First Flights and Fast Times

Well, I can say I have officially flown an airplane now. I have taken off, flown to a different airfield, conducted appropriate aerial maneuvers along the way (like spinning out the airplane), and successfully landed, many times. The great adventure is well begun indeed.

It isn't really all that glamourous, actually. Well, it is, but that glamour is coupled with long hours of work before, during, and after my time at the cockpit. Each flight is a specific event on the syllabus here, and requires that the student be familiar with and demonstrate specific material. In this regard each flight is like a test. The "material" consists of sets of procedures for flying the aircraft, Emergency Procedures in case something goes wrong, and general knowledge of aircraft systems. This knowledge is what the student is graded on, not the actual flying of the aircraft. This is different, of course, than pilot training - there the student is graded very much on how he or she flies the aircraft. But for us backseater types, planning and knowledge are priorities.

So these past several weeks I have been studying hard, memorizing procedures step by step. It is stressful work - before each flight the instructor spends about an hour and a half with the student, examining him or her to see if they know what they are supposed to know for that flight. Instructors can grill a student on anything specific to that particular flight, or any material they choose covered in previous flights. It is much like having an oral examination, actually (though I'm embarrassed to say that I have to study harder in flight school than I ever did in college) - except when you fail, you receive a "pink sheet," which is a disciplinary file that usually leads to the student being reviewed by a board of instructors, and more often than not kicked out of the program. But - and not to sound cliche or anything - it is all worth it to be in the air.

I won't bore you with too many reflections or details on flying. It is remarkably peaceful in the air, and since we wear two sets of hearing protection the aircraft itself is quiet. When you are not desperately struggling with the controls to the (often) obscenity-filled exhortations of your instructors, the view is wonderful. The small windows of commercial airliners just don't do it justice. Underneath the professionalism and discipline of the aviation community lies a genuine joy of flying - something I have to remind myself of during difficult briefs. And the ride quickly becomes exciting (though in a good way) when you put the aircraft into a spin or flip upside down. Unlike some of my peers, I have had no problem so far with airsickness - I dare say I am having more fun with it than they are.

I have completed my flights fairly quickly. I had two on Tuesday, one on Thursday, and I was supposed to have my last today, but the approaching Tropical Storm sent enough clouds that we couldn't complete our event (which required good visibility). Cancellations are nothing new: it is warm and moist enough around here that we often contend with afternoon thunderstorms. We (the students) joke often, in fact, that much of the glamour of flying is actually sitting in a ready room waiting for a break in the weather. That is what I did Monday and Wednesday.

In retrospect, I guess flight school is different than I expected. I don't think I had many expectations in the first place, but I am both surprised at the extent to which I enjoy flying and the interminable waiting and studying that goes in to it. That's why, I guess, flight school is regarded as difficult - in fact, that's the only thing that isn't surprising. But I'd rather be doing something interesting and hard than boring and easy, so I guess I can't complain.

Closing in on Aviation

I have reached another milestone in training - I am ready for my first flight! I should be flying on Tuesday or Wednesday, and while on paper I am "prepared," I feel far too nervous and excited to fly than is probably wise or safe. But that is what instructors are for, right? I have to brag a bit - the aircraft we will be flying in is the Lockheed (Beechcraft) T-6A Texan II: a single-engine, turboprop, mono-wing, high-performance aerobatic trainer. What that means is that my aircraft was designed train pilots in aerobatic maneuvering...so part of our training will include things like loops, aileron rolls, split-s's, wingovers, and all sorts of sexy moves from WWII dogfighting and Top Gun (though no 4-G inverted dives with a MiG). It has a glass cockpit, which means the gauges aren't actually "gauges" per se, as in dials with needles that indicate information. They are glass computer displays that project an image of a gauge like your computer monitor. This means that some system is actually processing the information shown on the gauges and then projecting it to the pilot in an easier-to-read format - the assumption being that said system is more accurate than the conventional gauges were in the first place. The real advantage is that all-important displays (like aircraft attitude) won't "tumble" or get out of alignment...ever (even during dynamic manoevering!). It does make me kind of nervous, though, that the old gauges were prone to doing that in the first place! But far and away the coolest thing about the T-6A is that it is equipped with a zero-zero ejection seat, so the aircrew can get out in a hurry if something goes drastically wrong. "Zero-zero" means that even sitting on the tarmac, at zero knots airspeed and zero feet off the deck, this seat can still save my life, by firing me up high enough with its rocket motor (330 ft) that my parachute can safely inflate and land me on the deck.

But getting here has occupied much of my time these past few weeks. Ground school was much different from API, because it is merely an introduction to the materials we are requred to study, it isn't actually a "lecture" course. They call it "big boy school" - you are told what to know, then tested, but the material itself isn't really taught. You must learn it by yourself. First we were tested on weather knowledge, then T-6A systems (hydraulics, propulsion, electronics, avionics), and finally the actual, word-of-the-most-high-naval-aviation-authorites-sanctioned, T-6A operations manual. That was five tests in three weeks.

After that we had a week of simulator events, where you get in a flight simulator and you operate the aircraft from the cockpit. These events are treated like actual flights, and you are being graded each time on how much material you know about the aircraft and how to operate it (there are certain items that we focus on specifically in each event). For example, the first event is just to see if you are familiar enough with the many pages of checklists and the necessary radio calls to operate the aircraft safely. The second event tests all that again, but adds some emergencies in - a fire warning on the ground, a fire warning in flight, an engine failure in flight, and requires you to be familiar with the emergency landing procedure. There were only three of these events, but with all the information you have to know for each one, each one is like studying for a final. But they are fun - I got to "eject" from one simulation, and I got to "fly" in all three, which dispite the lack of visual graphics outside the cockpit, was pretty cool.

