The Happy Doldrums

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tales of the Green Guide: The sacred island

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Long Shadow of Suribachi

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

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

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

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

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

Iwo Jima!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Other Japan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Needless to say, we were a little cocky.

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

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

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

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

Yes, Virginia, America does have a sport as wonderful as soccer

Often the athleticism of American Football Players has been called into question. Critics usually claim they are "oversized" or (more succinctly) "overweight." The validity of the sport has been maligned by derisive claims that the players wear pads and helmets, whereas in the similar sport of Rugby they do not. Often I hear such accusations from trendy, condescending types who seemingly wish to distance themselves from what they clearly regard as a "barbaric" sport--no doubt better suited to big dumb oxen or preternaturally fast runners, and (I suspect) usually those from, ahem, rural parts of the country. Civilized people, perhaps, join the rest of the world in adulation of soccer. Or tennis. Or golf. All of this muttering is becoming louder in these days of the 2010 World Cup of soccer, played in South Africa.

But make no mistake: not even the media obsession of international footballers amid the hue and cry of the World Cup coverage can disguise the fact that there are no athletes in the world like those that play American football. They are unbelievably quick, even at more than 300 pounds; they jump incredibly high, and they have the kind of hand-eye coordination and balance that allows them not only to keep their feet while being hit or pushed by 1200-odd pounds of force, but to to divert that weight from the quarterback or runner they're protecting (and no, I'm not exaggerating that number--that's the force of two tackles who can each squat more than 600 pounds). And those are just the linemen. I haven't even gotten started on the so-called "skill positions" that can throw a ball to and catch it from a precise spot in the sky at a precise time in the play, or that can change direction and accelerate to avoid tackles so gracefully. Or the complicated deception tactics that are used to get the ball moving forward, or the teamwork showcased when linemen, tight ends, and receivers sacrifice their bodies to protect the ball-carrier downfield. Or the heart that after an hour of explosive play in bitterly cold (or brutally hot) temperatures can still bind aching muscle and bruised limbs to a player's will for one more bit of magic and maybe six more points.

As for the presence of pads, well, I tend to look at sports through the lens of Lacrosse, which I played briefly but with moderate success in high school. There were hard hits during that game, but after 10 years of focus on American Football, with about six weeks of comparative study of Australian-Rules Football and rugby during a brief stint down under, I will say that the dynamic and fluid struggle on a rugby field are no where near as violent or injurious as the static collision along the line in a football game. I've never seen a rugby player slam directly into another as would a tailback and linebacker colliding full-tilt into each other between the tackles on the line, or as would a wide receiver and safety both chasing the same ball from opposite sides of the field, or as would a nose guard and two tackles at the snap of the ball. It's possible, of course, that I missed the "greatest hits" reel from comparable sports, but until I see it I'll remain skeptical. There's nothing wimpy about American football, and the pads are a necessity to prevent broken collarbones and ribs. And believe me I know that soccer is a contact sport along with all the rest of my list.

I doubt, certainly, that many American football players could hang for a 90-minute game of soccer; nor am I demeaning the skill, intelligence, endurance, execution, and heart required to compete on the soccer pitch. But whatever one's preferences are regarding sports, I don't think a reasonable person could deny that at least as much athleticism is required of American football players as is required of soccer players. I'll throw Lacrosse, Hockey, and (yes) Rugby into the same category.

I'm aware that some dreamy or critical Americans have also foolishly wished that we these United States had some sport that could capture our imagination the way soccer so apparently captures the world. They fail to realize, of course, that the shrines of American Football--Notre Dame Stadium, Tuscaloosa, Lambeau Field, Soldier Field, the Meadowlands, The Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party in the World, Cowboy Stadium, The Rose Bowl--bear witness every weekend in fall and wintertime to the fact that Americans love their American football as much as anybody loves another sport. One only need look at the whiteout in happy valley, or the terrible towel, or the 11th man (both in College Station and in Seattle) to see the same level of excitement now oriented from around the world at South Africa. Not even the glitz and commercialism of events like the Super Bowl and the National Championship Game can dim their luster in the eyes of those who make those contests some of the most-watched television events...ever.

The rest of the world can't see the wonder in this wonderful game of American Football, but that doesn't mean it isn't there. And while I have gained much respect and affection towards the fine and noble sport of soccer this World Cup 2010, there is nothing that will ever equal the enchantment of a Saturday gameday in autumn.

Letter to a former professor concerning a liberal education

Dear Professor S-------,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Harvard Sin

I read today that the Harvard University Student Handbook cautions students against joining the Reserve Officer Training Corps (ROTC) because "the program is inconsistent with Harvard's values."

