boy actually commented on my use of a split infinitive. That's right, I was totally rejected because of a grammatical error.

Matt: After that class, we never really ran into each other. I stalked her lightly on Instant Messenger, and later on FaceBook, but only as a sort of dream. I was a dour Marine Corps-bound "Great Books" major; she was clearly destined for happiness and perfection. Unbeknownst to me, we ended up with some of the same friends, and I always noted Kate's presence in our friends' online photographs with a little jolt of pleasure and nostalgia for what might have been. I noted that she moved to LA after college, and occasionally stifled my attention to her during other relationships. Then I noticed something new and interesting about her.

Kate: After that class, Matt and I never really ran into each one another, (but I never forgot him). I would love to push rewind and watch the number of times we passed each other, since we had many friends in common. In fact, most of my closest friends were kids from his dorm or girls from his major. I lived up my time in college, acting in plays with my dearest friends Julianne and Megan, and attended parties and Irish pubs with my girlfriends, Krista, Aindrea, Jen, and Emma. Meanwhile, Megan, both a talented actress AND a "Great Books" major, attended classes and military balls with Matt (I attended several military balls with the Air Force boys). When not out with me, Aindrea and Jen occasionally hung out with Matt at typical Notre Dame watering holes. After college, Jen actually bounced back and forth from Pensacola to visit her college boyfriend, John, who lived with Matt while they were in Flight School together (I moved to LA and began my career working for FX). In November 2006 Matt moved to San Diego within a week of my final departure from LA for Chicago. We passed each other, I am sure, on the road. Sometimes I wonder if I waved.

Matt: It was one evening in early 2007. I was living in Pensacola, Florida, and idly browsing FaceBook. My "feed" informed me that Kate had posted a note. The title intrigued me, as did the opening sentence which was displayed on my screen. I clicked on it and proceeded to read one of the most entertaining, most poignant short stories I'd ever seen. I remembered ruefully that she had once asked ME for help writing, since she was clearly so much better than I was. I wished in that moment (and have in many since) that I could write like her. I was so impressed, in fact, that I threw caution to the winds and commented on her story, telling her how good it was. As I expected, I received no response.

Kate: In late 2006, searching for an outlet for my thoughts, I sat down and wrote a short memorist-style story and posted it on Facebook. I wrote about being a single gal in the city, living in a high rise building, trying to avoid both being sucked into Lifetime Television for Women and the exhaust from the 151 city bus. I had been out of college for more than two long years. I missed Notre Dame. I missed my friends. I missed our carefree atmosphere. But, in the end, I ended the piece with a hopeful nature. Goodness, to be twenty-three. I remember Matt commented, and I remember being touched. I missed him; my old friend.

Matt: Over the following months, I sought out and read everything she posted on Facebook. Occasionally I'd comment, impressed with her writing and wanting her to know how good she was. I certainly didn't forget how attractive she was, either! Finally in the spring of 2007 I wrote more publicly on her wall (instead of simply commenting on a note), and she responded! It was a kind and sweet response, and in it she mentioned a few books in connection to her writing and my job. Little did I know that her recommendation of "The Prince of Tides" that day as her favorite book would eventually provide the seed for our current wonderful relationship.

Kate: Matt and I would go back and forth between writing small snippets to each other. Occasionally, we'd each go months without a response from the other. Then one day, he wrote to me. I had just finished reading my mom's recommendation of what would become my favorite book of all time, Pat Conroy's, "The Prince of Tides." I knew Matt was a big reader like myself. I also was aware that he was in the Marine Corps and had trained in flight school, so I wondered if he may be interested in "The Great Santini," and/or "The Lords of Discipline". I asked him if he had ever read the book, and he said no. I told him to check it out. In the meantime, I debated actually sending him all of Conroy's finest works. But at the last minute, I backed out. So instead I wrote, "Go buy that book!"

Matt: You see, I read that book on her recommendation. That was (and still is) rare for me. I almost never read something another has recommended to me. I've always been on my own little reading program. But in this case I took the plunge, I read that book, and enjoyed it. I thought it so good that I wrote a review of it online. and as it happened wrote a review online.