Today I had my first period of instruction in the actual aircraft. It was an introduction - showing me how to preflight the plane itself, how to prepare for an actual flight (getting weather and field updates), and how to strap in, get in and get out the aircraft itself. It was a long day, but at least I know that I am about to start flying - which is why I'm down here for in the first place.

Unfortunately, however, all this work means I have lost some free time. I go the beach rarely now, though the temperature has climbed into the high 90s and 100s several times. And except for the rare concert or something I don't get away from my texts much. But since Memorial Day weekend is coming up, I am hoping for a relaxing three day weekend...and yes, more studying.

Survival, a Wedding, and Reflections

Recently I graduated from API, which is the six-week academic indoctrination before Flight School. The acronym API, in fact, means "Aviation Preflight Indoctrination." It is heavily academic, and instructs students in the basics of aviation: how planes stay in the air, how engines work, how weather affects flying, basic navigation, and the like. Over the first four weeks, in fact, we have six tests, and failure could mean being dropped from the program. However, the final two weeks consist of survival training, and I have spent them parasailing and simulating ejections. I also took a road trip last weekend to Louisiana to help a good friend celebrate his wedding.

I learned early this past week that ejection is rather common in Military aviation, or at least more common than I thought. Apparently 1 in 5 military aviators eject, due no doubt to the relative age of our fighter and attack jets (25-40 years) and the extreme flight regimes we put them through. Because of this, two weeks are spent teaching us the ins-and-outs of parachuting and ejection, covering ejection at high altitude, parachute malfunctions (!), and ejection over land or sea.

First, we completed a parachute simulator event. It consists of a special virtual reality helmet that presents us with the sights of descending in a parachute while we hang in the harness. Via the helmet visuals, we are presented with common parachute malfunctions and are taught how to correct them - for example, if we have twisted paracords, we have to separate our rear risers (the rear straps connected to our harness) with our arms and bicycle kick to straighten everything out. If we do it right, the simulation reflects our success. It can be kind of funny to listen to students handle their particular problem ("Uh, I don't seem to have a parachute at all." "No, actually yours hasn't inflated. How do you correct for that again?"), but it is good training nonetheless.

Later, we got to go "redneck parasailing," which is basically parasailing behind a pickup truck in a field. Ironically, we do it in Alabama. We are attached to our parachute, then towed several hundred feet up into the air, and are released so we can practice landing correctly. Ideally, we land on the balls of our feet, then control our fall in such a way as to spread the force of hte impact on the side of our legs and spine, instead of absorbing it all with our feet and knees. It is basically a funny-looking controlled fall. The parasailing is of course very exilarating, but the landing was daunting - especially since the ground seemed to approach very quickly for all that I was wearing a parachute and all. I ended up hitting my head on the ground, but that was more embarrassing than anything else, and such scrapes were typical. Nobody got really hurt.

This weekend, a good friend of mine from TBS got married to his longstanding girlfriend in Bunkie, Louisiana. I drove the five hours out in my non-ejection seat car on Friday afternoon, and arrived in time for the rehearsal dinner. The wedding was Saturday, and was followed by a great reception. All the stereotypes about the "friendly and hospitable people of the south" are quite true - rarely have I met such friendly, happy, healthy-looking, and beautiful people as the two families I partied with. And I mean "party." They were eager to chat, unashamed to dance, and very disposed to drink. After the reception, we moved to the bar underneath the hotel we were staying at. This was a good idea until a drunkard attacked my friends sister, which nearly started a full-on, broken-bottle, 15-20 person bar brawl. Fortunately, the cops arrived before any punches were thrown, and the night turned out dramatic rather than painful. But even that was memorable and fun. The hometown crowd joked that we out-of-towners were getting exposed to a "real Louisiana wedding."

I remember well at TBS the great attachment I developed to the specific place of Quantico, Virginia and Washington, DC. For some reason, I tend to associate memories with places. One of the great themes in Catholic Philosophy (at least that I have studied) is that the world we live in nurtures us in faith and understanding. At Notre Dame I discovered what this meant by the rich beauty I found in the campus there, a result of both nature, such as sunsets over the dome, crisp golden autumn days, and new-fallen snow, and human investment, such as the striking and beautiful architecture of the campus and the careful land-scaping. In a way, my memories of events and people are localized in specific places, and I am surprised and lucky that I have found all those places beautiful. In fact, it is often the place itself that strikes me most positively during times of struggle, such as the hard schoolwork of Notre Dame or the tough physical training at TBS.

This all came back to me rather forcefully this weekend because almost every single Louisiana resident I met asked me if this was my first time in their state. They also asked (with more interest) whether I liked it there. I answered, truthfully, yes: there was no honest answer after meeting such lively people this weekend. But there are other attractions, too. I can personally confirm many Louisiana stereotypes: on the road to Bunkie, I counted only three other cars (that takes into account both directions of traffic); after about 30 minutes of driving on the road to Bunkie, I could hardly see out of my windshield for the vast number of bugs that were splattered across it; and I played a rather hectic game of slalom with the random possoms and turtles foolishly crossing the road from one side of the swamp to the other. It was all overwhelmingly "redneck." Yet there is a remarkable beauty as well - only in the field at TBS have I seen so many stars, or seen them so clearly, for example. And the people make a big difference to my perception of the place.

