Strait the Gate, Narrow the Way

Thoughts on Boyd and Warfighting

2011-07-31T19:25:00.004-04:00

The Marine Corps has, in my lifetime, always purported to be (in part) an intellectual organization. It has also purported to be a "dumb" organization of doers, not thinkers--encoded in Marine tradition is the encouraged image of a stoic, strong, dependable, and cunning team player. This curious dichotomy serves to point Marines at the desired result: physical leadership, endurance, and capability mixed with an intellectual passion for the pursuit of armed conflict. Marines are expected to perform well in the Combat Fitness Test, endure drudgery and deprivation, and read works listed on the Commandant's reading list all within the same career.

Nowhere is this mix more emphasized than at The Basic School, my current assignment and the cradle of Marine Corps virtue (with apologies, of course, to the recruit depots). The Basic School exists to teach officers leadership, the basic combat skills of an infantry leader, and Warfighting--the name given to the branch of knowledge (both art and science) concerned with winning wars. Within the cadre of instructors ideas bounce around amid the cheerful gossip about student buffoonery and always-flowing sea stories, ideas about the nature of warfare, the technicalia of conflict, and the best way to achieve a "product" which will ensure a continued line of Marine Corps victories in "every clime and place."

Some hold that instilling the proper mindset is the right product. As long as a lieutenant leaves with the initiative and determination both to solve any future battle problem and continue to educate himself, that is sufficient. Others argue that a collection of skills is the correct product. Lieutenants must have a basic set of infantry skills to graduate. The answer, acknowledged by all, is of course both. Fancy phrasing combining the two abounds: use the infantry skills as a "vehicle" to instill the correct mindset is the most compelling. But the real end result is to produce leadership that will maintain the Marine Corps as an aggressive, intelligent, creative armed force that is physically and morally ready to take on any kind of conflict, from the smallest insurrection to World War, and win.

Producing such leadership is the aim of the ideas bounced around from instructor to instructor. It is part of both the teaching and learning process, because eventually we instructors will re-enter the combat forces and--with the help of lieutenants--seek to transform and maintain the rest of the force along the same lines. But while it's all well and good to speak of "an aggressive, intelligent, creative armed force that is physically and morally ready to take on any kind of conflict, from the smallest insurrection to World War, and win," understanding what that means and making it happen is a complex and difficult task.

No man in the American military has so closely studied this problem, nor developed anything like a solution, as Col John R. Boyd of the U. S. Air Force. A brilliant, single-minded, and acerbic man along the lines of a Michelangelo, Col Boyd desired only one thing: to fight and win. His desire led him to revolutionize aircraft fighter tactics, then aircraft design as a whole, then general tactics and tactical thought, and finally overall strategy and force structures.

It was a conversation with a peer that introduced me to Col Boyd through his biography, Boyd. Our discussions have struck at the fundamental nature of conflict and victory, seen through Boyd's thought. Though I see his work as but through a mirror darkly, his work has engaged me singularly and I reproduce below an email I wrote back to my peer:

K------,

When you first asked what I thought about the F-22 and the F-35, I had very limited understanding of what Col Boyd's "fighter mafia" wanted to accomplish in developing an airplane back in the 1970s. The fact that the same group of people could produce the ungainly but powerful ground-attack A-10 and the elegant, nimble F-16 goes to show how they weren't "all or nothing" guys like you said; they were very acquainted with compromise. They wanted aircraft that would perform it's mission the best, no matter what compromises came along with such criteria.

The conventional "best," according to the authorities at the time, was traditionally that which could fly faster, higher, and farther while carrying more weapons. The swing-wing design such as is found in a B-1 accomplishes that perfectly--it permits extremely high speeds and high-altitude flight. Unfortunately the weight and mechanical complexity of a swing-wing design limit its flight ability in other regimes, such as low-altitude flight. A rough ground combat analogy would be an artillery system that could fire farther with heavier payloads, but which consequently took so long to transport or assemble that it was essentially useless.

Col Boyd's "fighter mafia" realized that the "best" from an engineering standpoint was almost certainly not the "best" in actual warfare--a conclusion stimulated and borne out by the dismal record of F-105s and F-4s over Vietnam. His developments allowed for a different kind of "best," as in, "best" fit for the job. His insistence, for example, of the F-16 having a 30% or greater fuel ratio ensured that it would have enough legs to be a viable aircraft--and because of his realization that it wasn't fuel capacity that determined range, but rather fuel capacity as compared with engine requirements, ended up with the F-16 having the longest legs of any Air Force fighter. More subtle distinctions are not identified in the book, but I think Boyd must have considered them. For example, the missiles of his day were very unreliable, and at some point in combat an aircraft would get in a dogfight. Hence, a true "fighter" had to be able to fire missiles and yet "turn" at the merge. So he insisted that the F-16 be able do both.

In the end, it was the compromises Boyd made that achieved his ideal. The F-16 is not as fast or high-flying as the F-15, and therefore cannot engage at as long a range. Yet it can effectively engage with missiles, because the fighter mafia wanted a high thrust-to-weight ratio, which assists fundamentally in acceleration and vertical maneuvers--but which also is critical when it comes to generating speed and altitude. The F-16 was a compromise between a lot of factors: fuel capacity, weight, engine power, armament, and ease of maintenance. In many of the above categories it was inferior to the F-15. But all together, it is (without any doubt) by far the superior fighter.

Where the F-16 excels, of course, is in maneuverability--what the book calls "fast transients." In fact, the "fast transients" piece set the YF-16 prototype far above it's immediate competitor, the YF-17. "Fast Transients" allowed a pilot to change his aircraft's regime of flight nearly instantly; for example a pilot might very quickly switch from a fast pursuit profile to a slow, tight-turn profile with a violent re-orientation of the aircraft or go from slow to fast by "firewalling" the throttle and taking advantage of a high thrust-to-weight ratio. The hat trick of "Forty-Second Boyd," where he could start a dogfight at the worst disadvantage and yet reverse the situation to kill his opponent within 40 seconds through such a quick, violent maneuver, proves the value of such ability in a turning fight. Certainly our own MCDP-1 indicates that a ground commander's ability to do the same thing with, say, a battalion actually generates the kind of fleeting opportunities and tactical advantage that allow one force to morally defeat another, even if it is numerically inferior ("morally", in this case, refers to the plane of conflict that occurs in the minds and souls of the combatants, and is concerned with morale will, instead of the physical or material plane which is concerned with weapons and numbers).

So, knowing that the Navy (and by extension, the Marine Corps) would be forced by Congress to by a lightweight fighter, you might reasonably ask why they didn't buy the F-16. The reasons are, I believe, the same reasons Boyd designed the F-16 in the first place. The Navy needed an ideal aircraft--one that would fit all its missions. But it only stumbled upon this realization by accident.

There is a legend that after losing the Lightweight Fighter competition, McDonnell-Douglas was in trouble. It had spent a great deal of money designing this aircraft, an aircraft that had the absolute best current aviation technology. But who would buy the aircraft if the U.S. Air Force had found it lacking? It could hope that by underbidding the F-16, foreign militaries would bite, but that wouldn't last for long. As the F-16 went into production, it's cost-per-unit would inevitably and inexorably decrease, quickly becoming a more affordable alternative. So they went wooing the Navy. And, pulling some strings, they achieved a demonstration for some top Navy brass. Now the Navy had already viewed the lightweight fighter competition, and so they knew the performance specifics and pilot feedback: the former nearly equal between the two airplanes, the latter much in favor of the F-16. So McDonnell-Douglass only demonstrated one thing. They showed a maintenance crew remove an engine from the YF-17 and replace it within 30 minutes. And the Navy was sold.

I don't know if that story is true, but it was the birth of another compromise that launched an immensely successful airplane. The Navy's needs are different from those of the Air Force: it doesn't have limitless hangar space to maintain aircraft, it doesn't have interior lines of communication on U.S. soil to guarantee quick and responsive logistical support, and it doesn't have two-mile runways on which aircraft can be babied during take-off and landing. Carrier aviation is brutal on equipment. The hangar deck is small, and there isn't much storage elsewhere for extra parts. The "runway" is 600 feet long, and aircraft are accelerated quickly to speed so they can get airborne then arrested sharply on landing, both of which require a much sturdier frame than usual. Navy pilots to a man prefer two-engine aircraft because there is usually no land beneath them while they fly, and so they'd rather a malfunction didn't condemn them to a long slow death of starvation, drowning, or shark attack. They also need an aircraft that is controllable at very low speeds to make landing on a carrier a reasonably safe proposition. And in the post-Vietnam years, I suspect the navy was getting tired of managing separate parts pipelines for their variegated fleet of F-14s, A-4s, A-6s, and A-7s.

What the apocryphal McDonnell-Douglass demonstration showed was that the Navy could meet its specific maintenance and aircraft requirements in a single airplane. And so the F-18 was born. It's two engines met the criteria for overwater flight. It's modular engine system made it easy to maintain, and additionally the redundancy that resulted made it an aircraft that could well sustain battle damage. Designed as Boyd's lightweight fighter, it had the ability to climb high and get fast to shoot missiles while also being able to slow quickly and maneuver in a close-in engagement. It also had sufficient power and size to carry about half the ordnance load-out of the existing A-6s and A-7s, making it a capable ground-attack aircraft. Knowing one of it's big missions was to support a Marine landing, Navy designers optimized the aircraft for low-altitude flight to further increase its ability as a CAS platform. It was a compromise, of course, from beginning to end. It is slightly worse as a fighter than the F-16, and slightly worse as an attack aircraft than the A-10. But it made the Navy more expeditionary and better able to accomplish it's assigned missions. The Air-to-Air, Air-to-Ground F-35C (unweighted by the lift fan), is a natural extension of this idea, but whether it's a better airplane than the F-18E/F (Super Hornet) is still up for debate. It lacks an internal gun, which would damn it completely in Boyd's eyes.

As an aside, the F-22 program adopted Boyd's approach, as far as I could tell: the contractor's mantra while developing the F-22 was "not a pound for air-to-ground." I suspect that installing two engines was a practical response to the stealth element's requirement for an internal weapons bay, which takes up a lot of space inside the airframe, as well as a way to maximize the thrust-to-weight ratio. But ultimately the F-22 achieved a perfect compromise: unassailable at a distance due to stealth and long-range missiles (made more so by the extreme altitude and speed available to the aircraft), unbeatable in a close fight because the large wings and thrust vectors make it incomparably maneuverable. The F-35, on the other hand, is exactly the compromise that Boyd hated: weighed down with air-to-ground gadgets and gizmos that provide (I predict) far too much information to really be of use to a ground commander, and in the case of the F-35B weighed down with a huge lift fan that drastically reduces fuel capacity and weapons carriage as well. In fact, one of the most contentious elements of the F-35 program is the contractor's inability to get the F-35B's weight within specs.

The story of the F-18 (and the F-35) has a great deal of applicability to the Marine Corps and Boyd's work on maneuver warfare. I don't yet fully understand the OODA cycle, but at the most superficial level it's merely a map of human experience. Applied to warfare as a discipline, it expands exponentially and speeds up. The "Observe-Orient" part is the most important, since both observation and orientation can be clouded by prejudice (leading to mistakes) or more readily understood by experience (leading to a faster cycle time). Hence we emphasize initiative and the freedom to make mistakes at TBS (and hopefully throughout the fleet) in order to gain experience. But the hard wall within the OODA cycle is the movement from "orient" to "decide." How often do you suppose that a commander orients and conceives of a bold move that will paralyze his enemy with confusion, only to to be stopped short by inability to realize his plan? Such inability can be the result of controlling commanders, or undisciplined units, or the limitations of equipment. Nevertheless I think we have to realize that as Marines we live in a system that puts a strong filter before the D in our OODA cycles.

I can't speak to the command limitation in our OODA cycles. It is composed, I think, of being collectively somewhat risk-adverse, careerist, and uncomfortable with decentralized execution (though much less so than our sister services). But the filter imposed by equipment is a big deal. Col A-----'s vision of a light-infantry force is a step towards fixing this problem. Focusing on a small logistics train and solid discipline--the kind that will bend a unit to its commander's will as a fighter is bent to its pilot's--would put the Marine Corps in company with Lee's Army of the Potomac, Rommel's Afrika Corps (and really the entire German Wehrmacht of the Second World War), and the Israeli Army's march to the canal in 1967. Equipment that complements this light-infantry mindset, such as the M777 or the IAR (it's usefulness pending) or even the EFV is to be desired. Such equipment will give a commander options. Options to cross the lake, rather than the expected river. Options to helibear lighter, fewer items to ground units in order to sustain a push. Options to maneuver around existing roads, options to disperse forces--ultimately options to Decide - Act in unexpected and decisive ways to morally defeat the enemy.

For Marine Corps fixed-wing aviation (and with apologies to Col Boyd), I think the F-18 literally provides this kind of flexibility best. It is expeditionary and capable and proven. I think, sadly, that it will be more flexible and more effective at all it's missions than the F-35 will be--especially if upgraded to the Super Hornet model, which incorporates some technical advancements, better fuel capacity, and more weapons load-out. On the macro level for the Corps, however, we must be able to protect our Marines from enemy air--even if our current enemy has none--and provide the close air support that will give our ground commanders options to deal with what will in the future almost certainly be a materially superior conventional enemy. Of course, to accept an aircraft that cannot depart and recover on a MEU means one has to accept certain other things--such as the need to depend on the Navy for carrier support, or the need to capture an airfield to support the operation, or the need to detail KC-130s for refueling support. But as the fighter mafia showed us, getting the ideal means making some compromises.

As Col Boyd demonstrated in "Patterns of Conflict," our job as military leaders is not to assemble a tinker-toy of statistical fillers and engines of war ready to be unleashed by the Pentagon wherever the president points his finger, but rather to build an "ideal" force for accomplishing our missions. This force will be focused, stripped of unnecessary capabilities, and responsive. It will be the F-16 (or perhaps with our expeditionary mentality, the F-18) of military forces. With such a force a commander may cycle through OODA fast enough to (as MCDP-1 teaches) "shatter the enemy’s cohesion through a variety of rapid, focused, and unexpected actions which create a turbulent and rapidly deteriorating situation with which the enemy cannot cope," and therefore win--just as we (along with Col Boyd) ardently desire.

Tales of the Green Guide: The sacred island

2010-08-11T18:20:00.001-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Other Japan

2010-07-30T16:57:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Needless to say, we were a little cocky.

