Reflections on Getting Home (or, the scariest day of my life)

One sunny day not very long ago I found myself scheduled for a BFM flight. In these days of aging aircraft, such flights are rare indeed. Something about the heavy sustained G-forces and dynamic maneuvering strains the airframe, apparently...and when a certain strain threshold is reached, well, the nerdy engineer chaps say we can't fly the airplane safely. Perhaps the wings will fall off. Or an engine will break from it's mounting and depart the aircraft. Catastrophic failures like that would NOT be conducive to continued flight, so with much sighing and private gnashing of teeth we obey said engineers and only fly high-strain flights in order to be proficient for an impending battle. Should the worst happen, and all.

In any case, the world being what it is, the only really fun flights are those that strain the jets, so when it comes time to "maintain proficiency" by flying one, well, there are plenty of volunteers. I was among the lucky ones this time and so was quite excited for the day. There was, it seemed, an extra rich flavor in the squadron coffee, usually so vile. Instead of dragging on, the brief flew by while touching on old, well-learned lessons about how to handle one's aircraft in the thick of the fight with an unyielding adversary. I couldn't help dwelling on the glorious sunshine as I stepped from the squadron, my G-Suit, harness, and survival gear each attentively donned, tightened, and adjusted for comfort.

Takeoff, as usual, pressed me back in my seat with acceleration. As our flight of two climbed out into the achingly blue Southern California sky, we noted appreciatively the utter clarity of that day. No haze, no dust, no smog--just an unimpeded view in each direction. It was breathtaking.

And we were going to fight.

Our adversaries that day were F-5 aircraft from the Marine professional adversary squadron, the "Snipers." A fighter much inferior to the Hornet in performance and avionics, it nevertheless had one significant advantage: the pilot. Sniper pilots have, on average, three thousand or more hours flying. That is usually the result of more than fifteen years in the cockpit. They also practice fighting exclusively, being undistracted by other missions which we Hornet aircrew perform (namely, air-to-ground missions). They fight Hornets a lot. They are very good at fighting, and particularly at fighting Hornets. All in all, our contest could be pretty evenly matched.

Which just made us more eager.

What fleet captain or major wouldn't want to bring back gun footage of a hopelessly defensive senior adversary?

Checking into our working area, each of our two Hornets paired up with a Sniper and separated for individual fights. The setting was perfect. Farm fields and the Salton Sea below, clear blue sky above, the sun glowing in the south, and the air so lucid that our Sniper's camouflage paint job was nearly useless. We would shortly be locked in a close struggle, the proverbial "knife-fight in a phone booth" of two fighters so close in proximity that the slightest mistake could offer the other a chance to kill, and end the engagement.

There is something compelling about BFM. The acronym stands for "Basic Fighter Maneuvers" and covers fights that occur with both opponents within visual range. Normally, of course, if we can deal with our enemies beyond visual range, so much the better. Even more so if we can kill them before they can kill us. But once we're within visual range, all bets are off. It's pure airmanship. Both players try to maneuver their aircraft through 3-dimensional space so as to be too close or in the wrong piece of sky for their enemy to shoot them, while simultaneously attempting to set up their own shot. Doing so requires careful--even delicate!--flying in order to get the most aerodynamic performance out of the jet; it also requires the strength to fight against the centrifugal forces of an airplane arcing through the sky in a maneuver, measured in Gs. At 7.5 Gs, our performance limit, every finger, limb, even our heads weigh 7.5 times their normal weight. It becomes quite the chore to adjust something in the cockpit under that pressure, or look around the canopy to keep eyes on your opponent. Oh, and there is the ever-present threat of the ground to worry about, too. Flying into that will end the engagement as definitively as a missile shot.

What glorious combat! Our mettle as fighter aircrew at stake, we sweat and strain against the G-forces while struggling to monitor our opponent, our own aircraft, and our position in the sky. It is the ultimate challenge, an avian version of a cage-match. And behind the pride and reckless fun is the haunting knowledge that one day, just maybe, our lives will depend on our skill in this arena. Defeat, if it comes, is sobering and frustrating. Victory is sweet.

The propitious mood of the flight continued through our engagements. We fought three sets against our Sniper, getting the best of him each time. Then he called "min fuel" and headed for home. We cheerily confirmed we'd debrief after landing, and, flushed with exertion and success, we climbed up to watch our wingman. Him a newer guy, we had some friendly concern with how he'd handle his wily bandit. We were pleased, my pilot and I, to see that he was doing well. And when his opponent also bowed out for fuel reasons, we decided to have a fourth fight right there while we could--you know, just because we could. And it also went well.

Hard to beat a day flying like that. You really feel you earn your salary, working that hard. Or, well, mostly just wonder who would be crazy enough to actually pay you to have so much fun.

The flight back was easy as pie. In that weather, visibility extended beyond a hundred miles, so we had the field long before coming up approach. Gliding gracefully into the overhead break pattern back home in Miramar, I thought to myself, that was the perfect flight.

And it was.

But one in the aviation business does not say that, even to him or herself, without feeling a suspicious twinge. And suddenly I remembered another seemingly perfect flight, scarce months earlier.

March 23, 2009 found me in Hawaii. It was my sixth day there. Normally, I would be ever so happy for such an exotic spring break on the dime of the Marine Corps, but, well, this time I was headed home from a six-month deployment and I really just wanted to get home. It was my luck, of course, that when we attempted that task five days earlier, an incident with a fellow Hornet caused it (and because we travel in pairs, my jet too) to return to Hawaii for repairs.

Which, being completed quickly, left us waiting on the Air Force.

Now the Hornet is designed for fighting and attacking. Highly maneuverable and passably fast (in the order of Mach 1+ and/or 800 kts), it achieves all this by being mostly wing, engine, and fuel tank. The engines, being quite powerful (36,000 pounds of thrust total) eat up the fuel at an alarming rate, even when the aircraft is just cruising. So in order to make it more than several hundreds of miles, we need the succor of a Tanker. For long trips, we need a BIG tanker.

The raison d'etre, partially, of the Air Force--specifically the Air Mobility Command portion of the Air Force, is to help military units deploy. And so they own the big tankers. The kinds that can unload the required hundred thousand pounds of fuel required to see two Hornets across 2300 miles of ocean. But they like their banker's hours. They do not move quickly, or easily deviate from their schedule. So we waited for them to task a tanker to us, so we could finally return home.

Pleasant and relaxing as it was, Hawaii couldn't quite make us forget that desire. Though the presence of spring break tourists on Waikiki did dull the pain a bit. As did the nightlife.

But so, on the morning of March 23, we were to take off from Hickam, Honolulu with a single KC-135 tanker for the six-hour flight back to the States. Not a moment too soon. The KC-135 is affectionately called "The Iron Maiden" by Hornet pilots because it's refueling basket is a solid metal contraption, suspended from the end of the boom by an eight-foot hose. It's weight makes it easy to hit with the refueling probe, but in order to get fuel, the pilot has to drive his airplane (with the basket on the probe) in towards the boom in order to create a 90-degree or greater "knuckle" in the bearing connecting the hose and basket, for that's what opens the valve and allows the precious fuel in. Holding the airplane in that uncomfortably close position to the boom and the Tanker, while fighting the windstream pushing the basket around and the high-pressure fuel pressing against the probe itself, is no small feat of airmanship. It is the most demanding of the Air Force's big tankers for Hornet aircrew. But it is also the most reliable. Take note of that.

Being as it was a reliable refueling system, and we were experienced aircrew with many TransPac flights under our belt, we were not worried about tanking so much.

The TransPac itself was worrisome. They always are. Flying over large stretches of water with limited fuel reserves is always a little nerve-wracking. So many things can go wrong, like weather. And if something breaks and an airplane can't take fuel, then does it have enough left to get to a runway? If not, of course, the alternative is for the aircrew to eject. Such an ejection may be so far out in the middle of nowhere that no rescue craft (boat or helicopter) could reach the aircrew for many days. Survival rate in that case? not so high.

But any risk can be mitigated with much planning, and so we do. Or more truthfully the Air Force does it for us. They provide us with handy little packets describing our route and scheduled refueling points, chosen so at no point while airborne does any aircraft have insufficient fuel to make at least one divert. Theoretically. We paid close attention to such things on this particular flight, because as it happens the TransPac leg between Hawaii and California is the most dangerous, since there are literally no intermediary diverts--no friendly little islands (or even atolls) on which a runway exists to save a fuel-starved Hornet. One point, poetically named "Point FEARR," is the midpoint of the trip: nearly 1200 miles from land in any direction. In order to fly that far, a typical Hornet would need something like 14,500 pounds of fuel. The most we can carry is 16,500 pounds. That means a very small margin of safety if anything were to happen.

But we weren't worried. We'd done this before. On the "Iron Maiden." And what a nice day it was!

It was a nice day. Clear, sunny, with Honolulu glowing over the bay under the low sun and the shadow of Diamondhead behind her. Aircraft start went without a hitch, the Tanker called us on the radio to signal their own readiness to take off, and suddenly we were rolling down the taxiways toward the departure runway. As we taxied, airport ground control held up a commercial liner to let us pass, a commercial liner, no doubt, with several hundred paying passengers. It just didn't seem fair, I tell you, but it sure did seem right. And with that little surge of pleasure and satisfaction we blasted off into the pellucid Hawaiian air for the long trip to Miramar.