It is easy for me especially to fall into the Pathetic Fallacy when thinking and writing about these places. In my memory they are closely associated with emotions, which I end up associating in turn with the place itself. There is a kind of thick heaviness about the south now, that lingers in the humid air and manifiests in the choking, overgrown boughs. It lends a kind of carefree anonymity, as if each day bore no witness to the last, as if each event were cloaked or hidden or reduced by the solitude and density. By contrast, it seemed to emphasize the human events. I know what Evelyn Waugh meant when he spoke of Oxford: "It was this cloistral hush which gave our laugher its resonance, and carried it still, joyously, over the intervening clamor." It is admittedly a far cry from the clearness and freshness of the northwest - but it can be seductive.

I get the strong sense that the trials and opportunities of my military lifestyle - particularly in seeing different areas of the country - is necessary to my continued growth and maturity. My discoveries about places, with their rich complexity of landscape and people, are central to my experience. Spending time on the military base with my nose buried in a textbook temporarily removed me from this kind of activity. But it was going on all the time, I think - I noticed suddenly the rare glory of Pensacola evenings on the beach; it carried all the impact of a conversion. In that sense my brief weekend break between API and Primary was just the vacation I needed.

The Imperfect Paradise

So I am in Pensacola. I've actually been here a couple of months, since I arrived here on December 18th of last year. I was confident, hopeful, and ready to begin Flight School...just as soon as I got back from Christmas leave. I was sad to leave Washington, DC, for I had found good friends there and fallen in love with the city itself. Yet the white beaches, the warm weather, and the prospect of flying made Pensacola seem like a paradise in comparison. And to top it off, I was to be living with my college room-mate. My future promised good things.

I wasn't disappointed. With a few exceptions (like today), the weather has been sunny and warm, and about once every two weeks it gets to beach-going weather for several days (consider it's the middle of winter). I drive around mostly with all my windows down, I grill my dinner on a barbecue most nights, I have a balcony that faces the sunset for evening drinks, if I like.

Yet Pensacola is in an area of Florida called "Southern Alabama." Indeed, it is directly below Alabama. And it feels very much like the deep south. The majority of buildings sprawled outside the small (pretty) urban center are ramshackle and ugly. The roads are in poor condition, and consist mostly of two-lane highways that wander aimlessly. Traffic lights are incomprehensible and long, and freeways are hidden away in inconvenient locations. Besides, they don't seem to head anywhere important. Consequently, it takes about three minutes to travel one mile of distance to your destination. I live about ten miles from downtown Pensacola, which is to say at least 30 minutes away.

I was also surprised to discover that I could not begin Flight School for medical reasons. A condition I was diagnosed with as a child popped up on my initial screening which needed to be waived before I could be medically cleared. I had received a waiver before, when I joined the military in the first place, but flight surgeons have their own rules. So I was put on indefinite hold pending the result of my waiver application. Life in this situation wasn't bad, since I had no work to do. On most days, my only requirement was to call into my Command in the morning and tell them (literally) that I was alive, whereupon I was free until the next morning. Every Monday I had to physically muster at 0800, and once I stood Duty. But the bottom line is that I didn't know whether or not I could stay here in Flight School. And I did very much want to stay.

Since I was unsure of my position, I wanted to wait before I settled in. I tried reading books during the day, distracted myself with video games, developed a daily exercise regime, and even took up ballroom dancing. This last one is perhaps the most entertaining, though I am still a beginner. But yesterday I received my waiver and today I was medically cleared for Flight, so I can bid farewell to idleness and join the working world again. I do not begin classes until next Friday, so I have a little over a week to finish buying my furniture and study materials, get in shape for the PT tests, and finish the books I have started. By all accounts flight school is quite rigorous.

So there is my story! I will try to be somewhat regular, but I doubt training here will be as interesting as TBS. Though springtime is on the way, and as the weather promises to get much hotter I shall be recreating more and more at the beach, located about 10 minutes away. So wish me luck!

Goodbyes, Graduation, and Christmas

I am getting ready to leave TBS, and much has happened in the past week and a half. We are closing out our training here, finishing some boring administrative classes and attending a lot of "mandatory fun." It started last Tuesday when we all packed ourselves into white school buses for the four-hour trip to Gettysburg, PA, to study the battlefield and enjoy the hospitality of Corporal Seamus. CPL Seamus is an institution at TBS: a former marine who got out as a corporal and proceeded both to make millions of dollars and become the mayor of Gettysburg. Of all his accomplishments, he is most proud of being a Marine, and every company that comes to TBS goes to his house one night for "mandatory fun" involving 10 kegs of beer, a wall of marine memorabilia, and either 30 feet of hoagies (what we got) or steaks (a summer thing). The battlefield tour was interesting, but dampened by the thick Fog hovering about 3 feet off the ground; the night at CPL Seamus' around the three bonfires was very enjoyable. If only the whole Program of Instruction were like this.