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

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

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

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

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

2010-07-04T04:33:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Letter to a former professor concerning a liberal education

2010-06-18T06:05:00.000-04:00

Dear Professor S-------,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Harvard Sin

2010-06-14T10:08:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lovers in Japan

2010-06-04T17:44:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unfortunately, we both missed the rendezvous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thoughts from Seoul, Korea

2010-05-17T22:55:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Korea Deployment

2010-05-14T06:19:00.000-04:00

Part 1 – The Arrival

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

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

“Thanks Schrags.” The major turned to go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vignette 1

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

Outside in the gathering dark engines whine as aircraft are started and taxied. The sound is loud and helps mask the presence of others; as his mind wanders the sound becomes a comforting source of white noise, the medium of emptiness and rest. His imagination, once filled with green formation lights glowing along the sides of aircraft and the lighted displays of the cockpits, flies off the airfield faster than any fighter. His thoughts alight in Southern California, eight thousand miles away. Home.  The tasks at hands slowly unstick from his consciousness and fall away completely. The plywood for walling off briefing rooms, the aircraft log-books for the plane with the right engine problem, the computer network set-up that cannot be completed until the aircraft arrive on deck, the Fitness Reports he has to review in his inbox, the need to exercise—they all fade slowly into that delicious white noise along with background chatter behind him. He exhales again and shivers as his breath wafts out over his work-station, then begins the email, "Dear Kate..."

Part II – The Camp

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vignette 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part III – Camp Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vignette 3

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

"Yeah man," came the response. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was a happy moment.

Part IV – Flying

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Epilogue

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

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

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

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

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

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

Austen’s Aphorism on Love and Marriage

2010-03-16T00:35:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Romance from the West Coast

2010-03-12T23:12:00.000-05:00

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

In the midst of such a transformation, I wrote:

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

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

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

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

Many the Miles

2009-10-12T11:58:00.001-04:00

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

Matt: As a freshman at Notre Dame in January of 2001, I found myself in a writing class. As it was part part of the required first year course of studies, the students were a random assortment and I wouldn't have a single other class with any of them for the rest of my college career. That, coupled with my chosen "Great Books" major, contributed to my ill-concealed contempt for the class as nothing more than a necessary evil. There was, however, one benefit to showing up each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and that was the fetching young lady named Kate who sat across from me. She was pretty and popular--and completely out of my league--and she definitely caught my attention.
Kate: I met Matt the first day of Spring Semester my Freshman year during a required Composition class. I don't remember if it was by chance that we ended up sitting across from one another, but I'm fairly certain that after doing a quick scan of the class, it is most probable that I specifically picked the seat directly across from the cutest boy in the room. Introductions were made, and Matt announced that he was from Seattle. For a girl from Chicago, Seattle seemed exotic and different, a place where the 'cool bands' originated, and coffee was produced in magical Charlie and the Chocolate Factory-eqsue shops. It was also the former location of "The Real World," so I naturally assumed people lounged around in their houseboats all day and compared the philosophies of Sartre to Kurt Cobain. As I shook myself out of the daydream, I remember Matt speaking. "This boy is brilliant," I thought, "brilliant!" He was confident and perceptive; an intelligent young man who wasn't afraid to discuss literature and/or sentence structure. Bingo! I made a snap judgment that THIS boy was THE boy for me.
Matt: One afternoon she approached me and inquired if I'd help her on a paper. I probably stuttered a bit in my attempt to answer yes, desperately trying not to let my surprise and jubilation spill out onto my otherwise "cool" exterior (by which I mean a comically ineffective poker face). So I awkwardly made an appointment (a date?) and accordingly presented myself one evening at her dorm. It was locked down as female residence halls always were at Notre Dame, but a kindly resident let me in and I braved the gauntlet of feminine stares along the hallways leading to her door. The next hour is a blur, but I gather that we sedately gathered around her computer, I offered some constructive criticism in a terrified and studied academic manner, and then I left. Afterwards I wondered if this pretty young lady wasn't perhaps at least as interested in me as she did in her paper, but immediately discounted the notion as highly improbable. She was out of my league. I avoided any potential embarrassment that another encounter might create and went about my college life.
Kate: I asked him for help on a paper, which is probably THE most transparent move I could have made. A paper? Really? Smooth move, Dolack. My Calculus homework certainly, but a paper? We must have discussed a time and date, probably in early February, where we would meet in my dorm. At the time, I was living in a crowded three-room dorm above the rector, with three roommates; our doors were guarded by a very intimidating security woman who spent her days patrolling our hallways and knitting hats and sweater vests for her gerbils. I'm certain I must have confided to my girlfriends that Matt Klobucher, that cute boy from my FYC class was coming over, because I don't remember anyone in the room. And then the big moment arrived. Matt Klobucher walked into my room to help me with my paper. And he did just that. He helped me with my paper, made a few comments about the sentence structure, and left. The boy actually commented on my use of a split infinitive. That's right, I was totally rejected because of a grammatical error.
Matt: After that class, we never really ran into each other. I stalked her lightly on Instant Messenger, and later on FaceBook, but only as a sort of dream. I was a dour Marine Corps-bound "Great Books" major; she was clearly destined for happiness and perfection. Unbeknownst to me, we ended up with some of the same friends, and I always noted Kate's presence in our friends' online photographs with a little jolt of pleasure and nostalgia for what might have been. I noted that she moved to LA after college, and occasionally stifled my attention to her during other relationships. Then I noticed something new and interesting about her.
Kate: After that class, Matt and I never really ran into each one another, (but I never forgot him). I would love to push rewind and watch the number of times we passed each other, since we had many friends in common. In fact, most of my closest friends were kids from his dorm or girls from his major. I lived up my time in college, acting in plays with my dearest friends Julianne and Megan, and attended parties and Irish pubs with my girlfriends, Krista, Aindrea, Jen, and Emma. Meanwhile, Megan, both a talented actress AND a "Great Books" major, attended classes and military balls with Matt (I attended several military balls with the Air Force boys). When not out with me, Aindrea and Jen occasionally hung out with Matt at typical Notre Dame watering holes. After college, Jen actually bounced back and forth from Pensacola to visit her college boyfriend, John, who lived with Matt while they were in Flight School together (I moved to LA and began my career working for FX). In November 2006 Matt moved to San Diego within a week of my final departure from LA for Chicago. We passed each other, I am sure, on the road. Sometimes I wonder if I waved.
Matt: It was one evening in early 2007. I was living in Pensacola, Florida, and idly browsing FaceBook. My "feed" informed me that Kate had posted a note. The title intrigued me, as did the opening sentence which was displayed on my screen. I clicked on it and proceeded to read one of the most entertaining, most poignant short stories I'd ever seen. I remembered ruefully that she had once asked ME for help writing, since she was clearly so much better than I was. I wished in that moment (and have in many since) that I could write like her. I was so impressed, in fact, that I threw caution to the winds and commented on her story, telling her how good it was. As I expected, I received no response.
Kate: In late 2006, searching for an outlet for my thoughts, I sat down and wrote a short memorist-style story and posted it on Facebook. I wrote about being a single gal in the city, living in a high rise building, trying to avoid both being sucked into Lifetime Television for Women and the exhaust from the 151 city bus. I had been out of college for more than two long years. I missed Notre Dame. I missed my friends. I missed our carefree atmosphere. But, in the end, I ended the piece with a hopeful nature. Goodness, to be twenty-three. I remember Matt commented, and I remember being touched. I missed him; my old friend.
Matt: Over the following months, I sought out and read everything she posted on Facebook. Occasionally I'd comment, impressed with her writing and wanting her to know how good she was. I certainly didn't forget how attractive she was, either! Finally in the spring of 2007 I wrote more publicly on her wall (instead of simply commenting on a note), and she responded! It was a kind and sweet response, and in it she mentioned a few books in connection to her writing and my job. Little did I know that her recommendation of "The Prince of Tides" that day as her favorite book would eventually provide the seed for our current wonderful relationship.
Kate: Matt and I would go back and forth between writing small snippets to each other. Occasionally, we'd each go months without a response from the other. Then one day, he wrote to me. I had just finished reading my mom's recommendation of what would become my favorite book of all time, Pat Conroy's, "The Prince of Tides." I knew Matt was a big reader like myself. I also was aware that he was in the Marine Corps and had trained in flight school, so I wondered if he may be interested in "The Great Santini," and/or "The Lords of Discipline". I asked him if he had ever read the book, and he said no. I told him to check it out. In the meantime, I debated actually sending him all of Conroy's finest works. But at the last minute, I backed out. So instead I wrote, "Go buy that book!"
Matt: You see, I read that book on her recommendation. That was (and still is) rare for me. I almost never read something another has recommended to me. I've always been on my own little reading program. But in this case I took the plunge, I read that book, and enjoyed it. I thought it so good that I wrote a review of it online. and as it happened wrote a review online.
Kate: I dated other people. He dated other people. But I often compared others to him, which is odd since we didn't know each other that well, really. But I did know he was something rare. He was somethin' special. I remember checking Matt's profile when he was on deployment. I wrote him slightly more often then. "Come visit!" I would cheerfully suggest. "I'm in Japan," he would respond. "But it's warm here in Februrary," I would lie. "Have fun with that weather!," he would joke. I thought of him on Christmas. He seemed so far away. Months passed and I was deeply involved in my work, pulling late nights at the office, traveling around the country to complete interviews and buried in research. In May, we wrapped the first season of the show I helped create. In June, I was anxious: I had spent so much of the past year of my life developing this series, I didn't know what to do with my time. I couldn't sleep. I spent far too much time on Facebook posting silly messages to friends and crafting song lyrics as away messages.
Matt: Then she apparently found the review I'd written on "The Prince of Tides" online one night last June. And she was apparently so impressed that she wrote me a fairly long note. It wasn't an ordinary note, filled with kindly concern and intellectual agreement. It was a genuine and elegant note that communicated the just the same kind of respect and sympathy that I felt for all of her writing. It was also complimentary and sweet. I was stunned and delighted.
Kate: One week later, I found myself up at 1:30am. I knew Pat Conroy had a new novel about to hit the bookstores, and so I started to research any information I could find on the author. On page three of a silly google search, I saw a review of "The Prince of Tides." 'Oh, my favorite," I thought to myself, and clicked on the link. And then, there he was: a photograph of Matthew Klobucher attached to his review of "The Prince of Tides." I was floored. It took me about five minutes to compose myself. The review was beautiful, and his writing was just as I remembered. I checked the date on the review: only one week after I suggested he read "The Prince of Tides." Without thinking, I wrote him immediately.
Matt: I couldn't believe she had written me! I hastily crafted a response that would be appropriately appreciative. This was a delicate moment, since I wanted to be absolutely sincere but nevertheless was conscious that betraying too much of my suddenly developing attraction might put this dream girl off. So in honest but carefully considered phrases, I thanked her for her note and invited further correspondence.
Kate: He wrote me back. He was just as I remembered...or maybe better? I knew I had to find a way to San Diego. I started to think of ways to interview a subject, research a story, develop a show.anything.
Matt: This started a series of letters between us, surprisingly deep in content and gradually moving from Facebook to "old-fashioned email," then to talking over the phone. As it became blindingly obvious to me and my good friends in San Diego that I was crushing hard on this girl, I impetuously invited her to accompany me to a wedding in Boston, just a month after Kate's first long note. She accepted. It was pretty exciting.
Kate: We wrote back and forth. Once, I wrote him a letter from thirty thousand feet in the air...eager to hit 'send' as soon as I arrived back in my apartment. His letters were magic...like poetry. Then one night, he phoned. We spent four hours on the phone deep in conversation--and every night thereafter, we logged at least that much. Thank GOODNESS we both have AT&T! A few weeks later, Matt asked me to the wedding of his good friends, Matt and Margaret. Of course, I accepted. I was thrilled, nervous, excited, and every other emotion one could imagine.
Matt: Apprehension ran high as I prepared to pick her up in Chicago and go to this wedding. When she met me in the Chicago airport it was the first time we'd seen each other in seven years. But that didn't matter. After a month of intense letters and conversations (and my lovely college memories of her) we met with laughter, an embrace and many kisses. From that moment, we were dating officially and seriously.
Kate: We had our first kiss at Midway airport. We wandered around the city, attended an art show, and sat on beach steps and watched people play in the water and jog back in forth. That night, over pizza and under summer stars, he told me loved me. It was our first date. It was perfect. And I think, well, I had been in love with him from the very beginning.
Matt: When you know, you know. Several weeks later I started preparations for proposing to her--ordering a ring, talking to her father, and all the rest. But we quickly decided that the preparations were taking too long. We loved each other, we wanted to marry each other, we were ready to cheerfully and excitedly begin the preparations for a wedding and the follow-on joys and difficulties of a marriage. So we became secretly engaged in the last week of September, pending the actual proposal. Though a secret engagement is romantic, I am glad our intention is public knowledge! Now, I am eager to finalize wedding preparations and finally start my life with her. She is nothing less than my soulmate and the love of my life.
Kate: The rest, as they say, is history. How many times had I wondered, well, HOW do you know? People who were happily married would try to explain. "Well," they would say, "you just know." But yet I would continue to ask. "Is it a feeling? Is it something in your head? Is it settling? Do you just decide one day? What am I not getting? How does anyone just 'know?!' I just could not understand, couldn't find the solution, couldn't find the logical components that would equal the answer. And it wasn't until I found Matt again that I discovered the answer to my question. It was him. He was the answer all along.

Finding Love in California

2009-09-24T23:02:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"...for those in peril on the sea"

2009-09-16T22:57:00.000-04:00

The Naval Service is austere. The proposition--conducting battle on the ocean, a notoriously unpredictable and dangerous natural feature of this earth we inhabit--is difficult. The danger, though it rarely includes face-to-face combat, is both omnipresent and great. If a naval vessel manages to conduct its mission without running afoul of storms and shoals, its crew may yet suffer the effects of an industrial disaster leaving them stranded in open water, possibly on a burning or irradiated deck. In addition, of course, there is the threatening enemy, which may deliver ordnance on the surprisingly fragile and vulnerable ships themselves. All of which may lead to an ignominious death by sharks, starvation, or exposure.