We rendezvoused with the Tanker a hundred miles east of of Hawaii and formed up for the flight. TransPac flying is boring, mostly. Once you get used to the endless span of trackless ocean, the horizon sharp and clear amid the scattered puffy clouds that seem to float just above the water, you only have the other aircrew and whatever entertainment is on hand to keep you busy. Periodically, of course, everyone snuggles up to the Tanker and takes fuel when it's their turn, and that takes some concentration and attention. Otherwise, though, you're just waiting. Feeling that parachute harness dig into your gluteal muscles. Squinting to keep the rising sun out of your eyes. Updating the nearest divert as you pass every navigational waypoint, on the off chance that something requiring a divert will go wrong. And possibly reading, or listening to music, or eating. It's a lot like a road trip.

But our high spirits that day made it all quite bearable. Kith and kin lay ahead, and a warm welcome after six months (and Thanksgiving and Christmas) spent abroad. We were, in a word, cheerful. Time after time we eased in behind the tanker, carefully and smoothly refueled, and re-assumed our position in the flight. The miles grew between us and Hawaii, shrunk between us and California. As soon as the former exceeded the latter, we knew we'd be going home if there were a problem. We were just waiting for it. With visions, I might add, of our triumphant overhead break at the field after six months' absence dancing in our heads. It was going to be good.

Closing in on Point FEARR we moved closer to the Tanker for Aerial Refueling Point 6. This was the first of several scheduled points in close proximity, designed to keep our fuel tanks full in case of divert. Realistically, we would simply cycle on and off the basket with our wingman, refueling as soon as he finished until we were full, and vice versa. We watch as our lead moved up behind the KC-135 basked and began taking gas. As he was doing so, he commented over the radio, "we're going to California, boys!" And we rejoiced, for we had just passed the half-way point and were actually closer to home than to Hawaii.

Our lead, took a full load of gas. Sixteen-thousand-some pounds. He moved off the tanker to the right side, exactly as he had done for the last five refuelings, and we moved in from the left. We stabilized our flight about 15 feet behind the basket, exactly as we were supposed to, and my pilot informed the tanker of this fact by calling "Pre-contact" on the radio. As expected, and in accordance with procedure, we quickly received "Cleared to contact" in reply. Moving forward with the proscribed 2 knots of closure, my pilot with characteristic accuracy put the probe into the center of the basket and pushed it in until it locked. Then smoothly transitioned to pushing the basket forward toward the boom, putting the slack in the hose that would eventually create enough of a "knuckle" for fuel to flow.

It was a skilled approach, well befitting a fighter pilot and professional aviator. It was a nearly identical repeat of all the previous tanker approaches thus far.

But, as we were watching the basket and hose to monitor the formation of the "knuckle" and confirm fuel flow, suddenly before our wondering eyes we saw the hose perform a funny little jink. Instead of rotating smoothly around the basket on it's bearing, it jerked the wrong way, hesitated, then violently spun to the accustomed position.

The whole apparatus appeared to explode in our faces.

Our canopy was suddenly rendered nearly opaque by the tens of gallons of high-pressure jet fuel cascading over it and back along our aircraft. In a sliver of vision I caught a view of the hose flailing wildly at the end of the boom with no basket attached. Ominously, there was a shadow on the right side of the windscreen indicating that the fuel basket was still attached. "Get back" I said forcefully, a mere instant after I heard the engines spool to idle and felt the deceleration of the airplane. In a flash I comprehended: we weren't getting fuel; we were in an emergency; we would have to Bingo all the way home.

Adrenaline is a funny thing. The whole event took probably two seconds or less from the time our probe touched the basket and the time we pulled away from the tanker. But already I had the awful comprehension that the trip was changed, and that it was suddenly dangerous, and amazingly enough I couldn't muster any emotion. No disappointment at all. Just, what happens next?

Away from the Tanker, with our canopy clearing in the windstream, I felt the engines come back up to military power. We were climbing to a higher altitude where the lower concentration of oxygen would lessen drag and cause our existing fuel to burn more efficiently. I had our nearest divert, San Francisco International, as the waypoint already, and we were heading there. As this registered, I heard the welcome voice of my flight lead command the same. My pilot pulled up the nose, the Tanker began to fall behind us, and I heard my flight lead on the Tanker frequency advise our intentions and declare an emergency. He named our destination as Moffett, a military airfield as close to San Francisco as makes no difference. It was a better choice than SFO.

Sometimes it's nice to have a friend handy.

At this point, I confirmed that we were on a max-efficiency climb, and advising my pilot of the navigation setup: "You have steering to Moffett with 1150 miles to go." I then looked at the fuel: thirteen-thousand-some pounds.

That was below our intended Bingo. That was alarming.

I knew that some fuel had been burned as we maneuvered away from the Tanker, and began our military power climb out. I knew also that Air Force Bingos were very conservative, including some 40-minutes of loiter time over the airfield in case of weather, or something. But still, I knew it was going to be close. Especially with a large metal basket hanging off our jet. Who know how much fuel THAT would suck up with it's drag?

My lead interrupted my depressing little reverie. "Engine look OK?" he asked. Suddenly really worried, I quickly pulled up the engine monitor page, remembering how close the probe was to the right intake, and fearing for a horrible instant that some shard of the basket assembly had been ingested into our right engine. Even a small piece of metal would tear the engine apart, at best causing us to shut it down and proceed single-engine, at worst causing more extensive damage. I scanned both columns on the page, looking for tell-tale discrepancies which might indicate an engine problem. I found that the right engine was running a little hotter the left, with higher RPM and Oil Pressure as well. I brought this to my pilot's attention, but he confirmed that our right engine had so operated the entire flight thus far. Relieved, we concluded that no shards of metal or bearings had gone down the right intake, but nevertheless resolved to keep a close eye on that right engine.

What with Murphy's Law and all, who knew what might happen next?

About this time we started having difficulty getting any higher. Apparently we had reached our optimum cruise altitude, 33,000 feet. Now pointed straight at our divert airfield--albeit with more than a thousand miles to go--and stabilized at altitude, we painstakingly set the throttle setting that would yield the most distance covered for our remaining fuel. Our lead told us to fly the best jet we could; he would simply follow us. No problem, buddy! We weren't going to deviate from the precise settings calculated for peak efficiency, not for all the tea in China. And then the tedium began.

Our on-board computers showed us landing with about 1300 pounds of fuel, adjusted. That was scary. The minimum landing fuel in the Hornet for us is two thousand pounds, which provides roughly two missed approaches in visual flying conditions and one missed approach in instrument conditions. We were below even that. If there was weather, we might not make the runway. If we had to go missed approach (for any number of reasons), we might not make the runway. Heck, if we had a headwind, we might not make the runway! Besides, nobody really knows when the hornet runs out of fuel--is it when the meter reads zero? or (more likely), at some higher number? Would we flame out with several hundred visible? and if so, then we had even less than 1300 pounds to work with. I settled in for a very anxious couple of hours.

Now no reasonable man is going to trust his airplane and perhaps his life entirely to a computer, if he can help it. The computer said 1300 pounds of fuel on deck, but I could calculate myself based on our airspeed, distance-to-go, and fuel burn exactly what we'd get to Moffett with. And I did. Constantly. I filled sheets of paper from my kneeboard pad with calculations. At first, my calculations agreed with the computer. With that basket staring at us through the windscreen, those were indeed the bad moments.

Clearing out the cockpit for a possible ejection? Not much fun. Especially if you can anticipate waiting until the last possible minute, when the engines have flamed out and the aircraft is about to fall out of the sky, before pulling that handle, and trusting your life to a little rocket motor, a parachute, and a life jacket (the latter two of which were packed unknown hands, unknown years ago). Scary.

But as fuel burned off, and less throttle was required to keep the aircraft flying, the fuel-on-deck numbers crept up, both computer-generated and manually calculated. Looking suddenly at about 1700 pounds on deck, we decided not to jettison our tanks (now that they were empty), we were going to make it. Maybe. Providentially, with about four hundred miles to the coast, a tailwind picked up and grew to about 40 knots. Suddenly we were looking fat, anticipating 2100 pounds on deck! It was a relief, I tell you, And, we reminded ourselves, it didn't count the fuel saved in the descent.

Drawing toward the coast, we flew into radio contact with Oakland Center. The tanker had relayed our situation to them, so when we checked in as "an emergency flight direct Moffett" we got a cool response and no instructions. Which is exactly what we wanted. We weren't out of the woods yet. Any excessive maneuvers off course would put us into the dangerously low fuel realm again. Also, now that we could radio Moffett for the weather, which was again! Providentially clear and beautiful, we could anticipate landing to the north. The simplest thing, we decided, was to aim south of the field, setting up a nice easy turn north on a six-mile final approach path that would allow us to slow down nicely and waste as little gas as possible. Things were starting to feel a little more manageable.

I can't describe the feeling of seeing the coast that day. To see California, after two hours of wondering whether we'd make it at all, after five hours of endless ocean horizons, after six months gone was like witnessing a miracle.

Shortly after sighting of the coast we saw the field--easily fifty miles away, but clearly visible on that beautiful day--and took a slight cut right to facilitate our easy turn to final. As a result of our gradual descent we were looking now at a veritable surfeit of fuel: 2500 pounds on deck. Our lead, however, reminded us that we still had a heavy metal basket tenuously attached to our aircraft, and we wanted to make sure we didn't do anything to drop it on some unsuspecting Californian on our way to the field. It was the right call. Generally, if something is going to fall off the jet, it will do so when the landing gear and flaps come down, for the new protuberances on the airplane tend to disturb the airflow over all the surfaces. With the recent crash of a stateside Hornet into a house in San Diego, we were especially worried. We didn't want to do anything stupid.

