INTO THE GREEN WOOD--PART THREE

.

The Worm

How do you get to Okinawa from Japan? Get yourself poured onto a plane in Sasebo, still drunk from a night in the Ginza. Pass out. Wake up. You’re on Okinawa! No sweat, Marine.





In a later post, I'll tell you all about Okinawa, because it turned out to be one of my favorite places in the world, and eventually I got to see a lot of the world. But, I'm going to save that for the story of my second visit to the island, an adventure so much fun, so enjoyable, that it still makes me smile more than forty years later.




But this episode, that I have called "The Worm," is a different matter.

It can be overpowering, the pressure on young Marines to go out into the "villes" that surround military bases and get laid. Whether you want to or not, and often, you don’t know if you want to or not, but your best buddies, the ones you just met for the first time a couple of hours ago, are keyed-up and insistent.

“C’mon man, you can get an all-nighter for twenty bucks! You need twenty bucks? I got you covered, c’mon man, get into some civvies, let’s go, I got a extra shirt, here, c’mon, you can get trou in the "ville," coupla bucks, c’mon, I got a hard on ‘bout to jump outta my skivvies and drag me along behind it.”

Who can refuse a deal like that? An all-expense-paid expedition into the fleshpots of Okinawa. You can’t show how timid you really are in front of these warriors, can you? Wait a damn minute! Eighteen years old, a year in the Corps, on the way to fight for your country, and “timid?” What’s up with that?

I guess it’s time for some frank talk about my experience with women. Don’t worry, the recitation will be brief, by necessity. Skimpy. Paltry. Trifling. Measly. Count the number of such experiences on three fingers.

By the time I made an early departure from my little Southern high school, I was still a seventeen-year-old virgin. Yes, sigh, it's true. I had never, in fact, opened the covers of a Playboy magazine. The most lurid visions of female anatomy I had seen to that point were the underwear ads in the Sears Roebuck catalogue. Copping one feel of Jan’s (not her real name) left breast in the back of the bus on a marching band field trip was the peak of my sexual conquests. I had made-out with my sweetheart Judy Vance at every possible opportunity, but she would firmly move my hand away if it strayed close to one of her forbidden zones.

In my generation of small-town idiots, the Great Moment, the de-flowering, the un-virginizing, typically occurred in the back seat of a friend’s borrowed Chevy. The girl, a year older than me, had officiated at the same rites of passage for several other high school lads. You would think she would have the routine down pat by the time she got to me, but, unfortunately, not. Pam (not her real name) was inept, and I was stupid, scared, and fumbling beyond imagining. Right from the beginning she freaked me out with her kissing. She was the weirdest kisser I had experienced to that point, and, well, to this day, actually. She would open her mouth as wide as possible and the pound her tongue in and out of my mouth like a piston. It so startled me that all my carefully planned maneuvers dropped out of my mind. So, there was a rubber, and I couldn’t get the package open, then I couldn’t get it on for some reason, then I dropped it on the floorboards. OK, too much information. I’ll spare you the rest, all 15 or 20 seconds of it, except to say that it was a most unpleasant and humiliating “coming” of age ceremony.

That was the first of three dismal encounters.

After I graduated from boot camp, I met a college girl while on leave in Tallahassee. Martha (not her real name) took a liking to me and bought a bus ticket from Florida to North Carolina, a six hundred mile trip that took twenty-four bouncing, lurching hours along old Highway 17. Martha was sweet, perky, cute and horny. Well, she came to the wrong guy, if scratching that itch was her intention. My performance, using the term loosely, was incrementally better than my back seat pyrotechnics with Pam, but I could see the disappointment growing on Martha’s face. The two days we spent together started low and went down hill. When I put her on the bus for the long ride back to Florida, we were both relieved. She did not promise to write.