Well, maybe not. I miss the field, and am sad that I won't be going back (at least, not for a while). It is dirty and hard out there, and often the weather is either too cold, too wet, or too hot for comfort. The equipment you take, designed to protect you or help you kill others, seems also made for your discomfort. And there is no rest: you are always digging a trench, or moving (again!) to a new location, or cleaning your rifle, or planning an attack, or actually attacking. But despite the stress and discomfort, you tend to discover the best in people. It doesn't happen very noticeably, because everyone is bad-tempered due to lack of sleep and other factors--all of which can bring out the worst aspects of personality, too. But a kind of unspoken recognition develops among us, of each person's individual contributions and efforts. I liked these people; I had grown alongside of them, seen their worst, and learned to rely on them in spite of it all.

Our Gettysburg trip spilled over to Wednesday, and we got out early that day. Thursday we had more ennervating classes (including a very informative one about how young marines should leave their affairs in order before they deploy - wills, powers of attorney, setting up a bill pay system, etc.), and then had the afternoon off to prepare for Mess Night. To the uninitiated, Mess Night may seem like a funny tradition. It is a formal military event where we honor our warrior spirit and those who came before us by dining together, making speeches in their honor, and then making fun of each other. It is supposed to be convivial (despite the formal setting) and always accompanied by heavy drinking and the smoking of cigars. On of my platoon-mates entertained everyone by recounting a regrettable statement I made to the company during a safety brief. Usually one is "punished" for their amusing transgressions by paying a fine, but I managed to get out of it by a timely application of wit. No, seriously. I even turned the matter of a fine back on my accusor--which entertained the mess even more, though I think it fair to say that the humor of the situation was heighted due to the beer we had drunk. It was a good time, although it rapidly deteriorated at 0600 the morning after when we woke for PT. There is nothing so miserable than trying to exercise with a hangover. But sanctioned hazing is the Marine Corps way.

The following weekend was exciting and nostalgic at the same time. Friday night I went DC and saw a movie and a bar with an old ND friend. We didn't know each other very well at school (he was the room-mate of a ROTC buddy of mine), but now are becoming close friends. Saturday night I attended a Christmas party at the apartment of a different Notre Dame friend, and spend the night in the District. Sunday, I woke up and visited with my cousin, then spent the afternoon in Georgetown back with my ND friends. We ended up going out to dinner there before I drove back to Quantico. This weekend was meant to be a farewell to this part of the world, but it was tinged with new friendships (and stronger old ones).

And now I am nearly ready to leave. I write this in what has become suddenly a very Spartan (or rather, very much MORE Spartan) environment. My poor little fuel-efficient Honda is packed full and riding slightly low on the back axle, and my desk is bare except for this computer, an as-yet-unsmoked celebratory cigar, and a cup of water. I have one blanket, one pillow, one set of cammies, the clothes I am wearing, and one last piece of luggage (which will house this computer and my toiletries when I finish needing them tomorrow morning). My room-mate is playing angst-ridden hard alternative rock out of his computer at a low volume, and the air smells of dust and order-in pizza. It is finally my last night at TBS.

We graduated today in a very military and mostly forgettable ceremony. Our guest of honor, a two-star general, delivered mildly amusing, somewhat poignant, and advice-filled remarks, we walked across the stage one by one, and we were done. The efficiency of the ceremony is probably indicative of TBS as a whole - when something needs to be done, we are trained simply to do it immediately and as best as we can. I do not want to give the impression that the ceremony was unnecessary - it meant a lot to the family members who were there. But I think all my comrades shared my impatience: we are ready to move on to our real jobs in the Marine Corps, and tend to regard such recognition as irrelevant.

Though I am not very sad to leave this place - because I never enjoyed it very much and because I am looking forward to Pensacola, where I will be rejoining college room-mates and living on the beach - I nevertheless have happy memories of my time here, mostly of struggling beside my peers, accomplishing things I didn't know I could, and simply spending time outside. Though I have much to look forward to, I sense I will miss this place later on. But for now my thoughts are occupied with the 12-hour drive ahead of me. I am ready to leave.

It feels like it's been a long journey. Though only seven months have passed since my graduation, college seems a far in the past. TBS has been busy; I feel like I've learned a lot. In a way, I think I'm fortunate that the dates worked out the way they did: it feels natural to turn towards Christmas at the end of this training. The holidays were out-of-place at TBS; the lone Christmas tree in our HQ building looks pathetic and artificial. Christmas time, when I finally enter it in the Seattle Airport, will be most welcome. Then I can finally (and pleasantly!) think on my gifts to give, my favorite old traditional Christmas carols, and the holiday spirit.

The Home Stretch

So we finished out final FEX the week before last, and lost that weekend to an Urban Patrolling exercise. That is extremely frustrating, because our weekends are very important to us (I will shortly go into more detail about that). The exercise took place on the FBI range (which is on Quantico Marine Base), so it had to be done on the weekend, and it was actually really fun. There were role-players and surprise attacks, and we had several missions to accomplish. It is sobering to realize how fertile the urban environment is for ambushes: every squad on the course suffered casualties. The key to success is communication and initiative. During one scenario nearly one-third of my squad was killed because they didn't move when they were supposed to and got hit by a grenade. I just can't understand how the stereotype of the "dumb infantryman" developed, since all types of fighting comes down to fundamental discipline and intelligence.

We kicked the following week (last week) into high gear with a 15 mile hike. It is far more difficult to cover that distance on your feet than it is in the car, which may sound obvious but is well worth saying anyway. Especially when carrying about 80 pounds. It really is a culminating exercise to the program of instruction here, a test of mental and physical discipline. And for that reason, it was worth it. Nobody in my company fell out of the hike, which is good, especially because its completion is a TBS graduation requirement. It left me rather broken, with sore feet and aching shins and grinding knees, but most of those symptoms have disappeared.