So now that we'd made it, fuel-wise, we began to tackle the ticklish problem of terminal area flight with a refueling basket our aircraft. We lowered the gear just after crossing the coast and right over the unpopulated coastal hills that separate the south part of San Francisco Bay from the Pacific. It was with trepidation that my pilot reached up for the gear handle, and for my part I kept my finger hovering over the button that would mark our position and padlocked it with my eyes (the better to follow it's trajectory), all in case the basket decided to depart. As the gear doors slammed open and the gear began descending, I felt more keenly than before every airframe buffet from the changing wind, eyes glued to our unwelcome guest, willing it to stay on.

Fortunately, it did. The gear came down smoothly with nary a vibration from the basket.

Which made for quite a relief--or did, until we saw more clearly our flight path to the field: nothing but houses. Nothing but houses, picket fences, in pleasant suburban neighborhoods. The exact place, in fact, we didn't want that basket coming off. Granted, it has survived the configuration change. But still, as we had so recently learned, you never knew what was going to happen. It was a source of worry.

At this point, Approach Control began squawking at us on the radio. They wanted us to take a vector south to deconflict from a northbound airplane passing to the east of us. We refused forcefully, citing (again) our emergency status and worrying again about fuel if we had to fly too far off course. Not to mention the gnawing concern of that basket perched precariously on a stubby fuel probe, flying over perfect San Jose neighborhoods. Approach would not stop talking, however, and and as soon as we got the northbound airplane on our radar, we told them shortly we'd maintain separation ourselves and switched tower. My lead turned toward the field first, and once we had sufficient separation from his aircraft, we followed suit. My pilot then began slowing the airplane for a normal touchdown.

Horrified, we noticed the basket vibrating. Vibrating significantly. Acutely conscious of the hundreds of American Dreams lying peacefully beneath us, we quickly accelerated back to the speed where the basket didn't vibrate. Not now! I thought. Not this close!

As our airspeed climbed above 200 knots, however, the basket visibly settled back. OK, then, we'll fly it in at 200 knots.

Now our problem is landing too fast.

At that speed, the nose tire would probably burst on touchdown, causing us perhaps to lose control on the runway. But we had a little space past the neighborhoods (inside the airfield boundary) in which to slow down, and a nice long runway to coast into. It would just take a little touch.

My pilot skillfully brought the throttles back once clear ground was beneath us, and with barely a quarter mile to touch down aerodynamically braked the plane for a gentle, 150-knot touchdown. Perfect. The basket vibrated again, true, but it stayed on...all the way through the rollout.

As our airspeed meter counted down to 48 (its lowest displayed number), I relaxed suddenly in a slump. It was over. We had made it. Nothing dropped, nobody hurt, back to the good old contiguous U S of A. Pulling off the runway, I called for taxi, responding halfheartedly to the gibe over the radio as we taxied past the tower: "hey, is that thing supposed to be on there?" I just wanted to get out of that jet.

As I tried to negotiate the ladder down, I noticed my legs were shaking. On the ground, as I stared in disbelief at the large, heavy metal basket we brought from 1150 miles out to sea, I noticed my hands shaking too. I was drained, but not tired--just eerily aware of all that had happened. Mustering up as much bravado as I could, I snapped some pictures and traded some jokes with my pilot and the lead aircrew. We weren't home yet, but suddenly it didn't matter.

The Epilogue is a story in and of itself. After landing, we contacted Oakland Center to have them divert the last cargo plane with our Trail Maintenance element to Moffett, so they could take the basket off our aircraft. They complied, and we enjoyed a nervous, tired dinner in the lush, lazy environs of Santa Clara while we waited for them to arrive. We greeted them awkwardly when they landed, knowing that they wanted to be home too and feeling guilty despite ourselves that they had to come all this way to fix us. We needn't have worried, however. They had heard about the emergency and become very concerned, very concerned indeed--many maintainers hugged us when they saw us on the tarmac. And with characteristic Marine efficiency, they took off the basket and readied us for flight the next morning in little enough time that they continued back to San Diego later in the evening. So the story ended happily for all.

As for us, we slept well in Navy housing, woke early, and made our belated return to Miramar at about 10:00. The wonder of California hadn't left me since that first miraculous view from the Pacific less than a day prior, and I spent as much of the flight as my tasks would let me stuck to the window, looking from coast to mountain to desert. Finally our beloved field was in sight, and as we broke over it I saw the rest of the squadron out to welcome us home. Not a perfect return, by any means, but a good one for sure.

Getting home is all that matters sometimes.

So on that recent beautiful June day, returning victorious from battle against a worthy adversary, I remembered that a perfect flight is, perhaps, overrated. In extremis, whether mechanical or combat-related, getting home is really all that matters. Getting you home and your jet home. Preferably both working. And in that exact order.

Independence Day 2009

Independence Day this year came with a whimper. I was three months home from deployment, which doesn't seem enough to be settled but which pushes me well beyond the point where I can reasonably claim that I "just" came back. I was demoralized a little bit by California: the angry drivers, the apathetic people, the rudeness to waiters and store clerks. The recent election riots of Iran, the brutal quelling of them by the government, the still-depressed economy, and the end of "hope and change" excitement left over from our own recent election all left me strangely weary to celebrate our national birthday.

As the fourth this year fell on a Saturday, our liberty schedule released us at 1200 on Thursday for a 1200 Monday return. Memories of the less enjoyable parts of WestPac crowded back as I labored to clean up my piece of the squadron and was drawn, despite myself, into the internal imperative to make things better. The curse of all Marines, this drive keeps our noses to the proverbial grindstone in silly little projects well after our reason tells us we are justified in going home. Many hours and one uber-map of the SoCal operating area later, I headed dejectedly out of the squadron for an early bedtime. The next morning I wearily slept in before running some errands and heading up the coast to Dana Point for some sailing with a friend and his brother.

During the drive up, Grace stole upon me like a summer storm. Glimpses of the endless ocean, disappearing into a horizon so sharp clear it might have been drawn by a draftsman, washed slowly into my soul. I drove past the dry rugged hills of Camp Pendleton with delicious recklessness, my speedometer hovering around ninety. Pulling into Dana Point I noticed appreciatively the green grass, cypress and palm trees, and the careful architecture that made it seem like a casual resort town. Orange County, I thought, really is all it's cracked up to be.

The marina was crowded with easy-going boat owners, camped out on their slips for barbecues and beer. The weather was perfect. My friend met me, took me to his brother's boat, and we headed off. The trip ended up being leisurely and informative, with everyone taking a hand at the sails and tiller for instruction in the surprisingly delicate art of sailing. We went nowhere in particular, simply tacking toward and away from shore for several hours. At one point a school of dolphins joined us in a companionable way, sporting about our prow and broaching alongside. There is something so free and easy and joyful about the streamlined way they swim: they seem so perfectly suited for and attuned to their environment. They also deserted a lumbering dolphin-watch tour boat for the visit, which didn't seem fair to those paying customers but seemed right enough to us.

Once back in the marina, my friend and I grabbed some gourmet pizza from a marina shop and headed back down for an early dinner on the boat. Talk about a careless afternoon! Rocking gently on the water in the fine afternoon sun, eating some good, satisfying food, drinking from an abundance of beer, and listening to some Johnny Cash Gospel music on the sound system were all it took to leach the rest of my pre-holiday depression from my body. The fact that it was only Friday and therefore two and a half more days of weekend lay before us no doubt contributed to the mood.

The rest of the night included a crawfish boil, a delightfully barbaric way of eating that involves twisting apart the cooked but very alive-looking bodies of the animal, crushing the head between thumb and forefinger and drinking the softer organs like a shot, and peeling back the tail's exoskeleton in order to pinch out the shrimp-like meat. Spicy and messy in character, it reminded me of fishing off Wake (where, to my initial surprise, we happily killed the fish by clubbing them with a blood-stained aluminum baseball bat and liberally spattered ourselves with gore in the process). Some witty comments to the effect of how lucky crawfish were with all the head-sucking and tail-pinching that was going on. Of course, we washed the whole tasty and interactive meal down with beer and continued on to the pool and the poker. My friend's family is from Louisiana, and the reckless hospitality present that evening was just a little bit of Southern Charm transplanted and thriving on the West Coast. I ended up cheerfully crashed on my friend's mother's couch and needing a ride to my car in the morning. Dignified? sadly not. Somehow, though, I knew it was all OK.

The next morning, despite my hangover and the wicked farmer's tan I'd acquired sailing, I sped back under crystalline skies and over the sun-lit coast to San Diego, where I had an important date: the St. Brigid's Young Adult Picnic. Enterprising youth of more temperate habits than mine had promised to stake out a prime beach location and set up a volleyball court. I made it back by ten in the morning, did some recovery and ate some food, and drove down to the beach at noon fully expecting some painful traffic and strangely unconcerned. But to my growing surprise the streets were comparatively empty. It was surreal--I wondered if I had mistaken the day. Was it really the 3rd? the 5th? normally Pacific Beach is bumper to bumper in the streets and elbow to elbow everywhere else. But after I parked and began the several-block watch to the beach, I noticed that people were concentrated houses, partying in their yards. It dawned on me that the City of San Diego had banned alcohol on city beaches recently, and unwilling to give that up most people just forewent the beach altogether. More room for me! I thought elatedly and continued my merry way. And indeed I was not all that upset. I prefer a somewhat active approach to beach recreation: volleyball, throwing around a frisbee or football, swimming. NOT swilling alcohol. I prefer to save that part of it for the evening. And indeed, I did all of the above at the beach that day, enjoying the perfect sunshine, refreshing water, and excellent company.