Kate: I dated other people. He dated other people. But I often compared others to him, which is odd since we didn't know each other that well, really. But I did know he was something rare. He was somethin' special. I remember checking Matt's profile when he was on deployment. I wrote him slightly more often then. "Come visit!" I would cheerfully suggest. "I'm in Japan," he would respond. "But it's warm here in Februrary," I would lie. "Have fun with that weather!," he would joke. I thought of him on Christmas. He seemed so far away. Months passed and I was deeply involved in my work, pulling late nights at the office, traveling around the country to complete interviews and buried in research. In May, we wrapped the first season of the show I helped create. In June, I was anxious: I had spent so much of the past year of my life developing this series, I didn't know what to do with my time. I couldn't sleep. I spent far too much time on Facebook posting silly messages to friends and crafting song lyrics as away messages.

Matt: Then she apparently found the review I'd written on "The Prince of Tides" online one night last June. And she was apparently so impressed that she wrote me a fairly long note. It wasn't an ordinary note, filled with kindly concern and intellectual agreement. It was a genuine and elegant note that communicated the just the same kind of respect and sympathy that I felt for all of her writing. It was also complimentary and sweet. I was stunned and delighted.

Kate: One week later, I found myself up at 1:30am. I knew Pat Conroy had a new novel about to hit the bookstores, and so I started to research any information I could find on the author. On page three of a silly google search, I saw a review of "The Prince of Tides." 'Oh, my favorite," I thought to myself, and clicked on the link. And then, there he was: a photograph of Matthew Klobucher attached to his review of "The Prince of Tides." I was floored. It took me about five minutes to compose myself. The review was beautiful, and his writing was just as I remembered. I checked the date on the review: only one week after I suggested he read "The Prince of Tides." Without thinking, I wrote him immediately.

Matt: I couldn't believe she had written me! I hastily crafted a response that would be appropriately appreciative. This was a delicate moment, since I wanted to be absolutely sincere but nevertheless was conscious that betraying too much of my suddenly developing attraction might put this dream girl off. So in honest but carefully considered phrases, I thanked her for her note and invited further correspondence.

Kate: He wrote me back. He was just as I remembered...or maybe better? I knew I had to find a way to San Diego. I started to think of ways to interview a subject, research a story, develop a show.anything.

Matt: This started a series of letters between us, surprisingly deep in content and gradually moving from Facebook to "old-fashioned email," then to talking over the phone. As it became blindingly obvious to me and my good friends in San Diego that I was crushing hard on this girl, I impetuously invited her to accompany me to a wedding in Boston, just a month after Kate's first long note. She accepted. It was pretty exciting.

Kate: We wrote back and forth. Once, I wrote him a letter from thirty thousand feet in the air...eager to hit 'send' as soon as I arrived back in my apartment. His letters were magic...like poetry. Then one night, he phoned. We spent four hours on the phone deep in conversation--and every night thereafter, we logged at least that much. Thank GOODNESS we both have AT&T! A few weeks later, Matt asked me to the wedding of his good friends, Matt and Margaret. Of course, I accepted. I was thrilled, nervous, excited, and every other emotion one could imagine.

Matt: Apprehension ran high as I prepared to pick her up in Chicago and go to this wedding. When she met me in the Chicago airport it was the first time we'd seen each other in seven years. But that didn't matter. After a month of intense letters and conversations (and my lovely college memories of her) we met with laughter, an embrace and many kisses. From that moment, we were dating officially and seriously.

Kate: We had our first kiss at Midway airport. We wandered around the city, attended an art show, and sat on beach steps and watched people play in the water and jog back in forth. That night, over pizza and under summer stars, he told me loved me. It was our first date. It was perfect. And I think, well, I had been in love with him from the very beginning.

Matt: When you know, you know. Several weeks later I started preparations for proposing to her--ordering a ring, talking to her father, and all the rest. But we quickly decided that the preparations were taking too long. We loved each other, we wanted to marry each other, we were ready to cheerfully and excitedly begin the preparations for a wedding and the follow-on joys and difficulties of a marriage. So we became secretly engaged in the last week of September, pending the actual proposal. Though a secret engagement is romantic, I am glad our intention is public knowledge! Now, I am eager to finalize wedding preparations and finally start my life with her. She is nothing less than my soulmate and the love of my life.