Following the hike I went on Thanksgiving leave. I had a mild adventure finding my way to DC for my flight out Thursday morning, especially as the airport parking lots were full and the taxi dispatchers were booked through 6 PM Thursday night, but it worked out. A good friend allowed me to drive up to his place at 4 AM on Thanksgiving (which took a while because the inner loop of the beltway was closed due to an accident), cooked me breakfast, and got me to the airport in time to catch my 7:30 flight. It certainly gave me one more thing to be thankful for.

Speaking of which, I am certainly thankful that TBS is almost over. Last Thursday, we finished our last written test, proceeded through weapon turn-in and gear turn-in, and took our final Physical Fitness Test (PFT). The completion of these events marks the end of the graded portion of TBS, leaving only final classes, out-processing and celebrations to come (such as our Mess Night, during which Marines traditionally feast, become inebriated, and lampoon each other with stories of foolery drawn from recent memory). But because we are in Delta Company, there will probably be more hardship before I get out. We have distinguished ourselves from other training companies by adopting a much more rigorous schedule (we have squeezed more field time, PT, and general events into our six-month allotment of time than Charlie company did before us, or than Echo and Foxtrot are doing right now). The reason for this is our commanding officer, who is as hardcore an Infantry Marine as any I have ever met. We say that it can always get worse for Delta Company.

Currently, however, the "worse" has taken the form of excruciatingly boring classes and "mandatory fun" in the form of career nights, where Marines from different occupational specialties come to answer our questions about the field we'll be going to when we leave. That's the excuse at least - what really happens is that Marine Officers far superior to us in rank get wildly drunk, reminisce, and then need our assistance into cabs at the end of the night. The week was capped off by hours and hours of weapons-cleaning time, as we readied our issued rifles for the next class. After that, we finally had a weekend...but even then it wasn't all our own.

As I mentioned earlier, weekends are among the most important aspects of life at TBS, since we get a precious free time and a chance to rest our bodies from things like FEXs and 15-mile hikes. Though this weekend started early, we had to spend the first part of it in "mandatory fun" with our platoons. Friday night my platoon had a little social gathering at an adult arcade (and by adult I mean "for adults, not children") called Dave & Busters. It is the kind of place with no windows, a nice-ish restaurant and bar, and loads of bar games like pool and shuffleboard mixed in with some pretty exciting arcade video games. It was a little strange nice to see the entire Platoon in civilian clothes - it added hitherto unknown elements of their personality to my perceptions of them. One guy was dressed kind of fruity, so we teased him pretty hard. But it was nice. I ended up staying a couple of hours after lunch playing shuffleboard and exhausting myself with a very realistic boxing game from which I am still sore (and before you laugh at me for being sore from a video game, let me explain to you carefully that in order to participate, you actually had to shadow-box with giant heavy computer-mitts that registered your character on the screen).

Now I particularly cherish weekends because I can get away from TBS and the TBS mentality. "Mandatory fun" is very much a product of the TBS mentality, so though I usually have no problem hanging out with my comrades, this time I couldn't wait to leave, and as soon as I could continued into DC to meet an old college friend of mine. We met up with two girl friends of his at a bar next to the Catholic University of America and launched without apparent effort into a deeply theological conversation about Catholic morality. I really enjoy talking about that kind of thing; in fact my major in college spent a good deal of time on those kinds of issues. It was the kind of conversation that is totally self-sustaining, comfortable, and interesting. It made for a very pleasant night. The next morning my friend and I toured the National Shrine and went to mass there.

The National Shrine is a beautiful and striking place. It is built and decorated in the Byzantine style, with a great upper church and many smaller chapels (each unique), and a complete lower church in the crypt. It also provides constant confession and mass. Unlike many similar churches/cathedrals/basilicas I have seen in Europe and elsewhere, the inscriptions in the stained-glass windows or carved into the facades are in English. That feature made the biggest impression on me: somehow this church seemed uniquely American, in addition to being Catholic. Since the Catholic religion has been centered in western Europe for so long, and is often associated with European countries (like France, Spain, and Italy), I almost feel that I step momentarily out of the United States when I go to church; the concerns of my day-to-day American life seem distant from my religious concerns. I don't mean that I stop being Catholic in general society or anything, it's simply a matter of perception. Even at Notre Dame, arguably the preeminent and most unabashedly Catholic institution in this country, the religious atmosphere on campus sort of excludes accepted social norms. But something about the composition and character of the Shrine, particularly those English inscriptions, seemed particularly American. The effect is validation: a sense that my religion and my American citizenship are intrinsically reconcilable. I doubt such a consideration would ever normally occur to me, though there is no doubt that the Catholic church calls all of its members to be good citizens and to support their country ("repay to Caesar what belongs to Caesar and to God what belongs to God," Matthew 22:21). Like I said, it's just a matter of perception. Nevertheless, it is easy to divorce religion from everyday life; especially so in the United States where the official division of church and state is so clear. The Shrine itself made Catholicism more immediate to me as an American.

That night I met up with more Notre Dame friends in an Irish pub in Arlington - including the one who so generously helped me home this recent Thanksgiving. The night was infused with nostalgia--the approaching end of TBS meant I had only a few more weekends with them. It was satisfying beyond measure to be there: drinking together, our thoughts and shared memories drifting between us like our cigarette smoke. As I made the drive back to TBS the next morning, I reflected on how nicely things were wrapping up for this part of my life. I am proud of my training and accomplishments at TBS, and I feel lucky to have found such a great town and such good friends as I have in Washington, DC. In many ways, I've done much better than I thought.