Visiting with two old friends from Notre Dame later that afternoon, we all re-discovered a love of literature, and so spent what was for me a glorious hour comparing stories, ideas, and memories through the books we'd each read. The literary nature of our conversation reminded me of one of my favorite quotes, courtesy of C.S. Lewis:

"...[W]e must say that the sun looks down on nothing half so good as a household laughing together over a meal, or two friends talking over a pint of beer, or a man alone reading a book which interests him; and that all economies, politics, laws, armies, and institutions, save insofar as they prolong and multiply such scenes, are a mere plowing of the sand and sowing of the ocean, a meaningless vanity and vexation of spirit."

Indeed, that's what my weekend turned out to demonstrate. The sun did look down on friends talking (and laughing) over beers in a boat, friends talking about books read quietly and with great pleasure, families and groups enjoying the gifts of summer over a long weekend--these are the things that America has given us. Our greatest achievement as a nation, perhaps, is the intrinsic respect declared in our founding document that our "inalienable" rights include life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Nearly all Americans have a part in this and have labored to build such a land in homes, factories, offices, schools, and in uniform. Thus as the light faded gracefully that night over the clarion Pacific horizon, and the fireworks began, I felt around me the trappings of paradise. I knew there would be a work day soon, and that it would certainly come with enough stress and difficulty to pull me down from my Elysian mood, but I knew that all toil and worry were worth it: in this world, such contentment as I found is only truly this accessible in this land of the free and home of the brave.

Betrayal in Language

For the last several years, much has been made of "the insurgency." In the immediate aftermath of "combat operations" in Iraq, many were dismayed to see an insurgency develop, made up mostly (we were left to believe) of disaffected Iraqis unhappy with the erstwhile US Military occupation. Much ink was spilled comparing the insurgency to the American Revolution, where the US Military figured as a typically oppressive analogue to the Redcoats of legend. Incidents like Abu Ghraib contributed to the perspective of Revolution and freedom fighting versus tyrannical occupation. "The Surge," President George W. Bush's ambitious plan to stamp out the insurgency, was met with amazement and ridicule. How, the standard questioning went, could the solution to Iraq's collective wish for our occupation to end be to inject more US troops? Yet the evidence shows that the Surge worked, most notably the fact that only a few days ago US forces pulled out of Iraq's urban areas completely and left the security of that newly peaceful and marginally prosperous nation to indigenous units.

An insurgency is not a new problem, as I feel we have been led to believe. It is not some phenomenon that is attributable to US meddling in the affairs of other countries. The growing insurgency in Afghanistan is, likewise, not a new problem. The insurgents are a contemporary incarnation of a shameful historical institution. Such men (and women) have been called partisans, guerillas, and terrorists long before they were called insurgents. They are, as far as I know, a fixture of modern wars, the first of which is arguably the American Civil War. In that long and bitter struggle, small irregular bands of "bushwhackers" from one side or the other conducted a brutal campaign of rapine against the farms and homesteads of their enemies, which included burning dwellings and salting fields, lynching, horse thievery, and torture. Their aim was fairly straightforward: to break the Confederate (or Union) will to continue the struggle. Most of that activity was concentrated away from the large and famous military battles, in the western part of the then-United States, and is mainly responsible for the cultural tensions that still exist between states like Missouri and Kansas. Sherman's well-documented and ruinous march across the South to sack Atlanta was a classic Bushwhacker tactic, though it was of dubious effectiveness.

Americans (and Europeans) chiefly remember World War I for the pitched military warfare that dominated German, French, and English involvement. But insurgency existed in that war as well. In the fighting centered around Asia Minor bands of Christian Greek insurgents and bands of Islamic Turkish insurgents carried out parallel irregular warfare against settlements comprised of opposite nationalities. That kind of irregular warfare is the chief reality for those two involved nations. In World War II, similar insurgencies raged in occupied Europe as a "Resistance," while Nazi Germany conducted it's own appalling irregular fight with the Einsatzgruppen, who ravaged the Soviet countryside for Jews and other undesirables in order to murder them wholesale. On their side, Soviet "partisans" resisted the Nazi occupation of Czechoslovakia and the Balkans by torturing and murdering accused fascists and their families, with the aim of having those nations join the Soviet Bloc in the war's aftermath. Communist guerillas used the same tactics in Viet Nam, Central, and South America in the late 1960s. They continue to do so in Colombia and Bolivia today.

That insurgencies are often motivated by ideology (nationalism, communism, Islamic fundamentalism) makes them Romantic. Che Guevara, a Communist guerilla leader, is has often been romanticized. But insurgencies are uniformly brutal and destabilizing. Whatever they're called, insurgents promote their particular ideology by forcing a populace to submit through terror and humiliation. The will or desire of said populace for that ideology is not relevant. The insurgents in Iraq were motivated by a desire for a Sharia Law, Islamic theocracy, and the humiliation of America. To accomplish that end, they committed suicide with bombs designed to kill civilians, they ousted people from their homes to make strongholds, and they punished "collaborators" who assisted or worked with American troops. They often conflicted violently with US forces, and as often lost (like the Viet Namese before them). The Taliban insurgency springing up in Afghanistan will probably experience the same.

Yet despite their cowardly tactics, insurgents can be deadly to soldiers. That the enemy blends so well with a foreign society which is difficult to understand in the first place means an unbelievable strain as the soldiers must be constantly watchful. In urban environments, where insurgent conflict often takes place (and which may just as easily occur in a two-street village as a metropolis), the fighting is physical demanding and often very personal, with firefights occurring within the confines of a room. With a world-wide and well-stocked arms market, insurgents often have access to sophisticated and effective weapons, to include machine guns, mortars, propelled grenades, and nearly unlimited small arms. In a word, conflict with insurgents is just as much combat as more traditional combat between professional armies.

Which is why the drivel about a "counterinsurgency contingency operation" instead of something called a "war" makes me so angry. Whether a conflict is called a war, an operation, or whatever else is a political decision. It doesn't make much difference to the individual soldier or Marine except as regards the support he or she gets from America, measured in logistics and affirmation of the mission. To rename operations in Iraq and Afghanistan something that sounds less warlike is to demean the forces in theater from their status as the best we have to offer and our ambassadors of freedom (roles that US forces cherish and desire) to mere mercenaries, forgotten paid civil servants doing a dirty and difficult job. Defeating insurgents is a noble task, for insurgents are responsible for most of the non-military suffering from the many wars that have blighted our world. Why are we collectively so happy to deny our troops, born of our citizens and our society, even this justified satisfaction; why are we so eager to forget what is probably our only greatest contribution to the world so far this century?

Politics is often a war of words. Language shapes our thought because it is the architecture of our thought. Poetry and literature have long been considered among the greatest of artistic pursuits. Generally, we value language when it describes reality. But the sword cuts both ways: words can distort reality too. The reality is that our conflict in Iraq and Afghanistan is tough and dangerous armed fighting, against an evil and oppressive enemy who would force a specific and evil ideology (Islamic fundamentalist theocracy) upon the citizens of those countries. That does not appear to fit the ideology of our current zeitgeist. The language being applied to our troops and their effort steals the righteousness and nobility in arms they crave and for which they struggle their entire career under arms. They deserve far better of us. And if we aren't careful, our collective diminishment of them whom we admire will diminish our own selves.

1962 Latin versus 1965 Vernacular

For the entirety of my life, Catholic Mass has been said in the vernacular. I've heard it in English, Spanish, Italian, and Croatian. My first exposure into the great mysteries and ideas of the Catholic Faith occurred during those times I heard a priest intone the solemn, lucid, and impassioned rubric of the liturgy in a language I could easily understand. I have no doubt that it's the same all over the world. Yet recently the Holy See published a Motu Propio which allowed and encouraged the celebration of Mass according to ancient and traditional Latin Rite. I noted this decision and reflected on it a bit in an earlier post.

I don't very well understand the transition between the Tridentine Mass and the Novus Ordo which established new rubrics and directed the use of vernacular language. Accounts of it differ; I gather that various dioceses instituted the changes in different ways. As far as the timeline, I'm fairly sure that latest revision to the Tridentine Rite was published by Pope John XXIII in 1962, and the Novus Ordo of Pope Paul VI appeared in 1969. Therefore, beginning with the 1970s Catholics learned, adjusted, and grew into Mass celebrated generally in their native language. However, I understand (from the documents of the Second Vatican Council) that churches were expected to continue using Latin in the new liturgy for the Ordinary, or the portions of the Mass that are said exactly the same way every time the Mass is celebrated. In that manner, the fathers of Vatican II meant to marry the tradition of the church with it's opening into modernity.

Nonetheless, it seems that shortly after the appearance of the Novus Ordo Latin had all but disappeared from post-conciliar Catholicism. The occasional Agnus Dei is still sung or spoken in Latin in more traditional parishes, but I encounter this rarely. When I questioned this as a young Church History student in high school, I received some strongly-worded responses, which discouraged further questioning. That, combined with the near-total dearth of Latin in America's liturgical landscape (and the pressing concerns of adolescence), drove any thoughts or questions on the ancient language out of my mind. I unconsciously adopted the view that using Latin in Mass was the mark of a conservative parish, one which secretly yearned for the pre-conciliar worship. Such parishes, apparently, were part of a large but disorganized secret society that looked with hostility upon the Novus Ordo and the new Catholic Church. I say apparently because I don't ever remember hearing such words or prejudices outright, but somehow I came to believe them. It was, I guess, the character of the Church as a whole--or certainly the character of the Churches I attended. When in literature and in the occasional memory of either parent I heard about the old rite, I was struck by an attitude of "it's so much better now." I learned, aghast, that the old Catholics were crazy: no meat on any Friday instead of just during Lent; fasting for 12 hours before Mass, confession required prior to Mass in order to accept the Eucharist, and so on. Yet behind my sanctimonious and self-righteous rejection of that kind of strict faith, there burned a light of Romanticism--a desire for a faith that held its adherents to such high spiritual and intellectual standards. Shortly after college, in fact, while becoming acquainted with the strict rules of the Marine Corps, I began to explore the old Ordinary in Latin.