It used to be a lot more dangerous, actually. Before satellite tracking of storms, vessels might easily and suddenly stumble into a hurricane or typhoon. Before the development of the steel-hulled and engine-driven ship, vessels burned more easily and were at the mercy of winds for navigation, including while actually engaged. Before the advent of large guns (reaching out tens of miles), ships often had to engage within 'boarding distance' of each other, requiring crews to find their way across the narrow gap between them and the enemy, taking the dual risk of being shot or carved up as they defenselessly swarmed across a gangplank or crushed between the hulls if the ships collided. Before neatly packaged cruise missiles and air-delivered naval ordnance, vessels had to fire many hundreds of high-explosive shells at each other, each taking a toll both on the firing platform and the target. Don't forget that the crews had to keep their respective vessels afloat despite the often appalling damage wrought by naval warfare, for after combat there is still the danger of storms and industrial failures--not to mention the chance of an enemy coming upon a crippled ship to finish her off.

There is certainly still danger. Missions may require penetrating storms or operating in shallow waters (like the Persian Gulf). Aviation operations are complicated and unforgiving, and the unwary sailor may be run over or sucked into a jet intake on a crowded carrier deck, cut in half by a split arresting cable, or blown off deck by jet exhaust just as the complacent pilot may lack the incredible required precision to put his or her aircraft on exactly the right spot on the pitching carrier deck on every landing to ensure a safe arrestment. Neatly packaged cruise missiles launch with a rocket booster, threatening their launch platform with rocket exhaust, while the radars required to guide them over long distances are powerful enough kill small birds (and presumably humans) who are too close to their emitters.

None of this danger takes into account the additional strain exerted by a life on the ocean. In order to be survivable, naval warships are not built for comfort or recreation. They are honeycombs of steel, built to sustain damage and yet function, with living and working spaces worked in around the armor, weaponry, and engines (and aviation paraphernalia, if the ship happens to be a carrier). The manpower requirements of operating the myriad systems for a complete twenty-four hour schedule require that as many sailors as possible live in the cramped quarters. The younger sailors won't even have their own bunk, often--they'll share it with a comrade on another shift. The ship must be kept free of rust, which means chipping paint, and tidy to allow for maximum efficiency in combat. There must be constant drills which pull crewmembers out of bed during their few hours of rest to prepare for possible disaster - firefighting, man-overboard recovery, and impending combat. Because it is a vastly complicated piece of machinery, often utilized to its design envelope or strained by the vagaries of the sea, things constantly need maintenance and repair. Because any crew-member may be killed or lost, the crew must conduct training so as many sailors as possible can perform a given job. All of which, of course, must be taken care of whenever free time comes up between the more important task of conducting the mission--whether that mission is a simple sea lane patrol or active combat operations.

The sailors who run these risks and suffer this difficult lifestyle are by necessity a disciplined and professional bunch. They bear the thankless burden of protecting the world's oceans, ostensibly for our own merchant shipping as the movement of goods is necessary to our economy. They do so in trying conditions and much danger, ready if required to protect our assets (and people) by force or to quickly take the fight to our enemy, restricting their movement of materiél and threatening their coastal cities. It's a valid threat our Navy poses to potential enemies, considering that most of the earth's surface is water and most of the population of the earth lives close enough to a coast to be within naval striking distance. It has probably never been calculated how much real deterrent a capable navy provides. It certainly isn't often considered in general society or the halls of power, where the vast movement of goods that brings cars and electronics and clothes to local stores is taken for granted and where the Navy, chiefly operating far from the eyes of the media and the world at large, seems to be considered little more than an expensive and probably unnecessary military toy. These sailors perform their tasks and exercise their values--honor, courage, and commitment--in the strained and difficult confines of small ships, alone upon the great and wild seas. They are often remembered only by their loved ones, who hope and pray for their safety without the comfort of constant telephone contact, a more recent luxury afforded to ground forces. They compete for our funding and resources with more visible brethren, whose service is evident in airplanes flying over our cities and soldiers living in our neighborhoods. And they often fail to get the money they need.

Due to military cutbacks the Navy has had to decrease the amount of ships it builds and maintains. In a response to the shrinking demand, the naval shipyards have cut production ability. Now the USS Enterprise will not complete its required overhaul on schedule, which will in turn require two ships to extend their deployment two more months. Instead of six months at sea, those crews will serve eight. It is perhaps not particularly significant, for there have been longer and more difficult deployments in the history of the service. The sailors in question will no doubt follow their esteemed forefathers and continue to serve with dedication, perfection, and without asking for pity. Their families will no doubt swallow their sadness and frustration and continue living a little longer without their loved ones close. Such is the reward and virtue of those Americans who decide to give their youth and maturity to a difficult service. But it seems a pity that we as a nation value our security and their sacrifice so little that we can spare so little of our vast resources on their vital mission, which requires them to spend even more of their own selves executing that mission anyway. For the mission must be accomplished. There is no compromise on that, either in the ethos of the service or the unforgiving evaluation of the nation.

Elsewhere are the details of how a modern military is essential to a nation's health and survival, and how it must be built upon foundation of public support and industrial capability. Yet we blindly continue to withdraw our public support, focusing generally on what we want instead of what we need, and we continuously shrink our industrial capability because we aren't willing to accept the expenditure. And the burden of our national defense and sustenance grows heavier, and falls upon fewer shoulders. Meanwhile, right now, the high and stern task of the Navy has become a bit more difficult. It is sad for those sailors and their families, and we should be mindful that the debt of gratitude we owe them is growing.

Red Flag Nellis

2009-09-08T21:09:00.000-04:00

Three weeks ago, I shipped out with my squadron for Red Flag Nellis, an aviation war game conducted at Nellis Air Force base in Las Vegas, Nevada. It's not much of a deployment, as it's only five hours away from San Diego, and it offers some pretty nice benefits: world-class training with other aviation services (including international ones) and the opportunity to experience the pleasures of Sin City. The exercise comes at an important time for our squadron particularly, as it forms the "final exercise" an air-to-air training syllabus we've conducted these past months. And almost as important as the tactics we practice is this opportunity for the squadron to experience the vicissitudes of deployment as a team before actually heading out to Japan next March.

Much as I remembered the last WestPac, deployment is suddenly a small life, made up of a shared hotel room, shared workspaces, a rigid vehicle schedule made for the convenience of all (but really the convenience of none), and the annihilating desire of comrades to engage in debauchery in Vegas. There are significant frustrations, like the lack of privacy and amenities (laundry, gym). There is constant heat and new faces and a high tempo of briefs and planning, with little free time in between. But there is also a high and august calling about it, a chance to really learn the trade of being a Hornet aircrew. There is a chance to live the tactics in way that is impossible in the comfortable life of San Diego; there is the immense satisfaction of working as a team to solve problems--logistical and tactical; and there is the unique joy that comes with being young and hardworking, being in a new and exotic place, and feeling capable of anything.

From the blowing desert surrounding Nellis AFB rise the fantastic towers of "The Strip," rising like Oz to the south of the base. They are a surreal sight in the canopy as we taxied to take off each day, while at night their brightness hurt our eyes whether viewed through night-vision goggles or not. It's truly amazing what we have created in Las Vegas - buildings of striking beauty and innovation, lavishly adorned, dedicated ironically and only to Mammon and lust. Long after our civilization has faded, I'm sure, the towers and sculptures and fountains of Las Vegas will stand mute ruined testimony to the glory and corruption of our people. As for the runways at Nellis: they will disappear, as all artifacts of virtue and sacrifice do--stories of those themes live only in legend. "Go tell Sparta, passer-bye / that we, obedient to their laws, here lie."

But there was little time for philosophical reflections during the exercise. The first week I was on the night page, beginning my day at 5:00 PM to fly at 10:30-ish, returning to the hotel around 6:00 AM the following morning after all the debriefs. The cycle was a bit like groundhog day: lots of briefs before the flight, lots of briefs after the flight, then time to go home, hungry from lack of time to eat and drained from the heat, the adrenaline of flying, and the strain of waiting in all the briefs. The hotel wasn't much of a home, either: reeking of second-hand smoke and constantly contaminated with the noise of slot machines, it was actually a little stressful as living quarters. But in spite of the schedule we had one weekend to relax, which we occupied (characteristically) with a gigantic party in the Wynn in downtown Vegas that Saturday night filled with craps, catered food, and squadron shenanigans in our party suits -- a kind of flight suit done in our squadron colors and adorned with patches of our choice (usually cataloguing our various experiences in the Corps and sometimes funnier stuff). Given that it's such a distinctive and novel suit, however, some of us were asked whether or not we were strippers as we strutted amongst the tables in the casino. A compliment? perhaps. Only in Vegas, though.

That single Sunday was given to recovery and, for some of us, church. The Cathedral in Vegas is amazing for several reasons, and I've written of it before. For one, it is on the strip itself, stoutly lodged among rival temples to pleasure and money. For another, it has some fantastic art. Non-traditional, to be sure, but nonetheless fantastic. Dominated by a youthful, athletic, beardless Jesus, there is a triumphant air to the aggressively modern building. It's enough to make most Catholics uncomfortable, as it sort of ignores the suffering aspect of Christ's life, but its worth seeing and spiritually stimulating nonetheless. It felt like a turnpoint, too, because I moved from the awkward schedule of night flights to the more normal rhythm of daytime missions. And by that point most of our comrades were surfeited on gambling and night-time pursuits. From that point on it was a race to Friday, our last day in that city of harsh sunlight and dark nightlife. The fantastic flying and long hours helped pass the time.

In my experience, the best part of Las Vegas is getting there and leaving. It is wonderful and magnificent, but up close it reveals its seediness despite the appalling luxury and its unhappiness despite the constant entertainment. It makes me uneasy. It was good to fly in Red Flag, and fun to see the wonders of that city again. But it was better far to leave.

Especially since I went from there to a wonderful and much-anticipated vacation in Chicago, autumn town and long-time love affair of mine.

Reflections on a summer weekend

2009-08-15T20:32:00.000-04:00

Four and a half months after my return from deployment I find myself still, by and large, content to quietly enjoy freedom. I haven't really fought for freedom in the way of those who have seen combat; my deployment experience involved loneliness and hardship but no conflict. Nevertheless, I continue to deeply enjoy the quiet moments in my apartment with my friends and family accessible, the feel of driving my own car, and the ability to disappear occasionally. This summer has been good for it.

The squadron's flights on a daily basis are relatively simple. They are training flights. Occasionally, when we have new or inexperienced aircrew, we conduct the simplest of flights, where we practice basic military aviation skills like dropping bombs or employing air-to-air weapons. But those are stepping-stones, really, to more advanced flights wherein basic employment how-do-I-get-this-thing-to-do-what-I-want (i.e. launch a missile or drop a bomb) is taken for granted, and the challenge lies in executing tactics. Because while it's all well and good to be able to deliver ordnance on your enemy, the real trick is doing so when your enemy is aware and possibly trying to kill you, which they tend to do when you're attacking them. But even these "more advanced" flights are stepping-stones, despite requiring detailed tactical knowledge and skilled flying in addition to basic employment abilities. Because the real war that we could conduct, and the one we wish to train to, involves detailed coordination of disparate elements. Within the Marine Corps alone there are other aviation elements to protect and to work with, and the entire aviation element has to protect and provide for the ground unit. After all, the whole business of dominating your enemy starts with an Infantry Marine whose boots are on the deck and who controls the actions of others by holding a monopoly on violence. That Marine is, by Marine Corps doctrine, the entire reason for the aviation element in the first place.

So, having diluted the purpose of my squadron's business to its most basic raison d'etre, we return to the necessary inadequacy of monthly squadron training. It's necessary that we are good at the basic skills of our profession, but certainly not sufficient to conduct a real battle. It's likewise necessary for that infantryman to be skilled at employing his rifle, but he must also be able to integrate and employ with machine-guns, mortars, artillery, mechanized units, and so on all the way up the ladder of a combined arms conflict. And because it is expensive and time-consuming to gather the scattered elements of a division, or an air wing, together, there are few opportunities if any to practice in peacetime that kind of integration. So it was with excitement (and a little grumbling) that we departed from our comfortable Southern California work schedule last week to plan and host a Large Force Exercise (LFE).

In a way, it was a welcome relief from the mundane. Once in a rhythm of flying, well, the flights are still fun and offer lots of opportunity for improvement, but they don't take quite as much personal investment as before. Which leaves more time to be guilty about not doing ground-side, administrative work. And my beloved Corps being a military institution, there is always more paperwork and bureaucratic tasks to complete. So those of us involved in the planning turned to our computers and tactics manuals to plan an exercise that could accommodate Air Force and Navy units, integrated with operational combat systems, responding to a fully detailed scenario. It is tiring and enjoyable, those 12-hour days. There are few breaks for food or rest between all the coordination meetings and the plan or product revisions, but being a member of the team and working hard to produce together a cogent and workable plan is an inspiring experience and very much worth the suffering. It brought me back to the long happy tactical days of Red Flag Alaska and Aces North in Australia, when the squadron banded together into a tough group of professionals, leading complicated missions and doing their best to ensure the success of missions in which they only had a part. This is the best kind of flying: tactical knowledge is assumed, the missions are dynamic and require flexibility, we carry and deliver real ordnance, and there is a real-time proctor of the fight to send "killed" aircraft home when they die. It's as close to combat as it gets, simply put, and a chance to show our mettle. And we relish that.

It is part of our internal squadron workup to go to Red Flag Nellis later this month, which is in turn part of our work-up to deploy back to Japan for the spring, summer, and early fall of 2010. I am excited for it. Though I have recently found some new things for which to stay home, there is no denying that WestPac is a valuable and exciting experience. It has a purpose I agree with also; for to guarantee that freedom and democracy have a chance to flourish in the world outside our borders we must show Free Democracies that we will support, assist, and even protect them from entities who want them to fail. St. Thomas Aquinas paraphrased Aristotle by saying that excess of anything is always bad, except excess of devotion to the Lord. So also extreme ideology is bad, except the extreme ideal that man, left alone to do so, will accomplish much more through his own freedom than otherwise. Clearly, "extreme" is a provocative word, and a limited one, for there are some limits: freedom that provides opportunity is generally peaceful and free from threat and oppression from within and without, and it requires a culture which encourages success. But those elements, I believe, grow organically out of freedom as a whole. That is what we've accomplished practically in the United States (despite certain attempts to nationalize certain services), and we've been successful with it. Doing our bit to help others along by demonstrating our commitment is the right and decent thing to do. That is, in essence, what each WestPac is about, and I am proud of my part in it.