I am speechless. Choking and appalled, I can barely respond civilly. Rationally, I can understand why someone might regard current ongoing conflicts as disastrously frivolous. I can understand why someone would judge the benefit of current conflicts as corrupt. I can especially understand why someone might regard the loss of life in current conflicts too much to bear. And I can even (barely) understand why someone might regard today's military as a not-entirely-unwilling tool of imperialist, contemptuous, grasping designs by a corrupt institution.

I vehemently disagree with all those perspectives. I think very nearly the opposite. But raised in an intellectual environment, I naturally assume that everybody with something to say has arrived at their opinion honestly--which is to say, if they view a current conflict negatively or view the military negatively, they've at least arrived at their conclusion through some desire to find truth and application of judgment (though I might find their desire and judgment warped and lacking, respectively).

It isn't just the intellectual environment that conditioned my naivety, however--it is the principle of free speech. The First Amendment to our Constitution explicitly protects an American's right to say and think what he or she wants. It's a question of freedom, and as a place encouraging the "free and open exchange of ideas" a university (such as Harvard) should be eager to protect such freedom by allowing students to come to their own conclusions about social institutions like the military.

But of course that is a matter of opinion. Pacifists are entitled to their opinions as well. Yet there is an aura of exceptionalism about premier universities; there is a tacit understanding by students, faculty, and administrators that a function of the institution is to produce good men and women to do good things in the world, armed with a store of knowledge and more importantly formed with the understanding that there is a right answer to most problems, and though it may not yet be known we collectively can figure it out. Is the right answer to the "military problem" to shut it out? I'm sure there are some Harvard community members who think so.

If that is a "value" of Harvard, well, bully for them. I have great respect for the long and illustrious intellectual history of that storied university, which (it must be said) have produced many warrior-scholars like Teddy Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy. I think the strong intellectual and liberal traditions of Harvard might contribute strongly to our military, and that it's "exceptional" young alumni ought to go forth in obedience to their conscience, whether that be to AmeriCorps, the military, or the corporate world. I firmly believe that a good man or a good woman has much to contribute to any institution, provided that institution is well-meaning. And I can't understand why Harvard apparently has tarred the entire military with a wide brush of "misaligned values."

A cursory study of history shows that the American Military has done great things. Twice it has stopped German aggression, the latter of which took the awful form of Nazism in it's industrial ethnic genocide. It stopped the utter savagery and rapine of the Japanese Empire and it bled to keep desperate South Korea from crumbling under unwanted Communist Imperialism. Within those struggles good men and women have stepped forward to lead servicemembers in as near to civilized war-making as this world has ever seen--and incidents like My Lai and Abu Ghraib, inexcusable as they were, stand glaringly as aberrations. Actually, that comparison isn't quite fair, since My Lai was a genuine and horrible massacre while Abu Ghraib was just a sickening episode of bullying. These past nine years our Armed Forces have adjusted their tactics in a heroic effort to spare civilian lives, even when such course ran counter to sound military tactics (and they have paid the price in servicemembers' blood). I think there is little doubt for the disinterested observer that good men and women have served in the military, or that smart men and women have made it a better force for good in the world.

Furthermore, the reviled "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy regarding homosexuals does not originate from the military, it was imposed by a liberal president. I don't see how anyone could fairly blame the military organization for that. If some servicemembers are prejudiced, well, that's bad...but it isn't illegal. Besides, what better place for a talented, well-formed young Harvard alumnus or alumnae to do some good in the world than in the midst of prejudice? That's chiefly, to my understanding, the result of ignorance, which is generally cured by education. And education is nominally the function of the university. In any case, it certainly isn't fair to assume that all servicemembers are prejudiced and damn the organization thereby.

Finally, I can't believe that Harvard would baldly dismiss an institution that counts among it's values "Honor," "Courage," "Commitment," "Service over self," or that explicitly encourages and rewards valor, hard work, and good leadership. It begs the question of what exactly the right values are, anyway. One would hope that Harvard's invitation of radical muslims does not indicate tacit approval of their values enshrined in Sharia law, which allows them to hang homosexuals, mutilate and stone women, and rape adolescent girls. Exactly what are Harvard's values now?

I certainly am biased in this matter. In five years of military service I have worked with the smartest, best people I've ever met--but I've also seen my share of bullies and bigots. Like any institution, the military has goods and bads. But I fail to see how Harvard can with any reason actually discourage it's students to seek a career therein. And to wholesale condemn the Armed Forces, these days comprised entirely of Americans who have promised to protect with their lives the Harvard community (along with the rest of the United States), is the height of ingratitude and indecency. Such a promise is no less valuable for the absence of a credible threat.

I understand that part of free speech and the free exchange of ideas is criticism. I welcome it mostly; how else would we collectively approve. So criticize, Harvard: criticize the military treatment of homosexuals, or the military tactics in the middle east, or even the military recruiting process. But don't dismiss it. We're Americans too, and we deserve better of what once was our greatest university.

Lovers in Japan

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unfortunately, we both missed the rendezvous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.