It was a half-forgotten hobby of mine, memorizing ecclesiastic Latin. I loved the difficult words and the powerful, defined romance syllables. The language of Caesars, medieval Kings, Crusaders, and Missionaries seemed to breathe majesty in a way even the most moving opening prayers and prefaces of my Sunday worship couldn't replicate. It seemed appropriate, somehow, to speak and pray to a God beyond us all and beyond the "vale of tears" in a language nobler than our own. In Mass, whenever the Agnus Dei dropped the thrice-repeated phrase "Lamb of God" for substitutes like "Bread of Life," I would quietly whisper "Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi" three times myself. So it was a subject of great interest to me when Pope Benedict XVI issued his Motu Propio Summorum Pontificum authorizing the celebration of old rite in full. And through I am maybe not quite prepared to enter into that formidable liturgy completely yet, I am eager to join in the submerged and fierce debate going on as to the worthiness of Pope John XXIII's 1962 liturgy.

For starters, I'll state that I understand the immediate appeal of Mass in a common language. The ceremony, which refers to and enacts the greatest mystery and event of the Catholic faith, the crucifixion, ought to be fully understood by all participants--especially the prayers that make up the Ordinary explicitly define the tenets of Catholic faith (the Kyrie, the Credo, and the Sanctus in particular). When the entire congregation can recite these parts and listen to the Canon in their native tongue, notably with their own faculty for understanding each word and interpreting it's context, they can theoretically participate more fully and comprehend their essential faith better. Additionally, the 1970 Missal (Novus Ordo) directs that the priest faces his congregation instead to facing the Altar (with his back to everyone else). This allows the priest to communicate directly to the congregation the mysteries he celebrates during the Mass. I think the intent of the changes was to make the Mass more personal and participatory, to more readily communicate via the structure of the liturgy a sense of community, of being a part of the body of Christ.

But it must be admitted that there have been some less-than-satisfactory effects of the Novus Ordo. The author Thomas Day memorably and amusingly catalogues some of them in his books Why Catholics Can't Sing: The Culture of Catholicism and the Triumph of Bad Taste and Where have you gone Michelangelo? The Loss of soul in Catholic culture. The hyperbolic titles betray his considerable passion for this topic, but his observations are generally correct. First, the awe and majesty that accompanied a dead and imperial language, and which was entirely appropriate to the celebration of Mass, was literally lost in translation to a clear, almost colloquial vernacular. Also, notably, I think congregations can tune out their own language in Mass just as easily as they might tune out a radio advertisement. Second, in facing the congregation, there is the temptation for the Priest to slip into the role of "entertainer," feeling pressure (real or not) from his congregation to "perform" the Mass up to their satisfaction. Unfortunately, this additional complication to the ceremony tends to distract from the central mystery being celebrated under the priest's hands, allowing the congregation to focus less on the sacrament and more on the presentation of the sacrament, which (of course) partially defeats the purpose of recasting the sacrament in a common tongue.

Mr. Day argues that the old 1962 rite bypassed these issues. The priest, gorgeously robed in archaic clothing (the cassock, stole, and mantle), nearly disappeared into the ceremony. For the period of time he celebrated the Mass, he wasn't a particular priest, he was The Celebrant (capitals intended). Moreover, he didn't sit center-stage. That was where the altar was. He sat inconspicuously off to one side. When in front of the altar, he faced it, reinforcing by the choreography of the liturgy not only that attention was to be focused on the tabernacle within and not on him, but that he was the "leader of the faithful," leading them in a worship directed at something external (Christ). The only time and place where the priest faced the congregation was during the homily, given from the Ambo, which is traditionally removed the farthest distance from the altar that the sanctuary allows so as to maintain the sacred space about the altar and tabernacle.

Celebrating in Latin, though it might have been the vernacular in "Early Church" days, also acquired a ritualistic significance. As early as the Dark Ages Latin was spoke nowhere the church existed except perhaps the wealthier parts of Rome itself. Yet in holding on to the dead, imperial language the Church impartially aligned itself with none of it's constituent ethnic members. Whether Catholics in a particular place knew Sicilian, Italian, Greek, French, Spanish, or Gaelic, they all worshipped in the same language, and that told a world torn apart with war and vandalism more than anything else that the Church of Christ was open to all peoples. During Mission work later on in her history, the Church could plausibly claim that Native American (Central, South, and North) worship was worth the same as European worship for that same reason. But if the choreography of the Tridentine Rite and the "universal" language of Latin graphically demonstrated the Church's universality and true faith, they also were also called a barrier to understanding the liturgy itself.

I don't entirely agree. A barrier to understanding the liturgy? Not if they are willing to do a little research. I recently purchased a 1962 Missal with a section in it that, with Latin on one page and English on the other, walks the Mass attendee through the all the liturgical steps of the Mass, to the extent of detailing the small though symbolic gestures the priest makes with each liturgical phase of the celebration. Not only is it easy to follow, but the raw beauty and spiritual power of the Tridentine Mass (translated into archaic, majestic English) takes my breath away. Yet such a celebration has admittedly limited appeal. Children, for example, will probably not be eager to follow the small text of a missal through Church each Sunday. Nor will people who don't enjoy reading. And the Catholic Church correctly desires to reach these types of people as well. My joy of the Tridentine Rite is NOT worth more to God than the faith of a child (in fact, it's worth much less, as Jesus says in Matthew 18) or the piety of an non-literary man or woman. A friend of mine once told me "in order to lead someone somewhere, you must first go to where they are now." And so I think the Church was right to craft a liturgy that was more accessible (the vernacular) and more personal (priest facing the congregation). Therein Catholics with little time or inclination to pursue the detailed scriptural underpinnings of liturgy--or put another way, Catholics whose faith does not demand the explanation and demonstration of Tridentine Mass--could find spiritual sustenance and growth. After all--and as I said before--hearing each Sunday liturgy in my own language was my first introduction to the magnificent spiritual depths of Catholicism, an introduction which I might never have experienced if I had been hearing uncomprehendingly the hushed latin of the 1962 Rite.

Which brings me back to the debate. Some argue that the Tridentine Mass more appropriate and reverent, and correctly identify it's influence on great Saints and how it sustained the central worship of Catholicism through schism, scandal, and attack for five hundred years. Others argue that it reduces the faith to a dead worship of unhealthy focus on personal faith, suffocating the "body of Christ" under an impersonal and obscure ceremony. What has the vernacular brought us but irreverence? What has the Latin to offer but a Mass beyond our comprehension. I think there is a very simple answer. Tridentine Mass has a place in contemporary worship. It is truly solemn and beautiful, and encourages a deeply personal relationship with Christ in the Eucharist. It is not surprising to me that such Masses newly offered in my own diocese are well-attended. The Novus Ordo, however, has the chief place in our worship. Correctly celebrated, it opens the words of scripture and the truths taught by the Magisterium to Catholics in a heartfelt, understandable, and exhortational way. And there is no reason why each can't inform the other. Certainly the parts of the Mass that are most familiar, like the Ordinary and the Elevation, could be easily spoken or sung in Latin. Such a practice would reinforce their extraordinary nature and the Church's universality without affecting the congregation's understanding of those parts of the liturgy. And opening the Tridentine Mass to more participation, such as allowing the congregation to recite parts of the Ordinary or the Lord's Prayer with the priest (in Latin, of course) would encourage more Catholics to enter that deeply spiritual rite.

Bringing back Tridentine Mass as an option cannot but help increase the spirituality of Catholics, which cannot but result in their opening up to God and becoming better disciples and witnesses here on earth. In fact, now that it exists I encourage all Catholics to attend a Tridentine Mass just once to see what it's like. It does not diminish the Novus Ordo but enhances it, for the old rite is the foundation of the new and and understanding the former may increase appreciation of the latter. Latin Mass isn't a shameful secret of our past, an example of overbearing religiosity and hypocritical piety; it is the fruit of Catholicism's long and grace-filled struggle against the temptation of worldly power, the attacks of enlightenment atheism and reductionism, and the deadly indifference of modernity. It will bear fruit for us, too, if we allow it: in our prayer life, in our public worship, and most importantly in our collective public ministry.

Notre Dame Commencement 2009

The news today has focused on Notre Dame's commencement, at which President Obama spoke. A contentious decision by the University Administration, the announcement over a month ago sparked angry reactions from many American Catholics, protests on campus, and a storm of analysis (mostly speculation, as is the way with such things) regarding what the Catholic Church really believes on abortion and what Notre Dame's own position should be. The University "stuck to it's guns" and went ahead with the invitation, and cited many good reasons for bringing the president, however pro-choice he might be, to campus--many of which I agree with. I think there's no question that the president brings with him the dignity of the office. I think it is important for a Catholic University to engage in dialogue with public figures regarding issues of mutual concern. I think it is Notre Dame's role to "lead the way" by remaining visible and vehement in considering Catholic values publicly. I think, however, this particular situation involving our current president is different.