It is easy to sit on a summer afternoon in San Diego under lucid skies and pleasant burnished disc of the sun and reflect on these things. It is pleasant to remember the feelings of WestPac: the urgency to exercise disciplined, professional flight operations while dealing with foreign-language controllers and foreign airspace; the unparalleled freedom of having nothing more complicated to do in your free time but hang out with your comrades; the easy studying with no beaches or non-squadron loved ones to distract you; and the wonder at seeing places like Korea and Australia. But though such nice reflections diminish the memories of loneliness, the burden of short tempers, and the frustration of unsolvable problems, such memories remain distant and let me know that the next WestPac will not all be fantastic flying and parties. There is considerable difficulty in living long months away from loved ones, and the ideals which support your purpose out there, supporting free nations with the best you have to offer, feel quite cold and sterile.

And so it is. I am beginning to get that itch again to go after greatness--first at Red Flag, then during WestPac. To suffer for my beliefs and earn them. Not, obviously, as those who have seen combat. But I cherish their sacrifice and hope my own investment will be worthy of them. I will also enjoy this nation that we jointly serve, but to different degrees: the freedom, in this case, of enjoying a long summer evening, with metaphysical thoughts in my head and the desire to put them on paper.

(Or in this case, a computer screen)

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

2009-07-14T22:22:00.000-04:00

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

2009-07-07T20:42:00.000-04:00

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

2009-07-02T22:40:00.000-04:00

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

2009-06-02T19:32:00.000-04:00

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

2009-05-18T01:35:00.000-04:00

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

2009-05-14T15:10:00.000-04:00

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

2009-04-26T12:44:00.000-04:00

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

2009-04-15T20:25:00.000-04:00

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.

A Laetare Sunday Story

2009-03-31T00:58:00.000-04:00

So it was last Tuesday that I left my erstwhile home in Iwakuni, Japan for the long-awaited trip back across the Pacific. I was returning to my real home in San Diego, and let me tell you that I'd been looking forward very forward to it. I was supposed to arrive three days ago, but due to the intervention of a little misfortune and happenstance, I was unavoidably detained elsewhere (not that it's all bad, I promise). At this point, I've been traveling for five days - or rather six, since I went from Wednesday back into Tuesday while crossing the International Date Line. Which is a bit strange, I think, the whole having to set the date on your watch back. It makes the concept of continuous and linear time seem kinda silly. In any case, these past six days have brought me up short on Laetare Sunday.

Appropriately enough, it was St. Patrick's Day that I lived through twice, commonly one of revelry in the United States. Now I like St. Patrick quite a bit (being part Irish by birth and all Irish by attendance at Notre Dame), and I'm not averse to raising the odd glass or two in his memory, especially on his dedicated feast day, but sadly this day always occurs during Lent, when I make the habit (or have for several years) of jumping back on the wagon as a form of fasting. That being a big part of Lent and all. So this year, despite having two feast days instead of one, I honored him soberly. I don't think he'll mind--after all, as a Saint the old boy probably did some fasting of his own.

Anyway, it's appropriate that we got St. Patrick's Day twice because the feasting and imbibery therein associated fits quite nicely with the general theme of our recent WestPac. I've mentioned this before, but for a crew of young, healthy, and motivated men and women, taken lately from their loved ones and accustomed society, there's little to do but try to make the best of a new situation the easy way. And that's done primarily with alcohol, with Western Pacific watering holes like Tokyo, Korea, Okinawa, and Australia having in abundance. So without divulging anything too incriminating, I can say only that we made plenty of fun over the course of the deployment, with some parties perhaps even welcoming that particular type of enjoyment all the more for certain stateside restrictions that didn't apply overseas (though of course I personally cannot recall any such individual myself). So though we greeted our impending return home with considerable joy and eager anticipation, we were a bit nostalgic for our happy WestPac fraternity, forged by the trials and drinking games of WestPac, which would soon be broken by the presence of loved ones and the inevitable march of the Marine Corps, and therefore set forth from Iwakuni with the honest intent of making the most of our last days on deployment.

Our chief excitement in this regard was reserved for Hawaii, which by a glorious and unexpected grace the powers-that-be had designated as the site of our "catch-up" day--firstly, for to fix any broken aircraft and allow tardy ones to catch up, and secondly to allow us fragile aircrew to "readjust our internal clocks" and "reset our Circadian Rhythms," because apparently such things were knocked off kilter during the course of transiting seven time zones in two days. Wouldn't want the men with $40 million of high-tech, deadly government property to be tired or jet-lagged. No, sir, that wouldn't do at all. A positively careless gamble with the public purse. So in the interests of prudence and fiscal discipline we gleefully landed at Honolulu International and rushed headlong to the relaxation of Waikiki beach. Not but what the ongoing spring break didn't motivate us a little bit too.

What a fitting end to WestPac! we thought (and gushed to one another). A free evening out on the town, with no required wakeup the next morning, and a whole free day after that--well! what an opportunity for celebration (and perhaps other things as well). It was a perfect situation, really. One final big push, one final memorable night, then at long last, home. And I did make the most of it, soaking up the ambiance and scenery of a popular local restaurant that first night, then visiting the USS Arizona Memorial the next morning (which, I tell you, makes a man right solemn and pondersome), then hiking up the local volcano Diamondhead that afternoon for some famous Hawaiian scenery and a mighty pretty view of the city.

The next morning, my pilot and I started up our aircraft just fine until we realized it required a little extra servicing before it could fly. So we settled ourselves in for a bit of a wait, knowing that we would miss the first launch but certainly would make the second -- no big deal at all. A small hiccup, totally canceled by a timely substitution. Shortly, we taxied out and took off, and finally were on our way!

Now the tanker assigned to us for this final leg was of the KC-10 variety, and it was set up to dispense fuel from two wing-mounted pods. The reason being that some fifty-pound brains (i.e. nerds) had determined that when out around the middle of our route from Hawaii to the US (and some one thousand miles from land in any direction), cycling any more than three jets on a hose could result in a situation where players might not have enough gas to reach terra firma at all, which would be bad, all things considered. Ejection over the middle of the ocean is not conducive to rescue or survival, given that the ejectees are relying on a mere chance that some boat is at hand to pull them out. So the two-hose configuration of our Tanker was required in order to safely nurse all six aircraft home. Unfortunately, said wing-mounted hoses are not altogether reliable. But more on that in a second.

So we had ourselves a plan. And it seemed to be working, too. The first aircraft hooked up to his basket just fine. The second one, however... well, the second aircraft barely got his probe into the other basket when, to our united horror and dismay, the hose bowed ominously. To quick to be countered (but to our wondering eyes seeming quite slow) a wave flicked along the length of the hose, then rebounded from the Tanker's wing and ripped the probe right off our jet. There was suddenly a lot of fuel spraying from the now useless hose, or at least there was for the very long couple seconds it took the tanker guys to shut off the flow. And suddenly we were down to one hose.

So there was to be no homecoming that day for that aircraft, nor (as it turns out) for my pilot or me neither, because The Rules Governing Military Aviation clearly state that all fighter aircraft must travel with mutual support (i.e. another aircraft), and we were lucky enough to be chosen as the escorting aircraft. It was a turn back to Hawaii for our two jets, to await the fixing of one broken probe and the irritating whimsy of the Air Force, from whom we now needed another Tanker.

As you might expect, I use the phrase "lucky enough" with some sarcasm, because after six long months home had started looking pretty nice. Especially the part about not living out of a suitcase. In fact, I'd worked myself up into a considerable state of excitement over the whole homecoming, and well to turn around like that was frankly a disappointment. By the time we touched back down at Honolulu I had worked myself back up into a right foul mood. However, being (still somewhat) young and resilient, and being unable to ignore the increasingly excited company of my fellows (nor the good weather neither), I gradually simmered down and began to enjoy the prospect of some more days on vacation.

And the next couple days exceeded my expectations. We did plenty of sightseeing and even caught some nice Waikiki nightlife -- especially as two of those "couple days" were Friday and Saturday. But wouldn't you know that Sunday always follows quick on the heels of the weekend, and with it the inevitable obligation of Sunday Mass. Of course, by phrasing it that way I don't mean to indicate that I dislike Sunday Mass, but ] after the late weekend of unmitigated Spring Break, it was a little bit more of a transition than usual. Required reorganizing the mind, like.

Fortunately, there was an easily identifiable church not 10 minutes (walking distanc) from my hotel, which looked like one of those rigidly beautiful structures built for worship in the 1950s and 60s. Triangular in structure, with triangular side windows of stained glass, it is aggressively simple and points aggressively upwards. It has a new, modern, and severe feeling--all of which enhances and makes conspicuous the soft, beautiful scenes depicted in the stained glass. The side windows each illustrate episodes of the Gospel, and the entire front of the church is a giant stained-glass picture of the Church's patron, St. Augustine. It was cool and dim inside. It was also relatively full, which I found surprising in a parish that caters mainly to tourists.

Now, like any good Catholic I understand intellectually that Mass is something in which I participate, but which does not require my participation. I've been instructed that the Mass is essentially whole and complete whether or not a congregation is present at all. Likewise, a Mass is not less valuable for the absence of music (or the use of substandard music) nor even for quality of homily preached. All that notwithstanding, I (like many fellow Irishmen) personally hold some rather strong opinions about the whole affair, especially during special season like Lent. Consequently I prepared to cock a rather jaundiced and cynical eye on this event.

But my first impression was one of humility, as I realized I had forgotten what day it was: Laetare Sunday, when in the midst of Lent the Catholic Church calls upon it's members to be joyful in remembrance that past the fasting and penance lies the hope of Easter. More humility was dished up later on when I found my mind wandering during the Gospel reading. Before you go getting all judgmental on me, however, you should know that it was the optional reading provided for integration with an RCIA class, and it was a long one -- but still, that's a pretty poor excuse. It wasn't even boring or anything; it told the (remarkable) story of Jesus curing the blind man on the Sabbath. Perhaps I was a bit petulant in my sub-conscience, given that I am used to (and sort of expect) nice short easily digestible readings. Not that that's any better an excuse, however. I mean, the Gospel is the most important text there is when it comes to Church, and it's pretty sad if I can't pay attention for fifteen minutes instead of five.

In consequence of all that humility, I was pretty sullen when I sat down to hear the homily. My mood was not improved by the fact that the priest has a strong accent. It wasn't that he spoke poor English, mind -- his grammar was correct, his sentences eloquent, and his ideas coherent -- it was that deciphering his actual words required just a little extra concentration. Concentration I'd rather have used berating myself, what with me being the inordinately proud Catholic that I am. So with a barely audible sigh of frustration, I swung my arm back over the pew and and settled in grumpily to listen.

What I heard was surprising. The priest directed our attention to the many references to "sight" or "seeing" in the Gospel, and reminded us that the quick, commercialized modern world offers us an overwhelming stream of images --advertisements, television programs, magazines, movies, music, and books -- all which may conflict with or distract from the image of God. He asked if we were choosing to see the right images, and explained how "the Jews" of the Gospel reading (which occupy the role of Jesus' own people , which essentially means us) had chosen blindness by refusing to see the right image, the sign he worked for them in the curing. There is no blindness, he admonished, like the blindness of those who either refuse to see what they are looking at or who refuse to look at all. He concluded with a twofold mandate: first, that we reject images that distract or detract from God, and second that we actively participate in sacrament and prayer -- thus we might not be blind to God.

Now I was brought up respectful and more often than not will address an older gentleman or lady by "sir" or "ma'am," respectively. It therefore stands to reason that I generally hold priests in esteem as well. But there was something extra worthy about that priest in Waikiki: it took some intestinal fortitude to stand in front of a church full of Spring Breaker and tell them they are looking at the wrong images. I mean, it's a well-known fact that the images of Hawaii are pretty spectacular, whether you're into the natural beauty of the islands themselves or the possibly natural beauty of Hawaiians and/or other tourists. Furthermore, nobody on vacation wants to hear a lecture, especially one that implicitly questions their very reason for being there. Yet I knew as I heard him speak that I needed to hear each word he said, as as far as I could tell the entire congregation had the same reaction: there seemed to be a lot humility and inspiration going around. I guess hearing the truth has that kind of effect on people.

So there's nothing like a bit of good bit of preaching to get you to think about your priorities, and I was painfully aware that I had been a just a mite too caught up in having fun, and rather reprehensibly unconcerned with spiritual and filial duties. And that had been my condition since starting the deployment. There, at the end, it was time to turn around and start working on meaningful relationships like family and old friends, and actually enter spirit of Lent. Which is, after all, partially about fasting and serving others; two things that I pretty much ignored throughout WestPac.

So, Laetare indeed! Our delay, such a disappointment to me at first, has turned out providential. The headlong rush of deployment carried me in some ways far from my values, but inside that stern beautiful church the illusions I had been chasing were exposed and melted, briefly, in the face of holier images. So I will begin both penance and fasting in cheerful earnest -- fasting from the excesses I'd grown used to and penance to correct my previous spiritual lassitude, all in the joyful hope of Easter, when Christ will rise again before me and renew the great promise of heaven.

Limbo (and thereafter)

2009-03-14T02:49:00.001-04:00

Limbo occurs every so often. You know, when you aren't really anywhere? In this itinerant life I lead, it happens every so often that I just go and leave my life behind and end up in limbo, or the other way around. Recently it was the latter--my life just picked on up and left, and here I am in nowhere. Nowhere called Iwakuni, Japan. Lately my home.

This happened after college, too, except that it was me leaving then. I walked out of Commencement and suddenly my home wasn't my home anymore. My stadium, my dome, my dorm, my quads and classrooms, all were then suddenly someone else's. I felt like a guest where before I'd been family. I suppose it was my sense of propriety. After all, it was the occasion of an hour-long ceremony that changed my status. But with a diploma in hand I was officially a part of the work force, and no longer a college student. It was kind of sad, really - not in the least "bittersweet." I'd been happy at college. I didn't know if I'd be happy in "real life." Nothing to do, however, but move on out. It's nice to be single, I guess. It makes you mobile. It makes dealing with limbo easier.

This latest movement is kind of sad, too. Iwakuni used to be kind of a special place. Both good and bad, to be sure. But special nonetheless. I mean, here you could really be a part of something unique. Not many people get a second crack at their high school or college years. You know, when your only social prospects are a short walk away from your door? besides your discrete responsibilities, all you have to do is play sports or party together or sight-see, which are pretty much the best three things in the worlds anyway (besides relationships). It's all the more care-free because it happens in a foreign country. You don't have the pressing weight of social conventions all around you to keep you down. You can be just as rude or wild as you want. But it's even better than it was back when you were a teenager, because you can enjoy it more. You can be juvenile AND laugh at your own juvenility.