Vigil with the Stars

"Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness,
Close-bosom friend of the maturing sun..."

These lines of Keats, from an ode to autumn, came to mind this evening as I strolled home from the survival pool. The light was fading and the seasonal fog was forming (as it alway does now around nightfall, to remain until mid-morning tomorrow). The time of day and my recent exertions in the pool cause in me a pleasant, sleepily inspired mood, which is well expressed by the lines of the poet. The sun is certainly mature these days, pale and low on the sky. The mist comes and goes comfortingly, offering a pleasant sense of isolation from a sleeping world. There is a signature beauty about in these quiet fading days of fall.

I have been afflicted with melancholy these last few weeks. The passing of high summer light and color, the imminent end of TBS, worries about my next step (which is still a mystery); these things are suppressive. I don't think the mood ever caused me to lose sight of the so-called "finer" things in life, but I couldn't seem to break out of my mood enough to appreciate them. Now I am free, and I think I know why. But more about that in a bit.

I am fascinated and drawn this world in limbo between fall and winter. Trees, solitary in their emerging nakedness, still bravely cling to the remainder of their earth-colored leaves. The clear sky looks thin and fragile between the naked branches. The stars at night are stunning and unbelievably clear - I saw my zodiacal sign for the first time ever last week. I am a Scorpio, which is the beast that jealous Apollo sent to kill the great hunter Orion, who had attracted the attention of the god's sister Artemis. And sure enough, a diamond-bright scorpion stalked the deep night sky in trail of tall Orion. The woods are cold and quiet, introducing a profound solitude not present the torrid, lively summer months. Perhaps for this reason, my imagination has been running down the paths of reflection and fancy, especially when in the field.

Training reached a "culminating point" last week in the form of Field EXercise (FEX) 4. It was a disappointment. In order to recreate the situation of Marines currently abroad, we engaged in Stability And Stabilization Operations (SASO) at simulated middle-eastern town. Operating in six shifts, we alternated between defense of our position, patrolling, and duty as the "Quick Reaction Force," which we called the QRF. The role-players at the town engineered many crises, and our command element required many patrols, so I spent two-thirds of my time on my feet, as often as not with the Radio on my back. The only "down time" we got was during our spells on defense - but they only lasted four hours apiece and required wakefulness and attention. The temperature hovered around 30 degrees during the day and got much colder at night. I ended up with maybe nine or so hours of sleep all week, and four or five meals total. Nothing makes you suffer quite like being cold, tired and hungry. But I saw the stars.

They were brilliant that week. I saw them more clearly than ever before. The moon, bright in the thin wintry air, set early each night. We were not allowed artificial lights except in special cases, so the stars, prominently, were the only source of light. In the cold, sleepless watches of the night they kept a remote and crystalline vigil; to a life-long city dweller like me it was breathtaking.

That singular experience always returns to me in the quiet times between our activities. This weekend will be short for us since Sunday is scheduled for Urban Patrolling on the FBI Campus. As my mother protested, they don't even give us a day off. But it is cathartic in a way, because it induces a kind of relaxation that eludes me when idle. So after a full day, and remedial swim training (required because the original training was cancelled due to lightning strikes), I walked out of the pool building much lighter in mood and greeted an autumn world covered and sinking to sleep. So I am back where I started. And it is a symptom of all this work and strain that I can enjoy childlike pleasures like the onset of autumn or a particularly beautiful night.

Birthday ball and Road Trip

As you may or may not know, the 10th of November is the birthday of the Marine Corps. Since 1921, every Marine in the world has celebrated that date. Usually this is done by lavish ball, but for Marines in the field (or Iraq) it means simply a special meal of an ordinary MRE. No matter where a Marine is, this date we commemorate our many years of professionalism, warfighting excellence, and esprit de corps. That isn't merely a tag line; it is the truth. I use those words in seriously. Though the celebration doesn't always take place exactly on the 10th, it always includes a reading of the Commandant Lejeune's original birthday message, a reading of the present Commandant's message, and a cake-cutting ceremony where the honors are done by an officer sword, the the first two pieces cut are given to the oldest and youngest Marine present, with the the oldest passing the first slice to the youngest to symbolize the passing of tradition. Our Ball was held at the Richmond Marriott, and it was a special night. Our guest of honor was Colonel Regan, who (with two Navy Crosses) is one of the most decorated Marines alive today, and great festivities. We finished the celebrating with a trip to the bars in our uniforms. It was exceptionally good to be a Marine.

The week that followed was short and painful. Because we receive 96 hours of liberty for most federal holidays, we were scheduled to end our week Wednesday at noon. However, we had the two largest tests of the curriculum on Tuesday and Wednesday, and many clases to prepare us for our "war" coming up next week. Evidently the "war" is quite a realistic - there will be role-players simulating angry mobs, families, small children, news crews, and (obviously) fanatical insurgents. We us MILES gear, which is a high-quality laser-tag system that will "kill" an opponent if you correctly sight in on him or her with your rifle and pull the trigger, so the combat is realistic. It sounds very exciting, though (as usual) there will be little food and sleep. Oh well. Bring on the suffering. It makes me a better warrior.