First of all, when you invite someone to speak at commencement, you are giving them a "bully pulpit." That is not dialogue, and does little to invite discussion--a forum is a much more seemly academic setting for a dialogue. Second of all, commencement speakers are usually chosen because they embody or represent values that the institution wishes to instill (or have instilled) in the graduates. Choosing a consistently pro-choice, pro-stem-cell-research politician implies somehow that those positions ("values") are reconcilable with Church teaching, or more specifically that you can hold that perspective and be perfectly in accord with the school and--by extension--the Church. Third of all, awarding a Juris Doctor (even honorary) indicates the awarding institution has somehow decided that the recipient is capable and prepared ethically to interpret law, which considering the Church's strong position on the illegality and horror of the current "holocaust" of abortions is clearly not the case with Obama.

Some have argued that abortion (or stem-cell research) should not be "the issue." I disagree. With the recent work on the Theology of the Body and the developing "spousal" imagery inherent in our understanding of Church-Laity relationships and self-Christ relationships, I think it is becoming more clear that the idea of the sanctity of life stands nearly equal with the gift of free will and the mysterious nature of Christ and the Trinity as a foundation of our Faith. In fact, respect for the sanctity of life has its roots in Christ's famous commandments "Love your neighbor as yourself" and "Love your neighbor as I have loved you," and is the subsequent foundation of all Catholic moral teaching--and the fountainhead of Catholic social teaching (on which President Obama and the Church indeed have much in common) As such, it is more important than social teaching or personal morals. This is why the Church teaches that abortion is the worst of sins and incurs automatic (latae sententiae) excommunication, a state which remains until the abortion is confessed and reparation is made to God in the form of penance.  So I think it is "the" issue. There is no person so helpless and so in need of charity as an infant; how much more so for the unborn infant.

This whole focus on the unborn infant is distasteful to some in our society, who argue that concern for the mother should also enter into an abortion decision. I sympathize with this perspective. A mother may be in physical danger from childbirth, bearing the fruit of rape, or unable to support a child, or simply unwilling to continue the pregnancy. On the far extreme of this side are those who regard abortion as a "health care choice" of a woman, a decision protected by her essential freedom (as if the fetus is merely an extension of her body which she could decide to have removed). I think there is a legitimate concern that anti-abortion legislation would take some control from women over their own bodies: they would be forced to deal with the consequences of sexual activity and possibly guard a life they didn't intend to create. Indeed, women unable or unwilling to handle the responsibility of rearing a child deserve our charity and support (and certainly not the kind of cruel social stigma that often attaches to pregnancies outside of a marriage). But my sympathy for women in this regard is limited, for in this country the selective service also takes control from young men over their bodies, and at any moment may expose them to the violent and painful death promised by war, or torture at the hands of our nation's enemies, or disfigurement. Furthermore, I think in both cases I think society has the right to protect all its citizens, either at the expense of women by disallowing their murder in the womb, or at the expense of men by using their bodies to provide for national defense.

Whatever your view on abortion or stem-cell research, however (and President Obama readily admitted there were two legitimate and probably irreconcilable sides to the issue), as a Catholic you must acknowledge that the Church brooks no compromise on this issue. According to the Magisterium, abortion is never allowed: not if the mother's life is in danger, not if the child is the progeny of a sex crime, not if the child is going to be mentally disabled, not ever. There are no ifs, ands, or buts. Catholics must abide by this teaching and understand it if they are to be "In Communion" with the Church. And such teaching does not allow for useful dialogue, since there is no compromise a Catholic apologist can make, nothing they can "give" to a pro-choice advocate in discussion. So while it is well that this issue remains in the public arena (both for Catholics and others), and it certainly does when a pro-choice politician speaks at the commencement of a Catholic University, it undermines the official position of the Church on it's sanctity of life teaching to honor that politician with a degree and a "bully pulpit." It implies that holding views on the sanctity of life heterodox to Church teaching is allowed. That is poor instruction and poor leadership. I expected better from Notre Dame.

Hate and Christianity in America

Six weeks ago I was filled with the anticipatory excitement of returning home. Six long months I'd traveled the (mostly) trackless skies over the Western Pacific, laboring to take a squadron of 12 old, expensive aircraft and nearly 200 people from north to south, in rain, snow, and unbearable heat, to learn, demonstrate and practice our considerable warfighting capacity. Actually, I wasn't responsible for all that, but I did participate, and it was a lot of work. It was both easier and harder, actually, that it all took place away from family and loved ones. The work was easier, of course, because there were few distractions. Well, I'm not doing anything Saturday, so I guess I can go in and study. It was harder also, however, because of the deep loneliness that set in in the down hours, when the squadron rested and the holidays slipped slowly by. And all six months my anticipation built for my return: a chance to enjoy the pleasures of San Diego, to enjoy the company of friends and family, and to have some time for hobbies and such like (I thought about learning how to surf). It was all sunlight and happiness, to my fantasies. What a different world it actually is back at home.

The recession hit when we were deployed, so we heard a lot about it. We didn't see much, for all US Servicemembers deployed overseas are employed, but we watched as the news anchors and commentators waxed poetic about the economic doom upon us. President Obama was elected when we were deployed, and we watched the jubilant news coverage and the partially media-fostered and quite spiteful relief that President Bush was out of office. And I don't know what we all expected to see in regards to these events, but I think I vaguely expected an optimistic America with a lot of closed stores and low prices.

Unfortunately, my distractions from work and the aforementioned pleasures of San Diego are bitter and acrimonious debate between ideologically-driving news talk shows. They also include actual hate towards congressmen, journalists, and others who question the quite questionable solutions offered by congress and the new administration toward the economic downturn and the continuing conflicts overseas. Recently, trivially, a Miss America contestant confessed to believing that marriage should be only between a man and a woman, and cruel attacks and indignant defenses followed. Even more recently, a student at a Christian school was threatened with suspension for breaking school rules against certain kinds of dancing and music after he declared his intent to take his public-school girlfriend to her Prom. Rhetorically I ask, whence all this hate? and when did we collectively lose both our perspective and our backbone?

On the issue of same-sex marriage, I will practically and reasonably point out that believing marriage is excluded to a union between a man and a woman is hardly an unpopular view. Noted luminaries like our current, liberal President and Secretary of State, along with a majority of California voters (to judge first by the passed referendum to define marriage as between a man and a woman, followed by the passed proposition to change the state constitution to so define marriage), hold that view. That doesn't make it right, however, for our democracy protects the hypothetical minority from the hypothetically harmful tyranny of the majority. But reserving marriage to heterosexual couples hardly qualifies as "harmful" or "tyrannous." Gay couples are not put in jail. They are not prevented from being together. Under "Civil Union" laws they are even mostly afforded the same preferential tax treatment as married couples, despite their offering society no natural way to procreate.

But the poor Miss America contestant has been quite persecuted for her view, though it was expressed in as inoffensive manner as possible. She has been vilified, called a "homophobe" and a bigot, excoriated in network broadcasts. Semi-nude photographs taken when she was younger were leaked to the public in an apparent attempt to take from her the "Miss California" crown. This is is spiteful. This is hateful. She makes a handy target, sure--being beautiful, her and her travails are titillating. Misogynists everywhere can insinuate that she's a whore and call her a hypocrite. It only makes it better that she's a self-professed evangelical Christian. Everybody likes to call those people hypocrites.

Which brings me to the little renegade who wants to take his girlfriend to the forbidden Prom. Call me old-fashioned, but the rules are the rules. They are not illegal rules because (as is the case with disallowing same-sex marriage) they are not hurting anyone. There is no right to listen to rock'n'roll, nor to attend prom, nor even to marry (if it comes to that). For the latter, you have to obtain a license. And back in the bad old days before sex, drugs, or rock'n'roll, the marriage license was there to prevent people from marrying minors, or family members, or marrying without proper preparation. What an infringement upon freedom! Of course, we all give up a little freedom for a functioning society--we can't drive however we want, for one thing (you have to get a government license to do that, too), nor can we take stuff without paying for it. But I digress. Because after all, the young man in question attends the Christian School, and while he is still enrolled there he is subject to their rules. End of discussion. Yet instead of holding that young man responsible for his obligations, and telling him to either conform to the rules and not bother us any more, or leave his school and not bother us any more, the entire media is decrying indignantly the abusive Christian school that would prevent this boy from attending the Prom. They're an easy target because, again, they are Christian. Like the Miss America contestant. Like me.

One thing that has become evident in these disparate discussions is the amount of judgment occurring. Journalists and interviewees snicker at the backwards Christians and their wrong-headed views, or else call them bigots and dividers. How dare, the collective culture asks, how dare these other people oppose our zeitgeist? How dare, the question follows, how dare they judge me or my lifestyle? Well the thing is, really, that unless "they" are Anne Coulter or Bill O'Reilly, often they are not judging anyone. They are stating their values. And perhaps their disagreement with a certain piece of legislation. And they are probably content to let their statement stand, because if they are really a Christian, then they believe that as part of our creation God endowed humanity with Freedom (the capital f is no accident). Furthermore (if they are really Christian), they also believe that they are not perfect and need Christ to redeem them. So while it might be reprehensible that they, oh, I don't know, posed semi-nude for photographs, or something like that, it doesn't make them a hypocrite. It just means they are in more need of God's grace, and it ought to make them more humble. I simply don't understand why Christianity is the subject of so much contempt and hatred.

Yet whether or not you think Christianity a good or bad thing, if you live in this country you should at least acknowledge that it belongs. One of our rights is the freedom of religion, defined as the government's absolute limitation from "prohibiting the free exercise thereof." And nobody can deny that conservatives--including the Miss America contestant and the authorities at that Christian school--are Americans like all the rest, and their opinion counts. And while there is no governmental "thought police" (freedom of speech still exists, thank God), the vociferous entities which have so inappropriately attacked their fellow citizens through the media (conservative, Christian, liberal, or gay) ought to have some decency and respect and stop their thought vigilante-ism. For though they certainly have the right to say whatever they want, often what they say is cruel and useless, by which I mean it doesn't contribute much to our culture, our society, or our nation.