Sure, I won't miss the weather (though today is restless and breezy, with some fast-moving puffy clouds playing games with the sun). I won't miss the repetetive radio station, or the limited TV channels, or the five fast-food restaurants that make up your choices for dinner. I won't miss the lack of female companionship or the lack of freedom. That all gets kind of wearing after a while. It makes you yearn to drive a car, or crave a particular food (fish tacos, in my case). It makes you suddenly appreciative of the little pleasures of living in the States. But it also highlights what you're missing back in the States.

You see, six months is a long time to be gone. Time for people to get used to not having you around. Time for your friends to get new friends, or new romances. Time for existing relationships to grow fonder from the absence, which is great if you are in one of those relationships but not so much if you aren't. Because the net effect of all this is that you're not just in limbo when your life moves away from you, you move back into limbo when you catch it up. So I guess I'm not that much in a hurry to get out of here. At least now I have time to do those things I miss in a normal work-week, like write emails (blogs?), work out, or eat normal meals.

The problem is that vacation isn't really all that fun. I thrive on stress, apparently, because I get kind of bored after a day of doing nothing. And a routine is boring too. So here I am, stuck on Iwakuni with all it's opportunities available, and I find that even if I avail myself of all of them I still have too many extra hours in the day. So despite the potential limbo waiting in San Diego, I really do want to leave here on timeline. At least it gives me something to do.

It also gives me something to look forward to, of course. I mean, my old life might not be so far gone. With a little grace and effort I might re-integrate rather easily. But that will require growth. When in limbo, with time to be scared, growth seems kind of intimidating. More so than when things are busy, because you only really realize that you've grown after the fact. Like right now, obviously, I am realizing all the ways I grew during WestPac, but I sure didn't realize that I was growing in the moment. I was working too hard or getting yelled at or trying to survive another drinking bout. THAT was easy.

But life moves on. Everyone knows that. It's probably better to jump on board. I'd like to do so, but I have to wait in limbo for a couple of days yet. It seems kind of useless to cling to the "good ol' days" of this now-mostly-past WestPac, but maybe that will make this limbo go by faster. It'll be good when it ends, on the whole. Whatever that brings.

The progress of springtime and the path to Calvary

2009-03-11T07:57:00.000-04:00

The nights can be cold in Iwakuni, Japan. I know this well because I often walk home long past sunset. Over the months I have spent out here, I have enjoyed on these occasions only the company of remote and wintry stars, sleet or snow, freezing rain, or occasionally the roar of jets overhead, invisible in the clouds. This nightly walk has become so much of a habit for me that I have come to expect the feel of my leather jacket heavy on my shoulders and close around my waist, the fur collar either cold and wet or warm and comfortable, and the familiar solitary shortcuts through parking lots. Such has been the substance of my nightly relaxation before I reach my room, my bed, and the challenges of tomorrow.

Tonight was different. Though cool, it lacked its wonted bitterness. It seemed young and pleasant, with the full moon rising large and golden in the hazy air and the northern sky perceptibly lighter than I could ever remember. As I passed a drainage ditch, usually silent but for the sound of cold running water, I heard a cheerful cacophany of birds amongst the bushes. Abruptly I realized that springtime had arrived.

There had been other harbingers. Certain days were inexplicably sunny after weeks of freezing rain, only to then disappear behind the frigid clouds. Today, at work, I noticed unconsciously the warmish sunlight and aching clarity of the air. And recently we switched from the green uniforms we wear in wintertime to the tan ones we wear from spring through fall. So I knew it was coming. But I am tonight nevertheless surprised and suddenly excited at the palpable approach of springtime.

It has been a long winter in many respects. The constant movement of the first months of the deployment made for busy days and changing scenery, which partially distracted from homesickness and stress. However, once we moved back to Iwakuni the days became indistinguishable. They all had the same long hours, the same bad weather, the same (now irritating) sights, and a heavy, growing desire to go home. So deep was the winter, in fact, that Ash Wednesday arrived with no warning and I found myself, bewildered and flailing, on the road to Cavalry when seemingly just weeks ago I was rejoicing at Christ's birth.

Plain wisdom tells us that God waits for no man. The cycle and myriad responsibilities of work are absolutely engaging, whether they involve flying, studying, or administrative tasks. But so invested had I become in their accomplishment that I'd nearly forgotten the dues owed to my God and to my soul. Somewhere between the weekly Masses and the occasional Confession I had let the winter and my imposed obligations dominate my life. The first step towards achieving temperance is the weary acquiescence to the demands of Lent, and the second this exciting arrival of springtime.

Lent requires discipline and sacrifice, for both are necessary to break bad habits. It forces me out of my spiritual complacence and pulls my mind away from the trivial things that make up my physical life. The arrival of springtime is, in the context of Christianity, the anticipation and foreshadowing of God's promise; in the context of Lent it is a metaphor promising that our purpose is not to fast and suffer, but eventually to be joyful (in the presence of God). The fasting enables that by weaning us from those false gods that tempt us from happiness: ambition, excess guilt, excess affection, depression, and lust. The fruit borne by our Lenten discipline is mimicked in nature by the process of spring.

It has happened before and it will happen again. Suddenly tonight I am light of heart and optimistic; I have transitioned gratefully from darkness into a brighter world. I have, no doubt, experienced many such transitions and no doubt will experience many more, but nothing can dilute the immediacy of the visceral and sensuous reaction I have to the signs of spring tonight. There is joy ahead. Winter will end. But in order to find that end, I must, like everyone else, purge from their dark thrones the vices and distractions that have grown upon me. The path to summer always lies through Calvary.

My Mistress the Sky

2009-03-01T05:58:00.000-05:00

I used to see clouds chiefly from the ground up. In Seattle, that meant mostly looking at a matte gray ceiling, broken up (prettily enough) by tall firs. On clear days, the unexciting clouds were replaced by very exciting mountains and some pretty incredible views. The Pacific Northwest has been described before as "God's Country."

Once, just into my second decade of life, I had an opportunity to see thunderheads. On a week-long canoe camping trip through the Bowron Lakes, I remember one afternoon distinctly when the slanting sunlight of northern climes illuminated large pillars of clouds building over the mountains. I found it (and the fantastically loud and relentless storm that followed) both impressive and exotic. All too soon, however, I returned to mild Seattle and continued my somewhat uninterested relationship with this particular natural phenomenon.

I subsequently spent all but the summers of the next four years in the midwest, followed by one autumn/winter period in Virginia, and found little to change my perspective. But in Pensacola, however, I developed a new appreciation for clouds. There were early winter mornings when I would drive in bad-temperedly for a 5:30 flight brief, only to be stopped in my tracks by the sight of delicate, lacy wisps floating unimaginably high, softly luminous in the approaching dawn. There were tense flights among dark walls of cloud, where my instructor and I would follow the sunlight as best we could, hoping that the field was clear. In late summertime, the evenings were ever heralded by storms arrayed in line-of-battle formation, steadily marching from west to east across the town. Yet I paid but cursory attention to those wonders, for they had much to compete with. My senses were too often busy with the sugary white sand, the unpredictable spring/autumn surf, or the placid and dolphin-graced bayous to contemplate the sky.

San Diego has very little to offer. The desert haze and southern California smog combine to make a pristine blue sky rare even when there are no clouds, and when the sky is obscured it is by a dense and oppressively gray "Marine Layer" of fog that sits about 2000' above the water. The air is clearer in the mountains and over the small airfields I routinely fly through in El Centro and Creech, but it is desert country. There are no clouds there.

But the skies over the western Pacific are a wonderland. Many sunset hours I have spent on long navigation legs, quietly traversing the hundreds of miles between the mainland and Okinawa and contemplating the multi-colored ranges that tower from a mere twenty thousand feet over the water to over sixty thousand, or the broken layers that look like blasted landscapes below the aircraft. On many approaches into MCAS Iwakuni I have seen thick fog lap against the volcanic slopes of Japan's home islands, secretively obscuring coasts, towns, and valley floors. Many evenings in Australia I stood in the entrance tunnel to our operations bunker, watching vast thunderstorms gather the dying sunlight in the distance or watching their fury lash the unsheltered Outback. Occasionally, I had the fortune to fly (warily) in the vicinity of such storms, marvelling at their sheer bulk, the violence of their lightning, and the astonishing density of the rain they visited on the ground.

All in all, I find that I appreciate weather much more than I used to. In all likelihood this is as much to do with the places I've lived or visited as it is with the fact that weather is an actual threat to those in my profession. Recently I had my first experience of "the leans," a sort of vertigo or disorientation wherein what aircrew feels as "straight and level" flight is in fact frighteningly skewed. In my case, I felt that my airplane was tilted up on a wingtip--90 degree angle-of-bank, for the aviation-minded--and dropping like a rock, despite the attitude indications in the cockpit showing me that we were in fact flying as straight and level as possible. More than a source of disorientation, weather in the form of clouds can so thoroughly obscure the ground that an airplane cannot safely descend low enough to see a runway...which makes landing impossible. Certain weather phenomena can actually damage the airplane, such as hail or the ice which forms sometimes when flying through precipitation (built-up ice will actually change the shape of the wing and in extreme cases cause the airplane to lose aerodynamic lift). So it is not surprising that I focus more on things like clouds, given that they can pose a serious threat.

I suppose in some ways I probably view the skies in some wise as sailors view the sea: something to love, something to respect, and at times something to fear. And then the common-sense warnings of innumerable military safety posters emerge from my memory. After all, knowing to fear the sky makes me a safer aviator.

But even at it's most dangerous the sky is a beautiful place.

A Crisis of Character

2009-02-21T21:51:00.000-05:00

On August 28, 1963, Martin Luther King Jr. stood in front of the memorial to Abraham Lincoln and addressed the vast crowds surrounding the reflecting pool. He spoke words stirring and inspiring, words that epitomized a piece of the so-called "American Dream," words that we have remembered as a credo. "I have a dream," he said, "that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character." Many people in America today have expressed their belief that after 45 long years, that dream is finally realized. A partially black man sits in the White House--judged, apparently, by the content of his character rather than the color of his skin. He is indeed to be admired: when he was born, to be a "half-breed" was to incur derision, insult, and perhaps injury; from that to have risen through the mostly-white society of Columbia University and the Ivy League and made it to the Presidency is a testament to will, determination, intelligence, and charisma.

It has been my luxury to watch the national (and international) euphoria at his inauguration from some distance, stationed as I am on a foreign military base and insulated from the day-to-day zeitgeist that has seized my countrymen. Though I regret not being able to enjoy in person the real hope Mr. Obama's election has given so many Americans, it seems oddly irrational and misplaced, in which it has much in common with the widespread contempt and hatred for his predecessor, George Bush.

Much ink has already been spilled regarding Mr. Bush. He has been portrayed as a tyrant and a dictator both for his part in allowing our government to spy on us in an effort to catch domestically-based terrorists and for his seeming eagerness to go to war; he has also been portrayed as a Paladin, courageously protecting America in spite of the obvious hatred of his citizens. An article in The Economist explained his controversial nature best, I think, positing that he was excessively and fiercely partisan, shutting out quality opposition politicians in favor of "his boys" (good repulicans all)--whether or not they had the talent to do their job well. The best-remembered instance of the resulting and depressingly wide-spread mismanagement was his Defense Secretary's failed plan for post-conflict Iraq, where insufficient American troops were unable to stop growing sectarian violence that nearly tore the fledgling country apart.

There is no question, I think, that this particular criticism of Mr. Bush is justified. Yet I wonder: will no one say a word about his sincerity? will no one give him credit for a demonstrable and unwavering commitment to defending his nation? will no one recognize that despite his many (and perhaps unforgiveable) offenses he tried as America's leader to do right by the world? will no one even applaud his temperance and apparent devotion to his family? He had moral courage: in accordance with his values he opposed abortion and gallantly championed the cause of freedom--even with the lives of Americans. He called fundamentalist Islam by its true name: Evil. He had character and integrity, best demonstrated by the many times visited the men and women he sent in harm's way in order to show his concern for them and tell them face-to-face that he didn't hold their lives cheap but rather truly believed in the cause he had made their own. Sadly, his mistakes show that though he was a good man, he fell short of the greatness that his term as president demanded. I don't, however, think any honest observer could say he lacked the kind of character Rev. King was talking about.

Mr. Bush's very vocal detractors did not judge him on his character, at least not his personal character. They apparently didn't much care about his personal character. What of his character they judged they interpolated from his politics, which disagreed with their own. Their idea of a "good man" was not necessarily one who developed and stuck with convictions, or one who struggled to be a good husband and father, or even one who went out of his way to show his people that he cared about them. Their idea of a good man was one who respected women enough to give them the right to choose abortion, one who made the institution of social justice a top priority, and one who went out of his way to co-exist with neighbors, even at the expense of compromising values. In essence, their idea of a good man was one whose values agreed with their own, and they taught our nation that one's character isn't formed in his or her personal life, but rather in the public life. Mr. Bush's politics were arrogant and bourgeois, and therefore so was his character.

Now, of course, they declare with equal vehemence that the nobility of Mr. Obama's character. His values agree with theirs and he displays in his public life all the indicators of good politics, and for those politics he won the election. Thus Rev. King's words have indeed come true, for between the Presidents Bush and Obama America has made judgment, and found the content of Mr. Obama's character to be greater than that of Mr. Bush. This essay is not the place to discuss the contradictory values of these two men, nor does Mr. Obama's personal character need any defense. But to judge the latter on his politics and call that his character is unfair and deprecating. Surely, despite his politics, we might take heart in his idealism and charisma. Surely, we can see that his apparent success as a community member, husband, and father bodes well for his Presidency. And surely, to disagree with his politics does not preclude appreciating his other attributes.

It is well that so many Americans hope for a better future shaped by the ideas of our inspiring new President. But those ideas are at best the product of his character and not its substance. I also have high hopes for Mr. Obama and his adminstration and yet I mourn the departure of a good, sincere, courageous, and caring man who, despite mistakes, has over the last eight years displayed great "character" in guiding America's unequivocal response to the threatening circumstances of his time.

Rev. King's famous words still reverberate in our souls, the more so because they are not yet realized. We have so far advanced in social justice that we have a mixed-race president, and that is very good. How sad, then, that in our treatment of Mr. Bush we have shown ourselves still very far indeed from Rev. King's idealistic and inspiring dream.