But now I sit writing to you from the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, cosily nestling up to beloved academia and reminiscing. I just attended a Shakespeare class with an old high school friend (who attends this university), which re-fired my desire to explore the rightness, wrongness, and purpose of humanity at large. The whole point of college, as I saw it, was to determine one's future, and not in the vocational sense (which is the epidemic cheapening of our higher education system) but rather the moral sense. How do I go about becoming a good and happy person? How can I be good and happy throughout my life? Perhaps the insight of Shakespeare, Aristotle, and Keats might help.

I drove from Quantico to Charlottesville on Wednesday to visit the University of Virginia, purposely avoiding the interstates to travel on the less travelled and more scenic US Highway system. In a breathless swirl of colored leaves, I discovered the Appalachian Mountain and their foothills, a dramatic and steeply rolling hills country covered with forests still unfolding the climax of autumn. The landscape was patched with horse pasture and tended fields, and occasionally I would pass through a small picturesque town.

The University of Virginia has a pretty campus. The purpose of the visit, though, was to vist a college friend doing grad school work there. It was good to touch base with her and hear what it's like to pursue academic studies, instead of suffering through field exercises every other week. We went to dinner, then the next day I continued into North Carolina.

This was my first exposure to the south: the near-indecipherable accents spoken here, the casual omnipresent politeness (there was even a sign welcoming me to Durham which had a large orange addition asking me to "Pardon the Construction"), the coverage of Nascar on FM radio. But the charm was undeniable, especially at UNC. I really noticed how friendly people were when I went out with the other college kids. It just looked like everyone was having so much fun. I mean, people were friendly at Notre Dame, but they didn't seek to include their bar neighbors in whatever conversation they were having. And the weather was great.

It was really good to see these friends, too. Sometimes the best form of relaxation is merely stepping out of current life with some friends, and enjoying new places and old memories. That wasn't exactly the purpose of this weekend especially after the Birthday Ball and my residual Marine glow. And though their results seem mutually exclusive, together they were just what I needed. And now I am ready for our upcoming war.

Lessons of Aggression

So the week before last was a "Classroom Week." We endured many long classes about Urban Combat, called "MOUT" (Military Operations in Urban Terrain), and the skills associated with it. We also had a "Junk on the Bunk" inspection (JOB), which means that you must display all (and I mean all) issued/required gear on your bunk in a clean, serviceable manner to prove that your gear is combat effective. It also is a way of measuring our discipline: our gear must, in addition to being serviceable, also be tidy and presentable. So we all spent several long nights scrubbing our gear outside under the hoses and letting them dry. Overall a rather irritating week.

The following week (last week) we spent at the MOUT facility, a three block square "city" constructed of concrete cinder-blocks. To get there, we hiked 12 miles with a signficantly heavier pack than we usually do, which pretty much destroyed the company. I, like many, ended up with the extra weight that other Marines had to shed to keep up - the ironic reward of hacking the pace. Fortunately, we got some rest that evening: we built a fire, barbecued some burgers and listened to a leadership discussion by a battalion commander who had been to Iraq twice. The next day we learned about, and conducted, several convoys, fighting off ambushes by simulated insurgents several times. Wednesday we practiced room clearing, tactical movement through urban terrain, and urban squad operations. Yesterday we conducted a platoon attack on several buildings, and today we practiced running vehicle checkpoints.

This was all very much more interesting than the previous squad and platoon attacks for several reasons. The first is that we used simunitions, which are essentially paint-balls fired from an M16. They mark you when they strike you, and they sting. They add a realistic element to the combat exercise, because you know when you've been hit and you begin to really think about things like cover and concealment. Furthermore, our aggressors, the CIs (Combat Instructors), are enlisted infantry marines with combat experience who LOVE to shoot at officers. They were a talented and motivated foe.

The most important lesson of the week was the aggression necessary in MOUT. They say that "Inside a building is dangerous, outside is lethal." Since every street or terrace is overlooked by windows and doorways from adjacent buildings, you are most exposed outside. Therefore, you sprint, and I mean sprint, from building to building, slamming into walls and rolling off, diving into windows and doors, and generally being aggressive and motivated and beating yourself up in the process (which is what a bunch of twenty-something males want to do anyway). It is ridiculously fun. Inside is even better: You are liable to be fired upon from corners of the room, from down stairs, from trapdoors above. It is incredibly manpower-intensive because the nature of buildings exponentially magnifies the amount of usable space and obstacles the enemy can use to fight. For that reason, you clear hallways and rooms in teams of two or more, stacking up in a column outside the door in a tight column, then you burst into the room together with guns blazing, hoping your combined firepower overwhelms the enemy. It makes me excited just thinking about it. Often we would suppress the room with a grenade (we used practice grenades which sound like the real thing but don't spread shrapnel) before busting in. And this goes on (exhaustingly) from room to room to room, in every building of the city.

This particular FEX had another benefit: Hot Chow every night. Hot Chow is a magnificent event where they truck out cases of steaming food to serve you an entire dinner, cafeteria-style, which is incredible after days of MREs. We also got sufficient sleep, for the first time on a FEX: we went to bed shortly after it got dark (7:30 PM) and woke up before 6 AM. It all felt very healthy, in fact. The only bad thing about this recent FEX was the cold rain we had all Thursday, and the cold all day Friday. It was pretty comfortable otherwise.

And that is all I have for you. It's a short post for two weeks' worth of events. And I have little in the way of reflection. I am melancholy at heart, as I always am when Autumn gives way to winter. It is still several weeks until the happier times of snow and holidays. But I continue to try to adapt along this journey, and hopefully come ever closer to contentment.