There was a third sordid episode, the result of a scheme devised by my buddy, Gus Baldwin. He inveigled his girlfriend Peggy (her real name) to ride the bus down from D.C. bringing along a friend named . . . ah . . . Debbie (not her real name). Gus and I rented two cabins behind a road house across the Neuse River just outside of New Bern. These were high class accommodations, you bet, nothing but the best for our would-be paramours. After the two couples retired to our respective quarters, I soon learned that . . .ah . . . Debbie was having nothing to do with what I had in mind. I was confused as to her motivation for the long bus ride to meet and spend the night with a Marine she had met once, for about ten minutes, and put the question to her, along with other questions along the line of “could I just touch” and “would she just remove.” Some time during the hours of whining, wheedling, begging, and groping, Debbie revealed that she was the daughter of a Southern Baptist preacher. Debbie, the preacher’s daughter. Great. The long and short of it, well, the short of it, was that nothing happened and we both lied and said that it did. Sorry, Gus, after all these years, I’m confessing. Nothing happened. I lied.




So, episode three doesn't count. That's the sorry sum of it, my accumulated sexual history, testament to my prowess as a player. In football metaphor, two punts and a fumble.

Armed with two sorry sexual episodes, one lie, and a brave face, I entered the night life of the little “ville” just outside Camp Hansen. If you think a guy just saunters into one of these sleazy clubs, picks out a whore, and goes upstairs for boom boom, you are mistaken. A young Marine can manage the “saunter” part, but after that, the women take over. They are in charge. They size you up, sort you out, allow you to buy them overpriced whiskey sours (no booze, just sour mix), negotiate the pricing and menu, then, like a good cattle dog, cut you away from your buddies, and spirit you away to parts unknown.

My “date” for the evening hailed a taxi, and off we went to her own house, somewhere on a mysterious dark street, miles away from the fleshpots. I call it a house, but her place was more like a small ground floor apartment, or maybe a big shack. She turned on a light and I really got to see her for the first time. She was attractive enough to interest any man . . . twice my age. Damn, she was old enough to be my mother, maybe my grandmother. Tearing my eyes away from the knowing look on her face, I nervously examined the room. There was a bed and a few pieces of furniture, a hole in the ground that I later learned was a toilet, and a curtain stretched from wall to wall, behind which her children were sleeping, supposedly sleeping. Yep, her kids. I didn’t see them, but I could hear them, and she spoke to them on a couple of occasions. She knew enough English to tell me to take off my clothes. Filling a basin with water, she washed my parts, my shrinking, shriveling parts, and examined me for outward signs of disease. It was all very romantic. Finally, she turned out the light, took off her own clothes, pulled me into bed, on top of her, and said something like “get to work.”

How I wish I could! Get to work, that is, or more precisely, get “it” to work. The damn thing had no interest in this magnificent adventure, nor was my Lady of the Night particularly helpful. Eventually losing patience, she pushed me off, muttered “I sleep now,” and rolled away from me. By and by I shook her awake, “I have to piss.” She pointed to the hole in the floor, “No pee on floor,” and went back to sleep. I squatted miserably over the hole, doing my best to aim in the dark, and wanting nothing more than to get the hell out of there. But where was “there?” I was in a shack somewhere in a low-rent district of Okinawa, with no street lights, at one o’clock in the morning. I had not heard a motor vehicle of any kind since the taxi dropped us off. I was about as existentially lost, and lost for real, as a guy can be. I was stuck here until morning.

I crawled back into bed with her.

“Boom boom?” she asked.

“Maybe later.”

“OK, sleep now.”

I lay there in that strange bed, next to that stranger, and waited for morning to come. Surprisingly, I fell asleep. I almost never remember dreams, but I still recall a piece of a dream from that night.

I dreamed of my high school sweetheart, Judy Vance. She was sitting below me in the band room at Florida High with the other flute players. We were waiting for the band director, Glen Heinlen, to come in from his office. From my station up in the corner, I rattled off a fortissimo open roll on the parade snare. The other members of the band stopped talking and looked at me. I handed the sticks to my buddy, David Kahler, and walked down the risers, right through the trumpets and then through the saxes, heading straight for Judy, my eyes locked on hers. She blushed immediately, and Judy was a hard, fast blusher. Her cheeks turned bright pink. I stood in front of her for a moment, breathing hard, then dropped down on one knee.

“I want to tell you, Judy, in front of all these people, that you are the only one in the world for me.”

