Forty-Three
So
here it is, another chance
Wide awake you face the day
Your dream is over
Or has it just begun?
Summer
was filled with more exercises and training on Okinawa as we prepared for the
upcoming event. My replacement, Captain Green, checked in and I briefed him on
the previous year and ongoing operations. He was competent, with technical
skills and experience far beyond mine. I quickly realized I was going to learn
much even from a short time working with him. With the arrival of August, it
was time for the movement to Korea. In a now familiar process, the division HQ
packed up, loaded onto planes, and flew to our destination. We landed in Osan,
unloaded, and convoyed to the Republic of Korea
(RoK) base in Suwon. I supervised the setup of the network and phones
for the HQ, and the operation began. The exercise was simulating the
mobilization and deployment of 130,000 Marines into an expeditionary force
operating against KLA aggression. The simulation continued, with our systems
functioning as designed.
One
disturbing issue was the smell in the large operations center that we shared
with participating ROK Marines. It was unsettling, like a mix of benjo ditch
and Bangkok fish market. The smell permeated the entire building but was especially
pungent in the Combat Operations Center (COC). After a few minutes of
conversation with ROK Marines in the COC, I realized the source. They had
recently feasted on Kimchi, and the resultant odor was wafting from every pore
and opening of their body. It was not going to be an enjoyable exercise. That
evening, we went to the mess hall on base, and saw the source of our misery. In
the middle of the salad bar was a large vat of the fermented cabbage mix.
Encouraged by peer pressure, I tried a small bite. It was strong, and the first
bite opened my sinuses, but after the initial sensation it wasn’t too bad. Kimchi
was present in the mess hall for all three meals, and I grew increasingly bold
with my consumption and was beginning to look forward to it. Within a couple
days, I noticed a corresponding reduction in the offensiveness of the smell in the
COC.
Many
of the older officers on the division staff still shunned the computers, but
General Byron had become an avid user of email. The system allowed him quick
access to messages up and down the chain of command, and he saw the potential
for improved operational tempo and easier coordination. During the exercise he
kept up a steady correspondence with general officers above him in the food
chain. One afternoon, the exercise was running along smoothly, and I had let
much of my staff go out in town for liberty figuring I could hold down the fort.
Things were fine until the General’s aide came over and asked if there was
something wrong with email. He said Byron was expecting some critical messages
that had not arrived. I checked the system, and found that something was wrong,
we were offline. Not wanting to be the bearer of bad news, the aide suggested I
explain to the general exactly what was going on. I stood up to walk to his
office, but he had already sought me out and was entering the G-6 area,
obviously upset. I explained that I had just learned of the outage and would
get to work immediately to figure out what had gone wrong. I expected an
explosion, but it didn’t come. He was firm and serious, telling me to figure
out what was going on and keep him in the loop as it developed. He said he was
counting on me to get things squared away, and as he turned away added, “If you
don’t get email working soon, I’ll have you taken out and killed.” I thought I
saw the glimmer of a smile before he turned, but his message was clear. The
system was important, and if I didn’t return it to functionality ASAP, bad
things were going to happen. It didn’t matter if the outage was due to
sunspots, a loose connection, or a giant fruit bat, I was responsible for
finding a solution. We had learned in TBS that, “an officer is responsible for
everything that happens or fails to happen in his area of responsibility.” I
methodically worked through the possible causes of the outage and found the
link that had dropped. Within a few minutes, it was reset. The system returned to
full operation, I briefed the general, and his expected emails arrived. He
grunted his appreciation and went back to his emails. Not only was I still
alive, but a message had arrived from HQMC authorizing my promotion to First
Lieutenant. The next morning a formation was held, and I was promoted to the
rank of First Lieutenant, reaffirming the oath I had taken at commissioning two
years earlier.
I
do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United
States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith
and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any
mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully
discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me
God.
One
of the oldest naval traditions is that of a “wetting down” celebration, where a
newly promoted officer buys the drinks of his comrades during a night out. A
small group of Marines was convened, and we went out into town. A suitable bar
was found, and we commenced the time-honored tradition. Korean soju (a liquor
made of rice) and beer flowed as the bar girls hovered and Marines gave toasts
and recounted stories from the past. Long after midnight, we stumbled back out
onto the street. There was a food cart serving strips of spicy meat called
bulgogi and fried dumplings known as yaki mandu. Over the vigorous warnings of
one of the group who was wary of the sanitary conditions of the local street food,
we ate the Korean treats until we were stuffed. We poured into a couple of cabs
and made our way back to the base. The next morning brought loud moans of misery
and repeated visits to the head. The effects of kimchi, soju, beer, and our
late-night meal had caused our stomachs to revolt. For the rest of the trip, the
wise officer would remind of us of his admonition, softly whispering, “Don’t
eat the yaki mandu!” when he passed by.