Kate: The rest, as they say, is history. How many times had I wondered, well, HOW do you know? People who were happily married would try to explain. "Well," they would say, "you just know." But yet I would continue to ask. "Is it a feeling? Is it something in your head? Is it settling? Do you just decide one day? What am I not getting? How does anyone just 'know?!' I just could not understand, couldn't find the solution, couldn't find the logical components that would equal the answer. And it wasn't until I found Matt again that I discovered the answer to my question. It was him. He was the answer all along.

Finding Love in California

California has always been an ideal for me. Since I was old enough to understand that there existed a larger world than my family, home and school, I'd heard that it was wonderful; that the weather there was perfect; that there was almost too much in the way of recreation. It had a reputation as a "fast" place, the location of Hollywood and the seat of much wealth and luxury. There was the added romance of recent social and ethnic tensions: student riots, race riots, slums and gangs, East LA. It had a historical significance to me as it was initially "colonized" by strict Catholic Spanish missionaries, then later built up by gold rushers and capitalists, and in this century the destination of many service members on their way to fight in the Pacific, Korea, and Viet Nam. There was a power in the word "California" that somehow reconciled the disparate ideas of social liberalism, military towns (good and bad), rampant capitalism, racial tensions, incredible wealth, and raw physical beauty. It called to me in my youth, whispering of adventure, opportunity, and glamour. I wanted to live there, at least for a little while. I wanted to experience California.

Thanks to the military, I received that opportunity. In 2007 I received orders to a training squadron based out of San Diego, California. Even better, my follow-on orders would be to a fleet squadron based in the same place. I was looking at spending four years of my youth in what general regard and my own fantasy painted as a paradise. That November I set out for my first real road trip, the three-day drive from Pensacola to San Diego and the welcome next installment in this military adventure.

I enjoyed the drive very much. Hours on the road were something new and fairly exciting, as were the dingy motels in which I nervously slept each night. My excited eyes welcomed the sights of Louisiana bayous, Texas oil fields (and the posted 80-mile-per-hour speed limits there), and the barren desert mountains of New Mexico, Arizona, and California. By a fortuitous coincidence, when I reached the suburbs of San Diego on the third day of my trip I found myself driving up the "Semper Fi" highway along the east side of Miramar while F/A-18s flew into land over head. Never in a long career of subconscious attempts to imitate this movie have I ever felt more like a character in Top Gun. That coupled with the confluence of ocean, hills, greenery and desert made me believe I had finally arrived in Paradise. Hello Southern California!

Over the years I've lived here, I've experienced quite a bit of the area. My flying has taken me over San Francisco, the California coast, Yosemite, the Grand Canyon, to Phoenix, Scottsdale, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, and Fresno in the central valley. I have driven California Highway 1 down the coast. I have spent lazy days watching surfers compete in the crowded break off San Diego beaches, run beneath rugged cliffs that line the coast under Torrey Pines golf course, sailed the Gulf of Santa Catalina, walked the trails of the coastal mountains, eaten plenty of "healthy" food that happens to be organic or vegan, and explored the paradoxical array of night-clubs, dive-bars, and exclusive restaurants that make up (seemingly) the lion share of California entertainment. I've certainly made some good friends here and enjoyed my time immensely. And yet In the months after I returned from a recent long deployment to the Far East, I discovered myself surprisingly ambivalent toward this place--perhaps even eager to leave.

Like anywhere else in the world, California has it's goods and bads. Perhaps unusually, there are few "natural" bad things about it - no hurricanes, difficult winters, chance of flooding, or (unless you live in the Bay Area) even really earthquakes. The negatives about California are all artificial, imposed by the people who live there. So while the land is rugged and pretty, even stunning, I found it hard to reconcile myself to the jaded nature of society here. Except for little enclaves here and there (like my squadron or my church) there is a glaring dearth of warmth and friendliness to be found in the people I meet. They are all very comely, certainly, but they seem vaguely overdressed and fragile, as if they are more concerned with looking "correct" than looking "nice" or "respectable." They are, on the surface, very nice - they say "please" and "thank you," but yet manage to make those phrases sound both rude and contemptuous. They are appallingly rude to waiters and store clerks. Their fun seems forced, as if the joy they experience is carefully controlled to conform with some standard, and therefore doesn't quite come from their hearts. It seems sad that a people can spend so much time worrying about how they look or act, and so much more time actively making themselves a certain way, and yet get so little enjoyment out of it. It's like they've all resigned themselves to the fact that they're as happy as they'll ever be in their shallow unambitious world of luxury.

