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.
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.
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