The state of Notre Dame in April 2009

The controversy regarding Notre Dame's selection of an aggressively pro-choice politician as the commencement speaker for the 2009 ceremonies has raged for several months now. I have read many opinion pieces supporting and condemning the decision, and I have read some weak defenses and affirmations of the same decision from university officials. So far I have avoided writing about it, if only because the staggering magnitude of Notre Dame's betrayal has been too painful to examine. So I have contented myself with explaining (as patiently as possible) why the invitation of such a speaker, who enthusiastically supports the availability of abortion and stem-cell research, and who has threatened the very mission of ministry and service of the Church by calling for removal of the "freedom-of-conscience clause" from regulations governing the disbursement of federal funds to charities and hospitals, effectively denying such institutions that are Catholic-affiliated needed operating funds if they comply with the dictates of their conscience and refuse to support stem-cell research or refuse to provide or procure abortions, is opposed by so many in the University and the larger American Catholic Community as a whole.

Recently, however, two things happened. I read the text of a speech given at the Notre Dame Center for Ethics and Culture, which admonished the University for its decision to host this politician so opposed to Catholic teaching on the sanctity of life and called for students, faculty, and alumni alike to stand up and provide a witness for the pro-life cause; the next day, I watched the movie Rudy.

The speech, given by William McGurn (text here), was truly inspiring. Calling attention to a recent advertising campaign of the University with the tagline "What would you fight for?" which references the school mascot of the "Fighting Irish" and shows students working for social justice or making advancements in science or medicine, the speech asks why the wealthiest and most successful Catholic university in America--and perhaps in the world--won't use its resources and national visibility to defend the unborn. Recalling ND's sometimes prominent role in the Civil-Rights movement, when the University President at the time, Father Hesburgh, linked arms with Martin Luther King, Jr. at a demonstration, Mr. McGurn called the pro-life movement "the defining civil rights issue of our age," and urged the school as a whole to bear witness as Father Hesburgh once did. The speech reminded all present (and all who read it) that Father Sorin's dream was to raise a University dedicated to Mary, the universal God-Bearer, in the wilderness of northern Indiana to be, literally, a "light unto the nation," illuminating by the truth of Catholic teaching from a dome of gold.

The movie Rudy, though it has more to do with football than it does with the University's mission or the issues at stake, is a story of a time when Notre Dame was chiefly known for its football program. As a Catholic University that supposedly taught chiefly basic theology and vocational skills, it was excluded contemptuously from the club of premier American universities (the "Ivy League") and from lesser, "pretender" universities alike. Yet the excellence of its football team made it impossible to be ignored. And so the University made it's presence and Catholic identity felt across the nation, and thereby served as a beacon to Catholic immigrant communities, mostly blue-collar, who lived and worked in every major city of the nation. That is the reason why still today, despite the continuous, incredulous and condescending surprise of sports broadcasters, Notre Dame football draws supporters from many places outside Indiana.

The excellence of Notre Dame football in those days also served as an inspiration to the students and the faculty present at the university, and by the 1950s and 1960s Father Sorin's dream had perhaps come close to fruition. The University's academic curriculum had made great advancements and stood above all but the very best in the land. The struggle of "Rudy" Ruettiger to attend Notre Dame (and play football there) resonates with thousands of high-schoolers from Catholic schools who dreamed of attending that University. It represented, essentially, the best that Catholic America had to offer: strong faith and moral foundations, the pursuit of excellence in all facets of university life, and a constant exa ple of Catholic truthto what was (and still is) a largely Protestant nation. That is why it represented such an achievement to Rudy and his family, and why Rudy worked so hard to become a part of it.

I discovered the stature of Notre Dame when I was seventeen. Almost carelessly, I chose to attend Notre Dame after deciding that the medical waiver required for attendance at the Naval Academy was too unsure a thing upon which to risk my college acceptance. I was totally unprepared for the overwhelming and positive response from my Catholic family (and the larger Catholic community). To them, I had been selected by the best for the best, and was clearly on the road to greatness--I was not only to be well-educated, I was to be formed as a good Catholic. Their reaction mirrored the reaction of Rudy's father and brothers, the former of whom called a stop to production at the steel mill he managed to make the announcement: "my son's going to Notre Dame!" The pressure only mounted when I arrived on campus, for I felt there a vague but palpable conviction among the students--or at least the best of them, the ones everyone admired--that we all were being formed for something special that required the utmost commitment. The disappointment from my peers when I inadequately completed an assignment, or when I failed to discharge the minimal duties of my stated and claimed Catholicism, was much worse than the admonishments of my professors and mentors. That pressure, when I finally let it inspire me, shaped me into a better person, and contributed to my decision to pursue a career serving others in the Marine Corps.

It is the loss of this consciousness of being elite that hurts me so much about Notre Dame's commencement speaker selection. When the university publically acts against the explicit direction of it's own Bishop and the U.S. Bishop's council at large and provides a "bully pulpit" to a figure who has so prominently contradicted and denied essential truths--which are no less true for being Catholic-taught--it abdicates it's hard-earned role as this nation's foremost example and defender of truth and morals. I suspect that no longer will so many Catholic teenagers dream of attending Notre Dame to "fight the good fight" or more deeply form their faith; I doubt now that any non-Catholic teenagers will seek admission to Notre Dame out of curiosity or a desire to be as good, as righteous, or as unashamedly committed to truth as true Catholicism is. Notre Dame has ceased to be unique and has joined ranks with so many of the "academically rigorous" but softly relativistic universities (among which are some who call themselves Catholic) that make up the fabric of American higher learning. Graduating from Notre Dame now merely reflects on my academic ability. It says nothing at all about my moral character.

Yet the true tragedy here is found in the prospective and current students of Notre Dame who will see in this invitation that the university condones ideas contrary to Catholicism. These young men and women are told by nearly every facet of society that abortion is not wrong, and those who oppose it are ignorant, bigoted, or worse; to a lesser extent they are given to understand that the Church is irrelevant and historical rather than present and alive. They are in the formative stage of their life when they most greatly feel pressure to conform to with the ideas and actions of the rest of the nation and "fit in." These teenagers and young adults need to hear a strong voice for truth. They need to see and hear a vigorous defense of the sanctity of life, which informs all other Catholic teaching. They need to know that abortion isn't merely one issue among many on which the Church opposes mainstream society, but the central issue on which no compromise is possible. Above all, as prospective Catholic witnesses and apologists, these young adults need to understand that in this case the fundamental, inalienable right of our most defenseless citizens to live is not some archaic and obsolete idea of the Church, but rather a practical cornerstone of society (which cannot survive if it allows citizens to kill other citizens for convenience). In that it has this effect, Notre Dame's selection of a pro-life commencement speaker makes it part and promulgator of what Pope John Paul II called "the culture of death."

My condemnation of my Alma Mater is harsh, but I believe justified, and it is certainly not final. Even now the University could rectify matters by rescinding their invitation in order to witness the sanctity of human life so clearly unshared by their original intended speaker. It could "clean house" and remove those officials and faculty who are so out of touch with the truth proclaimed by the Church that they would consider such a selection. In doing so, the University even might put some integrity and conviction into the otherwise good Catholics within the University community who stood timidly by and let this invitation happen, knowing (one hopes) within the depths of their uneasy hearts that such an action would contradict all the university aspires to stand for. Better yet, such action would provide an unashamed and unequivocal example of right to Catholics young and old across the nation it was founded to serve. Only then will Notre Dame will reclaim as reality the image so stirringly and imaginatively proclaimed by its architecture: a university dedicated to Our Lady, the immortal presenter of God to the broken human race, preaching truth to Americans just as her image gleams in gold across the heart-land of our country.

The Military-Industrial Complex and the Cost of Nationhood

That humans need to live in community is indisputable. A family is the smallest human community, and the biological facts that drive division of labor within the family indicate the biological need for a community in the first place. In order for the family to survive, it needs to be protected and sustained. Happily, a grown male is tailored specifically toward doing this. In order for the family to be sustainable and continue surviving, it needs to procreate and that it's young are nurtured. Happily, a grown female is tailored specifically toward these tasks. Yet a single family is vulnerable, so communities exist of multiple families where the division of labor is expanded. Large communities can even support practically useless labors, such as art and religious worship, which sustain a metaphysical need in humans. The largest such communities are nations, which ideally comprise a State--defined as an entity with a monopoly on violence (to protect, deter, and punish)--and a culture, which yields collective values and ambitions for citizens.

A much more lucid way to to define nationhood, or at least the purpose thereof, is found in C.S. Lewis' writings:

[W]e must say that the sun looks down on nothing half so good as a household laughing together over a meal, or two friends talking over a pint of beer, or a man alone reading a book that interests him; and that all economies, politics, laws, armies, and institutions, save insofar as they prolong and multiply such scenes, are a mere plowing of the sand and sowing the ocean, a meaningless vanity and vexation of spirit.

We know intuitively that in order for people to be happy, they need to satisfy other needs first. Maslow's Hierarchy categorizes them nicely: first physiological needs like food and shelter, then personal needs like companionship and belonging, then finally metaphysical needs like self-actualization and morality. That final set of needs is what C.S. Lewis correctly identifies as the pinnacle of human life, from whence spring the drive to create great works of art and music, the drive to dare great deeds and perform feats of service and compassion. And tellingly we tend to judge cultures (including our own) by such achievements. We Americans, for example, take pride in our achievements in the Second World War, where at great sacrifice and individual risk we helped defeat ruthless, unjust, and evil totalitarian states. Other cultures take justifiable pride in their own art, science, or historical achievements.