Though I had a close group of friends with whom I shared many interests (foremost being our Catholicism, shared military experiences, and our love of college football in general and Notre Dame football specifically), by the summer of 2008 it was obvious that separation was inevitable. Some friends were heading out on deployments or even moving duty stations altogether. Others were entering the kind of serious relationships that occur after college and a certain amount of time living alone as a young professional. Truth be told I envied the latter. Between the slowly changing dynamics of my relationships in San Diego and the social character of California itself I was growing weary of a "single life." It is certainly exciting to be young and independent, but eventually I found that bars, restaurants, and beaches look mostly the same the world over and I yearned for something less transitory in my life and relationships. I was tired the constant change, no matter how slowly it was occurring, and I wanted to hold on to something more stable. I was in fact, and probably subconsciously, looking exactly for the kinds of serious relationships into which so many of my friends were entering. This consideration made me glad to deploy to Japan (which I did in the fall of 2008), because it was a chance to pare down my life and occupy myself with more immediate tasks--it was a chance to push a growing loneliness away.

Deployment was in many ways a struggle. I have only tasted the barest sip of the bitter loneliness felt by deployed service members who leave loved ones behind, for as I was still independent the solitary hours were to some degree a familiar experience. But the time away from home, immersed as I was in a difficult job and forced to spend time with (and get along with) tough-minded and equally independent squadron mates, was more a blessing. There is something redemptive and cleansing about suffering, a chance to forget old problems for new and take satisfaction in solving the problems and surviving the difficult times. And there was certainly plenty of fun to be had flying in new parts of the world and enjoying the unique freedom and carelessness that attends membership in a tight group of comrades sent to a new and exciting place. I returned home in March 2009 eager to re-engage California and make the most of my remaining time there. I vaguely intended to make existing friendships stronger with the knowledge that as they developed new relationships of their own, "stronger" wasn't going to necessarily mean "more available."

Initially, to my disappointment, I seemed to fall back into exactly the same incomplete life I had left seven months prior. In my long absence, new priorities had developed for my friends--some were newly engaged, others were newly married, still more had other friends besides. Nobody abandoned me, but there was nevertheless even less room in my old--and now shrinking--circle for me. So life goes: people grow and develop and change. There was no less love or friendship than before, just less availability. And I knew that as a good friend I needed to support my various friends' new changes. So I began insidiously accepting a smaller life than I wanted. I accepted more time alone and a smaller group of friends. And though I tried to remain cheerful, the melancholy of my situation made much more apparent the jaded and shallow character of California. It was a place of harsh light and dust, which I shut out by retreating into my parish "Young Adult" group, into my largely unfurnished apartment, and into books.

Then one summer week changed all this. Three events occurred which by themselves were hardly out of the ordinary, but which together began a process of growing appreciation and happiness. First, coincident with the weekend of July fourth, I was able to spend a day with my college and Pensacola room-mate. Though the substance of our encounters was noteworthy--one day we went sailing and followed it with a Cajun crawfish boil at his brother's house, the next we tied one on cathartically and royally in San Diego--I chiefly remember it as a moment recalling the great joy of our lives back in college and flight school. Those were the best years of my life at the time: carefree, young, healthy enough to often indulge in the kinds of pass-times that might otherwise result in sore-ness, injury, or hangover, and above all in the company of good friends.

Second, I spend the last part of that holiday weekend the beach with and as the guest of more old college friends. These were a newlywed couple, neither of whom I knew well at school (despite sharing their major and participating with them in ROTC), but with whom I nevertheless had much in common. Their hospitality, kindness, and cheer stunned me. We discussed books and life, their soon-to-be-born son, and enjoyed (again) the kind of company that had so recently been slipping away from me.