On Country Music and "American" Values

2009-01-04T02:01:00.001-05:00

I grew up in an environment very hostile to Country music. Seattle, Washington is known as the cradle of Grunge and maintains today, 15 years after the fact, an "alternative" music identity. I spent my formative college years at Notre Dame, which is mostly stocked with bluff midwestern Catholics and rich northeast Catholics who between them enjoyed a combination of hard rock, punk, and the occasional indulgence in pop music or hip-hop when it came down to dorm parties. My tastes then were nursed on a certain amount of assumed condescension toward Country music--it was, as my friends intimated to me on more than one occasion, the sound of a backwards, conservative, probably bigoted and ultimately embarrassing segment of America. And though I lived my next three years in the South, I maintained this attitude toward country music even if I found that land filled with good people and good values (both of which I miss to this day). It wasn't until I got to California that I suddenly found myself--very surprisingly--craving Country. Clearly, some unconscious comparison between the two disparate pieces of America thrust the issue into focus for me.

There is no doubt that Country music has become more popular of late. I even hear some Country songs on pop radio stations, which is of course appropriate because the odd Country music song (usually sung by an attractive young lady) will break into the mainstream Top 4o. Thus, I am clearly not the only one who is converting to a previously despised genre. Why? I think the reason for this is simple and often overlooked: Country music evokes the image of a happier, simpler time wherein we individually valued rightness over success and could therefore collectively be prouder of ourselves and our society.

The distinction between rightness and success as sources of happiness is one that resonates deeply with me, both because of my religion and (I'll argue) because of our collective understanding of "American Values." It isn't for nothing that the midwest and the south, where people live their lives in contempt of the cosmopolitan coasts and adhere to more ancient values and tradetions, are regarded as the repository of American culture--or at least when it comes to rugged individualism and the frontier ideal. We tend to regard the "settlers" and entrepreneurs who founded and built the states west of the Appalacians and south of the Mason-Dixon Line (excluding most of the West Coast) with idealism: these were the men and women who made something out of nothing; these were the men and women who raised our nation; these were the the people who valued independence, diligence, respect, and love; these were the salt of the earth. Yet that unconscious comparison that triggered my sudden, delicious, descent into Country music was the obvious fact that the people of the south apparent conformed to those idealized values with their own lives.

During my residence in the south I was surprised to see how kind, capable, friendly and even happy the general population was. Everywhere I found southerners from toddlers to great-grandparents acting respectful, respectful, sociable, and pleasantly independent (by which I mean they weren't needy). Near as I could make out, this was due to their lack of pretension. They could enjoy their surroundings without concerning themselves with the presence or attitudes of others. It felt overwhelmingly right and comfortable to me--I was in the curious position of feeling the need to be polite and yet also feeling no burden to be a certain person. Perhaps that sounds like a contradiction in terms, but for all that it is no less true. After all, politeness is simply, well, polite, and has very little to do with the values and perspectives that make up a character.

This lifestyle became suddenly much more noticeable by it's absence in San Diego. The cliche states that Southern California is mostly about image and style--and I'm afraid to say that it's both true and quite painfully obvious in the general unfriendliness of people. Often they are downright rude to each other, especially in restaurants and cafes, on the road, or when assuming a horrible condescending attitude toward waiters and retail clerks. Despite the fantastic weather, stunning scenery, and beautiful people, it was harder to stay happy in San Diego than it was in the rural and humid south for the simple reason that I had to deal with Southern Californians.

This is, of course, a very generalized comparison. There certainly are selfish and pretentious people in the south and kind and sociable people who live in Southern California (some of whom I met shortly after moving there, actually). However, based on the overall quality of society in both places, I would choose the South every time. I instinctively feel that it is easier to be a good man in the South than it is in California. There people's lives recall and present the kind of good, principled men and women who founded, developed, and succored our nation. We remember with pride our struggle for independence from England, our difficult settlement of the West, the idealism and honor on both sides of the Civil War, our conduct in both World Wars, our economic and social invincibility during the 1950s, and our victory over the Soviet Union in the 1980s. Our collective national identity values good Americans for the sake of what they have given us. Such Americans are more explicitly remembered and emulated in the South than in California. They are the characters of Country music and their stories form the themes of the genre.

In addition to enshrining our cherished and idealized memories, Country music also exhorts us morally. It is the most visible media in America that generally suggests the right and good are better than success. The values of country music are traditional and unassailable, and include trust, honesty, commitment, freedom, sacrifice within relationships and for one's country, the intrinsic value of family and religion, and romance. Country music encourages these values, teaching us that happiness is not found in more things, or more status, or in hedonism; it is found in love and dedication and self-respect. And perhaps most refreshingly of all, Country music doesn't proselytize directly but expresses itself entertainingly in stories and ballads. Contrary to the opinion I was raised to hold, Country music is certainly not depressing but rather enjoyable and occasionally stirring. Maybe it's increased popularity is an expression of our collective awareness that such values and ideals are, in fact, valuable, and that they are slowly disappearing.

It is a pity that as a society we idolize Southern California so much. The main theme of our mainstream media (Movies, songs, and TV shows) seems to be success--getting the good relationship, getting the good life, and getting the best of others. More artistic media changes things up by lamenting how hard it is to get those things and often pillories an oppressive external agency. By presenting money, success, ideal relationships, and sex as our rights, pop music supports narcissism and indirectly criticizes those who don't have such things; by presenting bitterness and anger as natural responses to one's lack of happiness, pop music encourages it's listeners to be bitter and angry. In an eloquent example of life imitating art, Southern Californians make an uneasy worship to hedonism, selfish ambition, bitterness, and narcissism. This is certainly a nihilistic approach to life--for selfishness is a hunger that can never be fully satisfied and bitterness a vaccine against all true contentment. The greater pity, however, is that so many Americans continue in contempt for perhaps the one segment of society whose majority has actually seen or found happiness.

What I discovered when I moved out of the South was that the simple, undeveloped, often dumpy south nurtured a culture of greater luminence than the "golden" West. And the art of Country music told the parables of Americanism and enshrined the "American" values that choke us up at the sound of "Taps" or stiffen our backs at the sight of Lincoln's Memorial. Such "American" values have carved for us a great place in the world. Inspired by these values, we have throughout our history reached out in solidarity to give our fellow citizens and other nations hope and freedom. These values are the source of our greatness. So I needed them--and especially their expression in Country music--when I encountered the cold and contracted spirit of Southern California. I almost never knew what I was missing.

Christmas Reflections 2008

2008-12-22T06:57:00.000-05:00

Christmas has grown in my estimation since I was a child. Like all of my peers, I feasted on the excitement of my parents, the satisfaction of new things to own, and the rather strange and interesting ceremonies involved (from midnight Mass to Christmas dinner the next day). Yet as my cognitive reasoning increased and I began to comprehend the full Christian meaning of the holiday, it became more and more important to me. I think the change had a lot to do with the consistency between the traditions and the religious meaning of Christmas. Celebrating God's incarnation as the fragile baby Jesus vindicates and elevates the Family, with which tradition dictates we must spend the holiday. The very hopelessness of Jesus' redeeming mission (what with our Original sin and all) is reflected in the stirring and improbable Christmas story--a long, mandated journey for a caring man and his young pregnant wife with the childbirth occurring at the most inopportune time. The custom of giving gifts is a joyful symbol of God's great gift to us of his son, as are the gifts of the Magi after Jesus' birth; their own difficult and faith-directed travels are also a further symbol of our own difficult path to find God. It makes rational sense to me, it is inspiring, and it makes me very glad to celebrate.

I don't share many of my Christian contemporaries' view that the Christmas spirit has been prostituted to retailers. Certainly any greed, acquisitiveness, and unnecessary extravagance are bad. But it seems appropriate for people to truly enter into the spirit of gift-giving and gift-receiving, wherein they practice charity by seeking and sacrificing (time, energy, treasure) to make their loved ones happy and practice humility by acknowledging the love of others. These two virtues are not, of course, only expressed in the exchange of gifts--they should be practiced throughout the whole of our holiday traditions, as when hosting or attending parties, decorating houses or places of work, or traveling to visit others. And though many people who celebrate Christmas don't really attach religious significance to the holiday, I am actually quite happy that they join in the spirit of my religious celebration. Naturally I hope that one day all the world accepts the truth that I believe is right, namely that which is held and taught by the Holy Catholic Church, but as that is manifestly not the state of things right now I don't think non-believers should be excluded from the celebration itself. It wouldn't be charitable at all, and certainly the mark of us Christians should be our uncomplicated and all-embracing practice of that virtue. Furthermore (as St. Paul and St. Francis notably observed), all we can do to evangelize, really, is humbly set the example without, if at all possible, making others uncomfortable. So why not celebrate Christmas as best as we know how, and hope that our actions might be a vehicle of God's grace?

Unfortunately, I won't be spending Christmas with my family. I am deployed military at the moment, which means I must stay "in theater," which is far enough away from home to exclude a visit from family. At least I won't be spending the holiday alone--35 of my comrades (among which are some of my closest friends) will be there to share Christmas day with me. Also, I am living comfortably right now in Okinawa, Japan, which enjoys moderate weather and none of the dangers of the Middle East. It is with a twinge of homesickness, however, that I notice nearly all my friends' Facebook pages testify that they are home with their loved ones. Unfortunately, that also means they will have little time to send me messages, which I read eagerly whenever they arrive. But when I begin down this path of self-pity, I am brought up short by the fact that my parents are taking this current separation much harder than I am. It has been their great struggle over the years to forge a tight, happy nuclear family, and as we all get older I know they worry that we are falling apart. There is small comfort to be found anywhere in this situation--after all, the horrible thing about spending Christmas alone is that even God had His family on Christmas. At least on Easter, we celebrate God's singular redemptive act in all it's pain and glory, and we can rejoice alone. But on Christmas we celebrate family, and all the carols and traditions support this. There is little recourse for my parents' loneliness this year, and even less for the men and women who are deployed like me, but in more dangerous places and/or with fewer comrades. I ask you who are reading this to remember these servicemembers and pray for them.

Probably the most wonderful thing about Christmas is that it recognizes the pain and brokenness of our world and yet still manages to celebrate a conquering beauty. The hardships of Joseph and Mary fade in comparison to the arrival of the Christ child, the singing choirs of heaven, and the pilgrimage of shepherds and Magi. The winter, which must have been a season of great suffering and darkness in the long ages before central heating, electric lights, and an abundance of fresh food, is yet marvelously transformed by a new snow and the untouchably clear and starry skies of the extended darkness. The songs of Christmas are more dramatic in darkness, and the presence of others is more satisfying when it helps banish the cold and darkness. And with these beautiful images I must leave you and put on my coat for the short walk home. At this solstice-time Okinawa nights carry a hint of real winter cold, which I enjoy very much. I pray that all of you who read this receive all the blessings this season has to offer, and wish you all a very Merry Christmas. There is no better time or thing to celebrate.

The Magic of WestPac

2008-12-06T13:51:00.000-05:00

As time grew short in San Diego last summer, and my squadron's WestPac deployment loomed, it was hard for me to work up much excitement. That I would miss spending the holidays with family and friends, the long list of things to accomplish (related both to my job and my personal life), and the knowledge that I would be leaving my familiar and good life in the states for six months of unknown places and constant movement all weighed heavily on me. In that frame of mind I couldn't truly listen to those who had experienced such a deployment before, all of whom spoke of WestPac with an indefinable longing--for some it seemed like the highlight of their career (which, seeing as how most of them had flown fighter aircraft in direct support of troops in conflict, is saying a lot). Yet nearly three months into the trip I am beginning to understand.

Being abroad as a part of a group of young, capable comrades induces a carefree and deliciously arrogant sensation. Though our personal and professional burdens are heavy and the hours we work long, we are conscious of our collective freedom from the social restraints of home and proudly aware that should war erupt in the Western Pacific we will be the first to enter the fray. Robbed of the traditional cues of passing time (such as holidays and seasons) both by the tropical weather of our deployment locations and by our constant movement from one place to another, we happily find ourselves living mostly in the present--and when we do look to the future, we tend to care more about tomorrow or next weekend than next month or next year.

I could truthfully describe the time we spend here as frustrating, boring, hectic, exciting, and fun. There is an increased workload for us all that stems equally from the constant packing and unpacking of the squadron itself as we move around and from the extra time spent learning how to fly in new, strange locations. Yet for the young guys like me, many additional hours are spent after the normal working day studying for the Section Lead qualification. This is really the first career step for pilots after they arrive in the fleet, and it means (when they achieve it) that they are capable of leading another aircrew in combat, to include any of the many air-to-air and air-to-ground missions of which the F/A-18D is capable. It requires both extensive knowledge and a lot of flight preparation to complete the course of 11 "work-up" flights in which we demonstrate to instructors that we are qualified as a Section Lead, and the techniques they require us use for briefing, conducting, and debriefing such flights are specific and often "written in blood," a half-euphemism we use often to identify those procedures that were developed as a result of some forgotten mishap years ago. Moreover, the criticism of our conduct in these "work-up flights" is accordingly strict, and can last several hours or more while the entirety of our preparation, in-flight decisions, and post-flight debriefing are examined, discussed, and if necessary corrected. Though it makes for long days, we are all grateful for it--this winnowing process makes us harder, leaner aircrew, forces us to develop the necessary habits of safe flying, and trains us to focus our flights on actual combat rather than mere administrative procedures.

Of course, the best part of deployment has more to do with squadron-mates than actual flying. Living together, far from our homes, with no one else to occupy our time, we "relax" by finding things to do together. Often that is having several drinks at any number of O'Clubs and bars in the places we visit. But tourism is also fun, especially when there is the chance of finding something authentically foreign and yet undiscovered (by tourists) in the unfamiliar places we visit. Prompted thus, I have so far enjoyed a unscheduled and unguided bike tour through the compact and industrial city of Iwakuni to see the medieval Kintai Bridge and Iwakuni castle, stopping along they way back to enjoy being the only American in an (apparently) popular sushi restaurant. One weekend morning on Okinawa some comrades spent the morning driving to the island's rural and beautiful northern portion to find a beach with adequate surf, and another evening there we headed into the colorful and cheerfully dilapidated city of Naha to enjoy sushi at the touristy and famous Yoshi's restaurant. More recently I headed into the Outback to climb some waterfalls and dive into the fresh-water pools below at an Australian national park. Some places have yielded better times than others, such as the concrete pavilion behind our barracks at Kadena Airbase, Okinawa. The cookouts and drinking bouts, the songs sung drunkenly--particularly, nostalgically, "Country Roads" by John Denver--together under the stars in the heavy jungle air, the stumbling trips across the street aboard Kadena to pick up more beer all contributed to the most comradely nights of the deployment so far. Likewise the Officer's mess in Australia, scene of mustache competitions and three-man lifts, of cowboy- and 70s-themed parties (which we attended with the most flamboyant and outrageous costumes we could think up), of the creation of drinking songs, and of friendly carousing with RAAF pilots is now also a place invested with good memories.