Wetness, coldness, war, and the M240G

When you go into the field here at TBS (and I assume anywhere else in the Marine Corps), you must reconstruct time and reality. It is a monumental task. Over the past week, my company conducted FEX III, the most war-like of our evolutions. I slept only 14 hours; the other 102 I was conducting exercises. Probably like any experience of suffering and privation, a FEX exposes oneself in a way that all the little luxuries of society (like beds and showers) prevent. Since part of the learning experience of a FEX is experiencing the kind of privation that happens in combat situations, there is neither time for relaxation nor time fore eating built in. We must eat when we can and often go without food for long hours. What makes this especially demanding is the fact that everything about the FEX requires focus and discipline, from the long midnight security watches to the act of sneaking up on enemy positions for reconnaisance.

We spent four full days in the field, plus a morning dedicated to leaving. Monday we were helicoptered in and set up a defense, which we maintained until Wednesday morning. On Wednesday, we conducted a Movement to Contact, a platoon daylight attack, and a night ambush. On Thursday, we conducted a night attack. Each evening we manned LP/OPs (Listening Post/Observation Post), stood Radio Watch (listened to the Radio to see if higher called us), and kept a man posted on every Squad Automatic Weapon for security. In the daytime we conducted patrols, Leader's Recon, and held strong points. We engaged in combat with our peers, captured POWs, and suffered casualties.

Although the first day was clear, the rest of the week proceeded under steady, and it steadily got colder. We slept in wet sleeping bags (when we had time), we woke up frigidly at all hours in wet clothes, we lay prone in ice-cold water, we sat in chest-deep fighting positions that slowly filled with mud. I cannot remember being warm, although many times I achieved a sort of comfort simple from moving around. Yet this kind of discomfort the grueling pace of our activities fostered pride and cameraderie during and after the FEX.

The easiest way to explain this week is to say that the level of intensity pushed well past the point where I previously would have called it quits. Despite the cold and wet, I am proud to say that we went about our business in a professional manner. During movement to contact, which is a method of clearing terrain of enemy, we hiked through thick woodland at a fast pace with full load (70-100 lbs) on our backs, diverting units as needed to engage whatever enemy we encountered. It requires discipline to drop packs in precise order under fire, to engage the enemy with aggression, and then quickly retrieve the packs and run to rejoin the formation. It requires discipline to know what exactly your job is each time an engagement occurs. And it requires discipline to continue onward without food, without sleep, while cold and wet. But we did it. During the night attack, my squad and I crept to within 60 meters of enemy entrenchments without being detected, achieved surprise, and suppressed them with fire so our comrades could assault through. During the night ambush, we took down an order in driving rain, crept through dense underbrush in 0% illumination without the aid of lights or NVGs, ambushed a convoy, raided the trucks, and transported our spoils back in the same manner, while once resisting a counterattack by the enemy. Sitting down at my desk to write about it, I almost can't believe all we accomplished, despite having been there myself. The memory thrills me.

We did it. We accomplished the mission. In spite of physical hardship. And that is the greatest feeling in the world. My captain once told our platoon, "mental and physical toughness will take you a long way," and he was right. It is the mental and physical toughness that my platoon showed that enabled us to do our jobs so well despite the poor conditions and the intelligent, highly enemy. We were in the middle of war-like conditions, and we performed. Moreover, the actions of my Platoon enabled me to take part. I won't lie: every single one of us was discouraged and thinking of quitting at one point during the week. But we all covererd for each other and inspired each other (and sometimes had to kick each other in the ass to get moving). We were greater than the sum of our parts, and that sustained us. That made suffering seem incidental, except as an excuse to complain.

A few characteristically reflective moments stand out for me, the first being the helicopter ride in. The helicopter is an amazing machine. When you get in, and the engines wind up, it feels like there is no way the rotor can lift the aircraft. You seem to hear each individual rotor blade hitting the air as the aircraft struggles to lift off. But in the air, it is different - we made some turns so sharply that I could literally look straight down to the earth through the windows on the opposite side of the fuselage from where I was seated. Exhilarating? absolutely.

Another, oddly, was firing the machine gun. I may have mentioned already that I carried the M240G medium machine gun through the night attack, which included about 3 km of hiking to various control points (again, through dense forest), 1600 meters of creeping through woodland in the dark to get in position, and one glorious minute of firing. In fact, though I hated the M240G while hiking it, it fires so beautifully that I forgave it everything during the attack. I felt in that moment like I would never love a girl as much as I loved that weapon. It fires 7.62mm (.30 calibre) high-powered rifle rounds, which makes a lot more more noise than the smaller caliber M16 and SAWs (5.56mm/.2229 cal). It also a more physical weapon, with a powerful recoil. And it has a higher rate of fire and great reliability. I felt like Rambo. It was wonderful: the first burst I fired was supposed to be 6-8 rounds, but it ended up being closer to 20, because it felt so good to be pulling the trigger. I don't think I will ever forget the sight of that machine gun eating its chain of ammunition, or the feel of its buttstock slamming my shoulder, or the brightness of its muzzle flashes. It was (and I don't use this word lightly) almost orgasmic.

Now, it all is a pleasant memory. I am filled with more food than I ever thought possible to eat, and enjoying the inordinate warmth of my barracks room. My warm, dry rack is calling. I am off to what I am sure will be a great night's sleep...which in this moment is all I want in the world.