The
exercise was winding down, and Captain Green took the time to show me something
new he was very excited about. He explained how the DoD had created a global computer
network years earlier, and that it had recently been opened and expanded to
include university and other government networks that contained massive amounts
of information and computing resources. It was all text based, long before web
browsers, so Unix commands had to be used to find and access information. He
taught me to use the telnet command and a few others to navigate around,
hopping from one host server to another in search of interesting content. He created
an account for me that could be used to access it for myself once I returned to
the US, and I spent the remaining days exploring this rapidly growing network, now
known as the Internet.
After the exercise ended, we were
given a few days of liberty. I had planned a mission to the capital of the
country, Seoul. Prior to joining the Marine Corps, my wardrobe was simple. I
usually wore jeans, T-Shirts, and sweatshirts in the winter. I had a pair of
trousers and a couple of dress shirts with ties that had been Christmas
presents. When I got to high school, a blue blazer from the department store
where my botched ear piercing had been fixed was added. The Corps takes pride
in sharply dressed officers, and the last week of OCS we had been bussed to a
tailor shop where detailed measurements were taken and recorded. Both service
and dress uniforms were meticulously custom tailored from the highest quality
materials. It was no small undertaking; an officer’s uniform kit included a
closet full of service and dress uniforms addition to the familiar camouflage
utilities. The custom uniforms fit perfectly, and I felt pride wearing a
garment that had been tailored specifically to me. Seoul was known for its
master tailors who would quickly craft a custom suit. I talked three other
lieutenants into joining me for the excursion north, and we caught a cab for
the train station. The train ride to Seoul was about an hour, and the car was
empty when we boarded. We picked up more passengers at subsequent stops, and
oddly, they all appeared to be students. More students got on at every stop,
until they were standing in the isles and packed every inch of the car. About
that time is when the singing started. We didn’t have a clue what they were
singing about, but the songs had a nice ring to them, and we settled in for the
remainder of the ride. The songs increased in pace and pitch, and at intervals
were interrupted by a young man who made speeches about something that seemed
very important to him and everyone else. The speeches led to chants, which he
conducted with his hands, pumping his fists in the air. The chants took on a
menacing tone and attention seemed to shift to us. The young man was now
shouting, and he moved towards me saying something that sounded like, “Yan Hee,
Ho Hom.” He repeated it over and over as he approached, pumping his fist in the
air with fury. He stood over me and continued the chant. We appeared to be in
deep kimchi, and quickly discussed our predicament. We seemed to be on the path
to an international incident, and the situation was escalating. I stood up to
face the young man. He was much shorter than me, but he continued to pound the
air with his fist, coming dangerously close to my face. I figured I could take
him out with a quick shot to the jaw, but there was no chance against the rest
of the crowd. My hands curled into fists and I felt a mix of anticipation and
fear that tingled up my spine. I looked at him and he wasn’t backing down. He
kept up the chant, now only inches from me. Yan Hee, go hom, Yan Kee, go home.”
His words came into focus and I realized what he was saying, resulting in a
burst of hearty and sincere laughter. The little guy was calling me a Yankee
and telling me to go home. I had thought of myself as many things over the
years, but a “Yankee” was never one of them. The tension was broken, and I
smiled and told him, “yes, yes” I wanted to go home as badly as he wanted me gone.
I don’t know if he understood me, but he walked away. I sat down, and the cabin
went quiet, the students looking at the floor with what I perceived to be
embarrassment. Another young man who spoke fluent English came over and
explained what was going on. They were upset about our exercise and US troops
in their country and planned to meet other students in Seoul for a large
protest march and demonstration. He seemed like a reasonable guy, but about
half of what he said was meaningless, with talk of American aggression and
provocation. He did make some good points though; the Peninsula and the Korean
people would be better off as a united country that didn’t need American
protection. He said they were especially concerned about nuclear weapons that
they had been informed were in our possession. He asked me why the US had the
weapons in his country. I replied that I didn’t know anything about nukes, and
I didn’t know of any reason we would have them in the country. I told him the
truth, none of the planning I had been involved in made any provision for the
use of nuclear weapons. I also knew that our SSBNs lurking in the Pacific
contained enough firepower to destroy the north many times over if it came to
it. We arrived at Seoul Station and let the protesters go out first. They
rushed out of the building and were met by police armed with clubs and water
cannons that were brought into action without hesitation. We exited the station
and went in the opposite direction. The next day the front page of the newspapers
carried the story of the protests and resulting injuries and damage. It had
been tense, but we didn’t trigger an international incident and lived to tell
the story.