There is something about the places themselves that is exhilarating--it has roots in their unfamiliarity and exoticism, but is also comes from our collective attitude of wonder and excitment at simply being on WestPac. I've already written of the indefinable pleasure of being catered to in Osan, Korea, and other places have their own intriguing characteristics. Okinawa is distinguished by the bright, Caribbean, almost third-world appearance of Naha city (with laundry hanging from lines strung between concrete apartments), the pockets of dark, noisy jungle squatting undiminished amid the sloppy civilization scattered across the island, and the sunsets riotous with color spreading each evening over a golden ocean horizon. Australia is a place where only Orion and Scorpio familiarly stride the night sky amongst the strange southern stars, where the reddish outback is rendered curiously bright by the slender, undersized trees that provide the vast majority of the scrub, where the large bats (alone of their species) sense the world through their vision and darken the evening sky with their great numbers, and where the thunderstorms are huge, swift, and violent. Many flights my pilot has spent circumnavigating the towering and dark cumulus clouds (whose tops reach higher than our high-performance aircraft can fly), and I have watched from above the dense rainshowers moving across the floor of the Outback and the terrible lightning striking all around my little vessel from cloud to cloud and down to the earth. In the evenings, when storms reach their climax after building all afternoon, I have stood in the entrance to the tunnel leading to our bunker with other squadron members working late, quietly smoking cigarettes and watching the thunderstorms flicker brightly, every couple of seconds, in the darkling sky. One night, watching the storm rage, lightning struck the airfield control tower merely several hundred yards away, causing us all to involutarily jump back and cry out.

There is more to see over the next months of deployment. There will be more nights of drinking and visits to new places in Okinawa, Japan, and Korea. And after that we will be moving ourselves one last time, from Iwakuni back to San Diego. No doubt when the time comes to go home it will be welcome indeed. But for now I am glad that date remains comfortably in the vague future, because despite the increased stress and strain of constant deployment (not least of which is the irritation attendant upon living in close quarters with the same people for an extended period of time) I am enjoying myself much more than I did in San Diego. This is perhaps the best-kept secret of the naval service--this is WestPac.

Christ the King and the Four Last Things

2008-11-23T05:32:00.000-05:00

Today is the feast of Christ the King. It is a celebration of a central tenet of Christian faith. Our hope of redemption is in Christ, and our hope for eternal life lies in His Kingship, ordained over the world by its Creator, His Father. There are many things to celebrate about Christ as King. We may in wonder recall His incarnation. We may solemnly remember His great sacrifice for us, the shameful death on the cross. We may rejoice in his triumphant resurrection and the promise that holds for our own future. Or we may consider His inevitable judgment on the Last Day.

Judgment. The role of Christ as the judge of mankind is frightening. We often pray at Mass, “Oh Lord, look not on our sins but on the faith of thy people,” and indeed how much we would have to fear if our God justly considered our sins. For the exhortations to righteousness found in the Old Testament are strict indeed, and moreover the lives of the just are often fraught with adversity. Think of Job, or Daniel. These men were destroyed for their faith and righteousness, and only received in recompense a reward not even fully promised unto humanity until Jesus spoke through the Gospels. Think of the prophets—exiled by their own people for speaking the truth and chastising in the name of the Lord. Think of Moses, whose failure in faith erased all the great work he did at the bidding of God and caused him to be denied entry into the Promised Land.

Jesus exercises judgment in the Gospel that foreshadows the judgment of the Last Day. He tells his disciples he comes to bring fire and the sword. Will we, thinking ourselves pious, be beaten out of the temple by our Lord as the moneychangers were? Will Jesus dismiss us, like the rich young man, for a hesitation to give up our earthly goods (remembering that the rich young man was noted for his diligence in keeping the commandments)? Are we to be found among the five virgins who wait for their Lord with the trimmed lamps, instead of among the five lazy virgins who have no oil? And are we keeping our house in order like the good steward? We belong to the Lord whether we like it or not—He created us for himself, and sustains us with His grace; it is His prerogative to adjudge whether or not we have truly loved Him in our often half-pious, half-kind, and (perhaps) mostly-selfish worldly life. How much worse will he judge if we ignore his commandments?

He clearly communicates these commandments, so we cannot plead ignorance. First, the Ten Commandments were handed to our predecessors, the Israelites, through the prophet Moses. Later, Christ Himself further enunciated their meaning, explaining to the Pharisees that “The first commandment is to love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your strength, and with all your mind. The second is to love your neighbor as yourself.” Theologians and clergy across all sects of Christianity almost unanimously agree that “your neighbor” refers to all other people, not simply those close to us. It is a provocative statement. How do we love ourselves? indulgently? obsessively? do we “love” ourselves by setting high standards (so-called “tough love”)? Some of us, maybe, do not love ourselves enough. But then how exactly are we to love our neighbor?

Christ provides guidance in the Gospel reading for today’s feast. He previews His final judgment thus:

“[He] said to his disciples: “When the Son of Man comes in his glory…all the nations will be assembled before him. And he will separate them one from another, as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. He will place the sheep on his right and the goats on his left. Then the king will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father… For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, a stranger and you welcomed me, naked and you clothed me, ill and you cared for me, in prison and you visited me… whatever you did for the least of my brothers you did for me.’ Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you accursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels… what you did not do for the one of these least ones, you did not do for me.’” (Matthew 35:31-46)

Today at Mass, emphasizing Jesus’ role as the King of kings, first among all in justice, we are powerfully reminded that righteousness is properly and merely keeping the commandments. Faith, Hope, and Love are virtues to be sure, and without them, as St. Paul writes, we cannot do anything well. Yet simply having those virtues are not enough. We must do good things. We must love our neighbor, for when we fail to do so and allow ourselves to fall in to selfishness and self-indulgence--whether it takes the form of avarice, lust, spite, or greed--we are inviting damnation. Christ calls us to be vigilant against this temptation: we must gird our loins for our journey, purchasing a rod and a cloak; we must wait up for our Lord, even into the second and third watches of the night; we must keep our lamps trimmed. Only thus will we be ready to meet our King and Lord. For “as gold in the furnace he proved them” (Wisdom 3:4), and “the just man, though he die early, shall be at rest. For the age that is honorable comes not with the passing of time, nor can it be measured in terms of years…[it is] an unsullied life” Wisdom 4:7-9).

Today someone close to me died. He was young and promising, and his early death brings to mind these “Last Things:” Death, Judgment, Heaven, and Hell. I grieve for him, and yet I cannot simply isolate the tragedy to him alone, for that would minimize it. John Donne wrote, “No man is an island, entire to himself… Therefore send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.” Accordingly, it is important that my comrade’s life and death leave a small legacy in my own soul: his death occurring on the terrifying feast of Christ the King reminds me that I live at the pleasure of God and His providence, and that His coming judgment of me is inevitable.

How much more important now is the impending season of Advent, when I will join with fellow Christians to wait and prepare for the final coming of our Lord as the Israelites waited for His first coming. As I put my spiritual and earthly life in order this year perhaps I will better remember the Last Things and Christ’s imperative to righteousness.

First Impressions of the "Land Down Under"

2008-11-10T13:07:00.000-05:00

During the month of November 2008 the Green Knights of VMFA(AW)-121 (my squadron) support Aces North, a war exercise with the Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF), flying out of Tindal Air Base in the Northern Territory of Australia. On the fifth of the month we began our transit down, stopping the night in Guam and then proceeding to our destination. My own trip down under was little disappointing because instead of flying in the backseat of a Hornet, I rode in the passenger cabin of the tanker. While it was interesting to see refueling from the tanker’s perspective, and the seats were much more comfortable than a Hornet cockpit, I would have liked to see Indonesia and Papua New Guinea pass by the canopy, and to have flown myself in country (in a manner of speaking). However, it was significant for two reasons: first, I crossed the Equator for the first time; second, I got to spend a night in Darwin.

Darwin is on the northern coast of Australia; Tindal is about 300 km (115 miles) inland to the south. The tanker I rode carried most of our squadron’s gear, and had to stop at the port city so our pack-up could be inspected by AQIS, the Australian Quarantine Inspection Service. Everything was opened up and sprayed with pesticide; the inspectors checked for any organic material like wood, tobacco, food of any kind, dirt, and so on. We had been forewarned of the inspection, so we had made sure our stuff was clean and it passed though the inspection quickly. Since the road to Tindal is poor and not very well lit, we decided not to try to negotiate it that night and found billeting aboard the RAAF airbase at Darwin in preparation to drive to Tindal the next morning.

Our accommodations were terrible—closet-sized rooms with two bunk beds, two wall-lockers, one electric socket, and an air conditioner that would only work if the room key was plugged into the face of the unit. There were the bathroom area was a separate building, as was the "common room" which had a single television, drinking fountain, and wireless internet available for $8.00 an hour (Australian). I did get to watch Australian news coverage on the U.S. Presidential election, which was amazingly detailed (and optimistic!) for a foreign news organ. I already knew the results by the time I arrived at my lodging, however, as the AQIS inspectors told us the result of the election when we landed. It seems indeed like the rest of the world thinks our elections a pretty big deal. Due to the lodgings and the suffocating post-election obsession of the news, I was not eager to spend too much time on base. So, shortly after "settling" in, three of my comrades and I took a rented vehicle into downtown Darwin to see the sights.

Darwin has something of a legendary status among American servicemembers. Apparently the locals are quite friendly (in every interpretation of that word) to Americans in general and the city offers enough nightlife and sight-seeing to keep tourists interested. As it is only 12 degrees south of the Equator, it is also very tropical. I was astonished by the many kinds and many colors of foliage around the base and city area. Also, much of the base is built on stilts to account for the flooding that typically occurs during the rainy season. Mindful of the early wake-up in the morning, the four of us settled for a quiet dinner--I enjoyed some savory kangaroo meat, which tasted a bit like steak and a bit like lamb--and a few beers before heading home. Our waitress was also a foreigner to Australia, having emigrated from Scotland, and explained that many Darwin inhabitants are transplants who encounter the city on a vacation or hear about it from friends and decide to move there; essentially, it's Australia's version of San Diego (though it is quite a bit smaller). The most striking thing about our first look at Australia was the fact that aside from the funny accents and the driving on the left side of the road, it seems just like America. The people especially look and act like Americans--and I don't mean that in a pejorative way.

The next day we took the (bad) road into Tindal. It took several hours, and once out of Darwin it proceed roughly straight south through the Outback. The land is flat, reddish, and bare except for short trees with bright green foliage that seem to grow no taller than 12-15 feet in height. Overhead stretches the biggest, clearest sky I have ever seen—clear blue scattered with brilliant white clouds. The temperature climbs through 100 degrees by nine in the morning, and sunlight feels scorching on bare skin. It is amazing: a bit like El Centro; a bit like Eastern Washington; but hotter and palpably more remote than either. In the late afternoon, the heat produces towering cumulous clouds that make sunsets a riot of color. At night, the temperature stays well above 90 degrees, and the constellations are foreign and confusing. I have not yet indentified the Southern Cross; apparently in this month it is very close to the horizon. But that is one of my sightseeing priorities around here.

RAAF Tindal lies southeast of Katharine, Australia, a small town of about 10,000 people. It isn’t a very exciting social scene off base, but the Australian squadrons present for Aces North have so far been very friendly and welcoming. The base facilities are pretty nice—for example, the Officer’s Mess here is much better than a chow hall. Rather than cafeteria-style dining, we order from a menu that usually includes three to four options. The food is excellent and there is always fresh fruit and salad available. The living area is a little more Spartan. We live two to a room in prefabricated housing with a shared bathroom and common room. I was surprised to note that the SINGLE bathroom area contains no urinals and the stalls are all partitioned off by full-length doors. This is because there is no separate facility for males and females (which is apparently standard for the Australian military… when in Rome, and all that), so the male aircrew will share toilets and showers with our three female aircrew. Fortunately, and perhaps unsurpisingly, this has not been an issue - so far everyone has enough common sense and professionalism to spend all their time outside the stalls clothed.

Speaking of bathrooms, I had an odd experience with our bathroom in our classfied, "operations" bunker. Our squadron spaces are divided between two bunkers which are buried, and like our living spaces they have co-ed toilets. The first day I was there, I went to use that facility, and after I was finished I realized that there was a frog at the bottom of the bowl staring up at me. He was about the size of my fist and a very bright green. It was very startling and not quite welcome, as he hadn't been there when I first entered the stall. However, I gather that it isn't all that rare to find animals in the sewage system--apparently the residents of certain areas of base are warned of snakes coming into the toilets (this is especially disturbing considering that the twelve most deadly snakes in the world are indigenous to Australia). And there is certainly an abundance of other, less dangerous wildlife on base: the resident squadron's mascot is the ubiquitous magpie; there are trees filled with thousands of bats the size of small cats (no rhyme intended), looking like large unhealthy fruits in the daylight; and the mini-kangaroos called wallabies congregate on the base parade ground during twilight hours.

Despite the exotic nature of our environment, probably the biggest challenge of this deployment is the flight schedule. The first “go” briefs at 0100 (1:00 AM) for a 0300 takeoff, the second “go” briefs at 0600 for a 0830 takeoff. This kind of schedule makes for some odd hours: aircrew flying the first “go” will go to bed at 1300 (one in the afternoon) for a 2300 wakeup (11:00 AM). The missions look to be very tactical, however, as Aces North is the graduation exercise for the RAAF Weapons School (think Top Gun), and we should get some really good training and experience out of it. There is no doubt that it will be a lot of work, and hopefully we’ll have some time to do some sightseeing as well.