Yet with C.S. Lewis we must also acknowledge that we can only reach our pinnacle if lower-order needs are met: personal safety and sustenance, for example. Sadly, humans and the communities they form can be selfish, which usually results in someone taking an item of value from another, often by violence. Whether it is a schoolyard bully exhorting lunch money or Nazi Germany's desire for liebensraum at the expense of the Soviet Union, it is the same ugly story. Furthermore, there is a darkness to the human heart that defies normal comprehension, a darkness manifested in events like the Holocaust, or the genocide in Rwanda, or (on a smaller level) the rampage of a serial killer or school shooter. In communities which are constantly living at the mercy of threatening or violent neighboring communities, fulfilling those "high-order needs" is prevented by the struggle to survive and protect loved ones and important possessions, like homes and businesses. So within our communities and nations we have developed governments and institutions for preventing intimidation and violence. One such institution is the Military.

The chief purpose of a Military is to protect the sovereign land and people of a nation. It does so by providing a credible threat of violence to those who would violate the nation, and if necessary by executing violence on those who threaten it. Because threats in this modern age come in sophisticated and flexible forms, and threaten from all environments (land, sea, and air), we must maintain at least a comprable level of sophistication and flexibility in our own Military, which requires a lot of support.

A military term much in vogue is "force-multiplier," which is a label applied to anything that increases the combat power of a unit beyond its "nominal" amount. It's a vague term, because the "nominal" combat power of a platoon might simply be the combined strength, aggressiveness, and will to win of 42 young men. In that case, rifles are a combat multiplier. However, the term is often applied to things like esprit de corps and advanced weapons. The former is a combat multiplier that is been used by Militaries since war began. It refers to tangible and proven professionalism, discipline, loyalty, and a belief in the purpose of the unit. The success of Roman Legionaries has been historically attributed to their unit cohesion, experience, and dedication to warfare--they had more esprit de corps than any other Military they fought. Modern militaries develop esprit de corps through challenging training designed to force members to work together and rely on each other (e.g. "boot camp"), rigorous training in the actual conduct of fighting (e.g. marksmanship and "war games" training) and demanding adherence to "core values" such as the Navy and Marine Corps' honor, courage, and commitment. But alone esprit de corps cannot guarantee a military can fulfill its mission, as was demonstrated in 1939 by the utter defeat of superbly trained and motivated Polish Cavalry in the face of Nazi Panzers. The technological gap was too wide. No matter how motivated or skilled he is, a man who proverbially brings a knife to a gun fight will probably be killed.

Technology is simply a subset of the support structure which enables a military to fight. Obviously, if a nation expects their military to fight well for them, the nation must provide it simple things like sustenance, recompense for the service, and ideological support. In addition to those things, the nation must also provide weapons. In the middle ages, those weapons were swords and spears provided by blacksmiths, who were in turn furnished with iron ore provided by miners. But today the threat is sophisticated and flexible, and consists of advanced weapons systems like tanks, cruise missiles, and airplanes--which must be countered with like weaponry. Therefore, a to ensure its protection a nation must commit the industrial resources to provide and maintain a modern military. This requires steel, rubber, and other industrial supplies for the building of military equipment, electronics to operate and control advanced weapons (such as the AEGIS missile defense system), money to operate and maintain the equipment for training purposes, and provision for research and development. This conglomeration of industrial, financial, and military resources is called "The Military-Industrial Complex."

Certainly the necessity of creating a Military capable of presenting a sufficiently credible threat has made the Military-Industrial Complex a comparatively large percentage of our own national endeavor. As such, the parties involved (from corporations to the Military organizations themselves) have been able to wield increasing amounts of influence in the halls of our Government. There are some segments of society that have resented and still resent this trend since the first great rise in influence of the Military-Industrial Complex in the aftermath of World War II, questioning whether the national resources devoted to supporting our large modern military might not be excessive, and better used in bettering the fabric of society, such as by offering better education or more medical care. In his 1960 Farewell Speech, President Eisenhower uttered a warning: "[W]e must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military-industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist."

There are many examples, both apocryphal and documented, of such "misplaced power." The congressmen who control military spending, the contractors who befriend such congressmen to ensure that defense dollars are paid to their corporations, and the Military services themselves have all at times irresponsibly used our national resources. This justifiably angers those who see a need for better infrastructure such as schools and hospitals, or simply for a government that demands less from its citizens. "Misplaced Power" in the hands of the Military-Industrial Complex is particularly frustrating in times of financial difficulty.

Yet though instances of "misplaced power" demand renewed focus on Military oversight (after all, our forefathers subjected the Miltary establishment to civilian masters for a reason), they should not result in the drastic cuts so often proposed. While our society might benefit greatly from diverting resources from the Military and associated industries toward endeavors like education and medical care, it cannot be denied that such endeavors are higher-order needs, and a nation cannot focus on them if it is occupied with survival. The cure for cancer is not much of a concern when people more often die from bullets.

Now manifestly our nation is not under much of a threat--but the possibility of such a threat exists. There are other powerful nations in the world with vibrant, advanced technology and industry and sufficient population to logistically and realistically engage in total war. While such nations exist, there is an imperative to have a Military capable of handling the threat they could pose. To do anything less is to gamble very survival on convenience. A similar criticism is that too many resources are dedicated to supporting the Military when in a time of peace. In such times, the argument goes, a less robust military is required, and the resources thereby saved might be put to a nobler use. But again it is an imprudent nation that gambles its safety on the whim of its neighbors, for they may suddenly decide for expediency rather than peace or morality and simply take what they want, if they can.

There is yet another reason besides current safety that a significant military draw-down is unwise. For just as the skills required to make swords were perishable if not taught to succeeding blacksmiths on down the generations (along with the skills required for mining), the vast and intricate knowledge required to produce today's advanced weapons is perishable. That knowledge can only be maintained fully through execution, or namely in the continued production of such weapons ("book-learning" alone leaves proven gaps). Industrial production is the result of much labor and planning: the very manufacturing machines and processes that produce advanced weaponry at any kind of scale must themselves be designed and built. The supply lines and economic relationships that provide the steel, manufacture the rubber and fiberglass, and supply the electrical components and computer chips to the actual assembly lines must be established and negotiated. Above all, the resident intelligence in the defense industry that spends its time designing the best equipment for the Military and constantly improving it to meet advances from threat militaries is something that grows organically as systems are built, tested, and utilized. To halt even a large portion of that cold is to lose it forever--it will never be recovered as it was, and if the nation has need of it in the future (such as war might require), it must rebuild all that engineering prowess, all those business relationships, and all that industrial capability from scratch, and at ruinous cost. An example of this was found during the rapid American mobilization following her entrance into the First World War, when for a while there were so few rifles that entire Army units were sent to France without ever having been trained.

While it is indeed a gamble to withdraw a nation's support for it's Military, it also has a negative effect on the fabric of the nation as a whole. The economic and industrial relationships begotten by the Military-Industrial Complex employ many civilians. The process of developing and building advanced military equipment begets advanced technologies with civilian (commercial and industrial) applications. And in no small way do the members of a Military so supported and maintained contribute to society.

In the first place, they fight and will die for it. They will risk grave danger for the opportunity to fight and die for it. Seafaring and Aviation remain profoundly dangerous occupations, as seen by the recent crash of a F/A-18 Hornet into a neighborhood of San Diego or the recent shipboard fire on the USS George Washington. Yet the members of our military volunteer for such danger. They serve in hostile environments, work long hours in substandard spaces, and endure training hardships that cannot be legally wrought upon prisoners. They do all of this for mediocre pay, at best, and a lifestyle that all but denies them the abilitity to start or participate in a family. Their spouses, often left alone for months at a time, must raise children and keep house alone, all while perhaps worrying for the safety of their loved one. All this is chiefly the result of esprit de corps, and it is sad but virtuous. The men and women a Military produces are more often diligent, thrifty, and honorable than average. They are no strangers to hard work and tough jobs, and participate in the processes of democracy in greater percentages than the rest of the population. They learn not only the difficult skills of their Military trade, but also the social skills required for a close community. They learn teamwork and self-discipline. And in their conspicuous display of these virtues in their communities, the members of the military may inspire their fellow citizens.

These virtues (these virtuous men and women) a Military gives its nation are arguably the result more of esprit de corps than national resource support. But it is not so. Without the aircraft, ships, tanks, rifles, ammunition, ordnance and host of other gear meant solely for training at it's disposal--namely, the equipment provided by the Military-Industrial Complex--the institution of the Military could not make the sacrifices necessary in times of peace possible. When an infantryman leaves his home and family for a week in the woods, training, that builds esprit de corps and military virtue. When a ship goes underway for a month, training, its crew suffers a similar sacrifice. When an aviation squadron deploys halfway around the world simply to demonstrate its own nation's commitment to an allied country, the sacrifice is proportionally greater. Yet without actual war to execute, this is the only adversity a Military can create to achieve esprit de corps. And it is therefore necessary. Even in times of peace, the Military-Industrial Complex helps support everything positive a Military can provide it's citizenry.

There are few former soldiers who become great artists or writers or engineers (though they do exist). But a Military, and the support structure required for it's maintenance, is necessary to the survival, growth, and essential fabric--social and economic--of a nation. However expensive this all may be, it must not be neglected at the risk of becoming the victim of some more powerful neighbor. While it is reasonable to scale back the military to a certain degree, it must be done cautiously and in the full knowledge that the support of engineering and industry are essential. Inasmuch as we wish to remain a great nation, we cannot afford to let languish an institution that contributes so much positive to our society.