Third (and most significantly), I was contacted by a girl I knew from Notre Dame regarding something I wrote on the internet. Though of course I responded well to the compliments therein, I think I was more interested in the fresh and innocent character of the note. This connection was unfreighted with an impending departure, a common and competitive job, or a connection propped up at all by a common religion. There was no need for presence or determined and defensive courtesy, and I amid our far-reaching conversations I confided in her my spiritual malaise in California, aware that she had lived here after college but moved away after several years. The correspondence that developed between us was remarkable for it's fresh and sincere character, and as we traded stories and perspectives I began to see what initially brought her out to California, and learned that she was considering coming back after several years living in her hometown of Chicago. That was an idea that made California seem much more attractive as a place to live.

And in the glow of such company I started looking at California in a new light. My mind was suddenly filled with external ideas, jokes, and interests. It felt like my life was expanding again, that it was exciting and had a place here. I don't mean to suggest I thought my life was a dead end before; rather I had given up on much good ever happening in California. The "jaded and shallow" character certain Californians now seemed trivial and amusing. I realized anew how much there was to enjoy--between the company, the beach volleyball, the football, the cool ocean, and the sunlight I felt sudden sympathy with all those young men who passed through here during World War II, fell in love, and came back to settle after the war. It felt like paradise. The entire nature of the place is optimistic at heart: for the missionaries it was a place to found a new and holier society; for the gold rushers it was a place to make a fortune, for later settlers it was a place to be successful agriculturally in the abundant natural sunlight; for more recent refugees from failing economies, stifling cultures, and difficult winters of parts east it is simply a place to remake their life in a happier mold. There is an innocent appreciation common to such pilgrims, a profound enjoyment of California's beauties and opportunities that is rooted in their knowing full well the reason came her in the first place.

California seduces with beautiful scenery and beautiful people, and that may be in fact the true soul of the place anymore; and yet co-existing alongside it are good people both eager to live a happy life and ready to fully enjoy the weather, recreation, scenery, and simple unfettered lifestyle. Certainly, what previously hindered my enjoyment of California was a combination of my own pain at watching a close group of friends inevitably separate as they moved on with life and career and the conspicuous glitz and shallow ambition so obvious in California "society." Too rarely did I ignore those things enough to appreciate the good people and amazing opportunities for happiness here. I think I needed to be able to share this place and it's wonders with those good people--namely my friends, old and new.

I have written before of the importance of place. I have always been affected by places, by their beauty and by their romantic ugliness, but those are surface attributes. What I really notice, I believe, is the character of the place. That may be inspired by characteristics of the place itself, but it resides in and comes from the inhabitants. California is chiefly a place of dreams: beautiful dreams, nightmarish dreams, broken dreams, all kinds of dreams. People here are generally looking for something, but they have a kind of sojourning mindset--a cheerful acceptance of difficulty and an eager anticipation of their goal. They have hope. I temporarily lost that hope, but found it again during that providential summer week. As life grows and changes, new friends and comrades will step in to fill the void left by the departure or separation of the old, who will still be available (though not perhaps as they were before) but with no less friendship nonetheless. Most importantly I found a real love, something that has the potential to be greater than the closest friendship or the most bracing comrades. For the correspondence that began in late June grew into a long-distance date to Boston, and finally a real, committed, and exciting relationship. There is a great hope in that--a hope implicit in the presence of romantic love--that at least this relationship may not be transitory; that it might not be marked by inevitable separation but by a chance to do the growing and changing with a partner.

As I drove on to base today I watched the sun suddenly rise over the scrub hills of east Miramar, smite the buildings and my mirror, and momentarily blind me. It seemed to me that this sunrise, beautiful and gleaming golden between the soft layers of autumn clouds over the coastland, was the essence of California. It contained the hope of sunshine and optimism, the very hope that originally drew me and countless others. It was a reminder--though I scarce needed it--that finally, after two years of looking, I had found an ideal here in this land of dreams. I found what I sought. I found the hope of lasting happiness.