I found a store, negotiated the deal for a new
suit, and measurements were taken. Two days later, I picked up the objective of
my mission, and we boarded the train for Suwon. The return trip was peaceful.
We loaded up our equipment and boarded transport planes for Kadena, arriving
without incident.
Once
back at Division HQ, I took a few days to finalize my after-action reports and
turnover folder for Captain Green. One of the officers held a BBQ send off, and
we all said our goodbyes over beer and burgers. I made one final visit to my
Scout troop and wished the boys well. A new Scout had joined the troop, and his
dad had taken over as the Scoutmaster. The Division was preparing for a
celebration of their 50th year in operation since being activated
for the Pacific campaigns of WWII. The events would last the entire day and would
include physical endurance and combat skills competitions, along with rifle and
pistol marksmanship matches. There would be a parade of the division colors in
the finest of Marine Corps tradition, messages from dignitaries, and cake. As
the Commanding General of the Division, General Byron was to give a message to
his unit. The celebration was scheduled for a few days after I would have left
the island, but I managed to get a copy of Byron’s message. His words recounted
battles where the Division had served with pride and distinction from
Bougainville to Desert Storm. He lauded the sacrifices and inspirational accomplishments
of the Marines who had served under the Division’s colors. The central
paragraph is below:
“We,
who are fortunate to serve in this proud Division today, have been handed a
legacy to carry on. It is a legacy represented by three words inscribed on our
Division shield – FIDELITY, HONOR, and VALOR. Fidelity in the faith we have in
our God, our country, our corps, and to one another. Honor in maintaining the
highest standards of personal and institutional integrity and dedication to the
ideals and core values that have made our Corps and Division what they are
today. Valor in the courage and strength of character to select the right
course even though it may not be the easiest.”
I
packed my sea bag, shipped home a box of belongings and presents for family,
and called the duty driver to take me to Naha for my flight. The trip was
bittersweet as the van traced the route I had taken thirteen months earlier going
in the opposite direction. I was lost in thoughts of all the people I had met
and the experiences of the year. A gentle rain was falling as we wound through
the narrow streets. The sights and scenery came back in a rush of images that
seemed to span a lifetime. The adventure I had long dreamed of was ending, but
I looked forward to a new one. I carried a diamond ring in my breast pocket,
and I imagined giving it to Elizabeth and our future life together. I thought
of my family back home, and how good it would be to return to the farm and sit
on the front porch. We reached the terminal, I thanked the driver, pulled my
sea bag from the van and threw it across my back. A few Marines waited outside
the terminal in their service Alpha uniform, which told me they were new to the
island. I thought they looked too young to be in the Corps. I got my ticket and
checked my sea bag for the flight. Out the panel of large windows facing the
runway, I could see the plane that would take me on the first leg of the long
journey that would end with the gravel driveway leading to the old farmhouse. The
most beautiful full rainbow I had ever seen stretched over the plane. I was
going home.
I had just turned 24 and felt that I too had
transgressed the ages. I was ready to settle down and start a family. I had no
idea that the hand of fate would put me in circumstances to make the next 24
years every bit as challenging, heartbreaking, and exciting as the ones I had
just experienced. History weaves through our lives and binds us to our
forefathers. Powerful forces swirl unseen doing their work, and we are
blissfully unaware of the influences shaping our destiny. Like the captives of
Plato’s cave, the images we see flickering past only represent a shadow of true
reality and the larger context of human presence as part of God’s creation. We
have been granted free will and choice to make decisions within the confines of
His larger plan. Our actions have consequences
as we toil to overcome the circumstances of our birth, misfortune, or place in
society. However, those circumstances don’t define us, they only provide a
backdrop for our role in the adventure of reality. We are ruggedly independent
individuals, connected to the whole but able to operate with creativity and
initiative as we navigate life’s course. We can’t always control the conditions
of our existence, but we can control our actions and responses to challenges. “…we
are not descended from fearful men.” (15)
I firmly believe that life does not end with our days on this
planet. Although I can only conceive of the form dimly, I believe that our core
existence lives on in some manner. Whether that form is energy, spirit, or
conscious being I don’t know. I do like to think that it is of the more complex
nature, and that somewhere in the realm of the long gone, a distant ancestor
who toiled and struggled to provide for his family, or protect his country on
some dusty battlefield might be granted a vision of the events of my life, and
with an expression of contented satisfaction think, “Well done, my boy! Well
done, indeed!”