Some thoughts on deployment to the Far East

2008-10-19T10:27:00.000-04:00

This weekend I flew to Korea. I am pretty fortunate to be in a profession and a place where, on a weekend, I can fly to such a foreign country. I say "such a foreign country" because I find East Asian countries much less familiar than European ones. I grew up in a culture that descends directly from the social and intellectual legacy of western Europe. When I lived in Spain there were many characteristics of the place and the people that seemed strange to me, but for which I had a frame of reference from literature, history, or religion. At the very least, I had a vague cultural memory of those places. Here, in spite of the obvious Western capitalism, industry, and entertainment, I sense a great divide in perspective. I can't explain what exactly it is, since I know next to nothing about Japan and Korea. I am willing to concede that much of what I feel probably springs from my imagination.

I won't deceive; I didn't spend much time in Korea. The area we visited was more American and for the benefit of Americans than (I'm sure) is the rest of the country. We landed at Osan Airbase, just south of Seoul. Alongside the north side of the runway was a line of revetments (thick concrete walls surrounding equipment or structures, meant to protect them from the blast and fragmentation effects of ordnance) and Patriot surface-to-air missile batteries. On the other side of the runway were concrete bunkers for fighters, designed I assume to shield alert fighter aircraft from bomb and artillery damage. It was an immediate reminder that the Republic of Korea -- South Korea -- is still at war with the People's Republic of Korea -- North Korea -- and the current cessation of hostilities is an armistice (not a truce) that has been in effect since the 1950s. However away from the runway, on the part of the base where we actually stayed, it was much like any Air Force base. Nice quarters, a large gym, and American restaurants bore testament to the protection of a strong military.

That evening we walked out of the gate to what can only be described as a bazaar. Tiny shops lined narrow streets, themselves crowded with street merchants and food kiosks. Nearly everything there is fantastically cheap, from jewelry to custom suits to dive bars and strip clubs. It is all clearly for the benefit of the many Americans stationed on base, and it catered well to my imperialist sensibilities. The shopkeepers, waitresses, and hosts were all so eager to please that I couldn't help thinking that so must have felt the British colonists when they browsed for oddities in the markets of Cairo and New Delhi a hundred and fifty years before. Such men might have written home to their families (as I write now) in smug tones, listing anecdotes of the "funny people" and exotic merchandise found halfway across the world. Of course it is dangerous to fall into this trap, since in reality Korea is nearly as developed as American is, but without the powerful economy and international influence. But it was certainly seductive.

One nice thing about my trip north (we stopped back in Iwakuni for the second night) was the weather. Both days and nights were archetypically early autumn, with the sun pleasantly warm, the leaves just about to start turning, and the nights brisk and invigorating. That said, there is something very different about the landscape in Asia. By some trick of the weather and the terrain, there is a thick haze nearly all the time. It isn't pollution (I asked), and it makes those stylized oriental paintings I have seen seem much less stylized and more photographic. The sun is often indeed a burnished red orb instead of a fierce light, and the mountains are shrouded and vaguely threatening in the thick air. Looking down on the landscape from above, there is a patchwork organization to the many fields -- but I mean "patchwork." There are none of the crop circles and exact squares of the American midwest, nor the spread-out towns connected by solitary roads of the American southeast and northwest (nor, of course, the vast barren sprawl of California and the southwest). It looks efficient but crowded, which makes sense because settlements are confined mostly to river valleys. In fact, despite the many concrete apartment buildings or office buildings, the landscape looks somewhat medieval.

The highlight of the trip, surprisingly, was the final flight on Sunday afternoon from Iwakuni to Okinawa. There are always many layers of clouds in the sky here, often extending (without thunderstorms) up to 30,000 feet and higher. We were flying south with the sun setting to our right, and it shone red and very distant. Off to our left huge cloud formations were lit up pink and orange; the lower clouds immediately off to our right were delicately outlined in fire. It was very beautiful and quiet in the darkling sky, and I conceived a dim understanding of why ancient societies placed their deities in the sky. Words like glory and majesty floated in my mind as I watched the scenery pass my canopy. My pilot and I remarked on how fortunate we were to have seen such a sight.

It was a interesting weekend. The flights were excellent training (always a source of satisfaction), the night in Korea was very entertaining, and there was much for me to consider. Often, focused on my profession, I am isolated from my surroundings. Yet it seems after all that there is some benefit to new experiences.

Thoughts on Faith, Hope, Hemingway, and Communism

2008-10-09T08:39:00.000-04:00

One author I've returned to recently is Earnest Hemingway - he makes for good reading on deployment. His work is entrancing and yet simple to read, and it takes me out of the day-to-day routine. I read The Sun Also Rises on my way across the Pacific, and found it metaphorically compelling. The whole "lost generation" idea of modernity was like the protagonist of that book, castrated by cynicism and unwilling to make the extra leap of faith required to find hope in a broken world (the literal cause of castration and cynicism being the first World War, and the broken world the depressed aftermath of the same). Of course, Hemingway himself provides plenty of reason to hope in the book, from the undoubtedly real love between the protagonist and Lady Brett, to the deep satisfying beauty of rural Spain, and finally in the "beautiful Spanish children" he mentions at the end of the book. Surely there are lots of reasons to be cynical even now (when our world starts to more closely resemble that of post-war Europe), but applying hope and faith to the problems allows one to stand against them in optimism, which is one big part of being a man. A modern example of this, perhaps, is when two young people get married. Finding another to love is an act of Providence--it is a grace and something to nurture and probably has helped keep many out of cynicism and unhappiness, which seem sadly prevalent in first-world societies today.

The book I read after The Sun also Rises was the children's classic The Secret Garden, wherein a neglected and pettish little girl is suddenly orphaned in India and sent to live with a crippled and bitter uncle, whose own son is both her own age and also neglected and pettish, even though he is spoiled on account of the fact he might be crippled like his father. I won't spoil the book for you, but suffice it to say that both the girl and the boy seize upon a world of nourishment and growth, which turns out to be the legacy of her aunt and his mother, and alter for the better. Thus, while I deeply sympathize with The Sun Also Rises, I find that The Secret Garden offers a more robust view of life--a view that Hemingway is not blind to, even if he can't quite make the leap to make it his own.

Now I am re-reading For Whom the Bell Tolls. I think it is Hemingway's masterpiece, a rich tale about adversity and love and the power of ideas. The protagonist, Robert Jordan, is fighting in the Spanish Civil War for the Republicans (sponsored by and ideologically similar to the Soviet Union), and the book opens with him going to a band of guerrillas behind Fascist lines to blow a strategic bridge in support of a forthcoming Republican offensive. Along the way he meets Maria, a victim of the war (and of numerous atrocities including rape) who is hiding with the guerrilla band. They fall in love immediately and sincerely, an event which combined with Roberto's (as they called him in Spain) natural appreciation for the Spanish countryside and Spaniards causes him to spend much of the course of the next few days re-thinking his priorities.

Prior to meeting Maria, Roberto was an ideological communist, intimate with the Soviet "political advisers" who really ran the Republic and quite cynical about it all. He was ready to die for that cause, but not passionately--as a materialist, he drew tepid pleasure from the pleasures of life and suffered through it's adversities, but saw no real reason to wish to continue living. After Maria, begins to realize that there are transcendent goods in life: most immediately, a future with Maria; in an ancillary way, that the world is a beautiful place (something that resonates with me, for I too have wandered the rugged hills of Spain) and there is something to admire in the officially condemned but quite present and fervent religion of the Spaniards. There is a transition that takes place in the book: at first, Hemingway describes the countryside in his customary entrancing, wonderful way, with Roberto as a mere part of the whole scene; later Hemingway similarly describes the countryside through Roberto's own thoughts. Also, there is a part where Roberto kills a Navarrese cavalryman fighting for the Fascist side, noticing later that his victim was a Carlist (a soldier who fought not specifically for Fascism but rather for Catholicism against the atheist Republic) and feeling sorry for the man and his family. Roberto thinks to himself, "There is no people you love more than the Navarrese" (recalling his time spent in Spain before the outbreak of the civil war) and later admits to himself "Hell! you're no Marxist. You believe in liberte, equalite, fraternite! You believe in Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness." I won't spoil the ending if you haven't read the book, but I bring it up to illustrate what I think is a struggle going on in Hemingway's relation of the story between the cynical and seductive intellectual ideology of Communism on one hand, and hope and faith on the other.

Was Hemingway himself raised Catholic? I don't know, but after reading a scene in The Sun Also Rises where his protagonist kneels in the Cathedral of Pamplona and prays forgiveness for being "such a rotten Catholic," I suspect so. Certainly he betrays in both the books I've cited a deep regard and almost reverence for the devotion of the simple people of rural Spain. Though there is certainly an element in condescencion in his treatment of them (after all, his protagonists are all lettered, affluent men like him), he echoes a Romantic and sometimes desperate envy of "the simple life" that runs throughout this modern, marginalizing, and hedonistic edifice we have constructed. It is, after all, in the simple life where fairy tales are born; where notions like "forever" and "contentment" are allowed to grow. If Hemingway says he was Communist, I don't dispute that and in fact despise it--I'm just pointing out that even a dedicated intellectual liberal like Hemingway evidently was not immune to the kind of joy that proceeds from grace: the grace of falling in love, the grace of joy in something so simple as a beautiful spring day, the grace of loving those who one suffers with. I doubt it is an accident that Catholicism casts such a long shadow across his oeuvre.

On Democracy and Decency

2008-08-19T15:49:00.000-04:00

A good government, as conceived by the colonials back in 1776, was any form of government that guaranteed “Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.” That last part, the pursuit of happiness, presumably meant freedom from the unnecessary taxes, stiff tariffs, and forced military quartering that the British Crown was then inflicting on their North American colonies. In 1787, the newly independent colonies sought to create such a government. Because Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness were presumably the desire of all citizens, and certainly not the desire of rulers, they crafted a government “of the people, by the people, for the people.” Later, in 1789, that government added a Bill of Rights, reasoning that even the most popular and democratic governments might become rather tyrannical under certain circumstances.

In fact, on close inspection, the Constitution outlining our government seems particularly crafted to avoid such tyranny. The ancient Greek historian Herodotus famously relates the response of one tyrant to another when asked how to maintain power: he took his pupil to a wheat field and systematically lopped off the top of every stalk that extended above the average height. The freedoms guaranteed by the Bill of Rights—for example, the freedoms of speech and expression—allow people to stand out without fear of the tyrant’s reprisal. And when people can stand out, rival leaders can be born, and large groups can be organized to support them, and governments can change. So goes our own government.

It seems pretty successful. We stand alone today as arguably the most influential country in the world, both in terms of political authority, economic effect, and military power. Moreover, our citizens are quite conspicuously prosperous and successful on an individual level (think movie stars, athletes, and businessmen): and this in spite of our government changing, really, every two years. Every two years, we have the opportunity of changing a certain number of elected representatives, including (every four years) our supreme executive, the President. Yet as our current presidential election progresses, we are treated to rhetoric that is by turns extravagant and bitter and we are confronted by issues that test our racial and socioeconomic prejudices. Is this divisive back-and-forth really necessary for a government free from tyranny?

Answering this question requires a hard look the idea of Democracy. It has been tried often in the past, generally with great success (the French Revolution represents perhaps the only attempt at Democracy that completely failed). Aristotle considers the subject closely in his Politics, written around 330 BC. He concludes that a Democracy, or a government of the people (i.e. where common people govern), may take two forms. The first, and better form, is one in which leaders are determined by lottery. From the pool of eligible citizens, leaders would be chosen randomly. This, to us, might seem absurd. Would the average plumber or secretary be qualified as the governor of a state, or a senator, or even the President? perhaps not. Aristotle concedes this. He argues, however, that since it minimizes the chance for an unscrupulous—possibly tyrannical—person to become a leader, it best maintains a government truly “by the people.”

The second form of Democracy that Aristotle identifies is one whose leaders are elected. This method clearly has advantages: the people presumably will choose the most qualified candidate, or the candidate that most closely conforms to their ideal of a leader. But there are two grave weaknesses in this system. First, it allows people with tyrannical temperaments to attempt to gain power, perhaps by manipulating the citizenry into electing them (they might do this by pretending to be virtuous and humble, or by portraying their rivals as cruel or power-hungry); second, it puts the future of the state in the hands of the mob, who hold electoral power. The mob, manifestly, may not have the state’s best interest at heart, or they may not have all their fellow citizens’ best interests at heart. When the mob is hostile to a minority, as the Germans were to their Jews after the First World War, persecution follows.

Obviously, our nation has an elected government. And our Constitution protects against many of the weaknesses inherent in such a government. We cannot officially persecute others for their opinions, race, religious beliefs, or sexual orientation; we cannot stop citizens from assembling in groups or protecting themselves. Our legal system guarantees that all are equal before the law. And yet with all these safeguards, we still suffer many ill effects from our particular system.

During the current presidential election race, we must choose between all sorts of moral imperatives. Various interest groups (“mobs”) clamor for our attention on socioeconomic disparity, or governmental infringement on our privacy, or involvement in foreign military campaigns. The candidates and their various supporters are trying to manipulate us by portraying their rivals in a negative light, claiming that our nation is suffering and that they know how to fix it, and (perhaps) disguising their true intentions. How are we to choose amongst all these issues and people?

Interestingly enough, Aristotle seems to have an answer for us. He begins his discussion in the Politics with the family. Apparently the natural affection between family members and the more immediate need they have for one another (an infant will starve if its mother doesn’t feed it) creates, generally, an effective government in microcosm: here are various authority figures, like adults (especially the two parents) and older siblings, and the entire organization is oriented toward its own health and propagation. And while the Family in our country has rather broken down of late (evidenced by the staggering divorce and single-parent statistics and any one of a number of MTV shows), it is still the primary place wherein an individual will learn when it is appropriate to exercise or succumb to authority, how to care for others, and what is morally right.

Navigating the pitfalls of an elected Democracy seems to rely on our nation’s ability to function as a family, and not in the sentimental sense of that phrase. Deciding what is best for the nation, instead of what is best for ourselves, means conceiving of some kind of affection—loyalty is almost sufficient—for our countrymen and our country’s honor. Exercising this particular affection often means exercising our right to free speech, but not to hurt and degrade others; it often means exercising our right to freely assemble, but not to exclude or marginalize others. Much of our society teaches us to be selfish, and that certainly contributes to the breakdown in families--those who would politically manipulate us appeal to selfishness in order gain our support. Only by an honest examination of our own individual motives, and a conscious abandonment of selfishness and prejudice, will we be able to determine what is right for our neighbors and for our nation as a whole.