Oh, go on, roll your eyes. It was 1963, high school stuff, and besides, it was only the anguished dream of an eighteen year old kid in bed with an Okinawan prostitute, so give him a break. Give me a break. Whatever.

“No matter what happens, I want you to know that I love you, and I will always love you.”

Dream Judy reached up with one hand and pulled my head down to hers. She kissed me softly, for a long time, as my classmates whistled, hollered, and made a racket on their various instruments.

That dream, and variations of it, played over and over and over, through the hours of that dreadful night. That dream was like the glow of a paper lantern keeping away the darkness and my despair. That dream of Judy stood between me and a nasty little thought . . . a worm.

A worm that began to burrow into my body.

“There’s something wrong with me.”

.

CHURCH

.

Up before dawn and alone in the great meditation hall of the Siddha Yoga Dham Ashram. The drone of the tamboura on its never-ending tape fills the dark cavern. A single guttering candle on the Puja is the only light. The incense from last night’s program, and many programs that came before, still lingers in this sanctified atmosphere. I dedicate myself to Dharma. My meditation is about as deep as I can go.

Out before the hikers and running the trail between Edwards and Purdon Crossings. Below me the rush of the South Yuba River fills the canyon. Early morning sunlight filters through dense forest canopy. Fragrances of laurel offer the incense for my sacred temple in the trees. Dharma pads along, at my side, silent companion.

.

.

INTO THE GREEN WOOD--PART TWO (revised)

.

Go West, Young Marine

Imagine how peculiar, to go to war all by yourself?In the books and movies, you always go with a platoon or a Legion or 300 Spartans or some kind of a team. The team usually has a troubled inner-city kid, and an overweight, but lovable kid, and a hick, and a coward, and John Wayne. But I just bumped along, all by myself, in the spring of 1966, with a sea bag and my orders.
Heading west, to see the Elephant.

I caught a flight out of San Francisco on a commercial jet to Tokyo via Anchorage. Yes, I have been to Alaska, if sitting on the runway for an hour while the plane takes on fuel and exchanges a few civilian passengers counts as a visit to “The Last Frontier.” I looked out the window. Rain. Fuel trucks. Slick tarmac. More rain. Alaska. What a thrill.

Flying by night over the north Pacific. I studied my Japanese phrase book, and created my own, slimmed-down version.

Bob’s Guide to Useful Japanese Language Suitable for One Night in Tokyo

Twenty Important Words and Phrases

Dozo please
Arigato thank you
Domo very much
Domo arigato thank you, very much
Do itashimashite you’re welcome
Konnichi wa hello
Biru beer
Ginza entertainment district
Konban wa good evening
Bijin beautiful woman
Domo gurai how much does it cost?
Hai yes
Iie no
Sukoshi little
Takusan many, much
Doko where
Benjo wa doko desuka where is the toilet
Ohayo gozaimasu good morning
Koibito girl friend
Sayonara good bye

By the time I had modified the phrase book to my own purposes, I was snockered. Remember I was only eighteen years old, and it in those days it was hard for a boy to get served alcohol--until we flew into international territory. My stewardess (no luke warm "flight attendant" nomenclature in 1966) was quite happy to serve one of the Few, the Proud as many beers as he could drink. I passed out.





The plane landed in Japan. I woke up. At the U.S. base outside Tokyo I learned an important lesson in military life. If you are carrying your own pay record, you can probably sweet talk the paymaster into giving you some cash. After inveigling a hundred dollars, I set off to see the sights of Tokyo, by which I mean . . . women. Surely a hundred bucks American was enough for one night of party. I had the idea that Tokyo was cheap. Remember, Made in Japan?

With the practical phrases of Bob’s Guide memorized, I figured I could nimbly handle myself on the streets of Tokyo. I grabbed a taxi at the gate and told the driver:

“Ginza, dozo.” (Ginza, please.)

Countries around the world brag about the daredevil driving antics of their cabbies. Don’t believe them. Tokyo taxi drivers are the worst, psychotic, suicidal lunatics who have recently escaped from the city’s psychiatric wards. Surviving the ride from the base to downtown Tokyo was one of the most terrifying episodes of my four years in the United States Marine Corps. I toppled out of the taxi and barely resisted the impulse to kiss the sidewalk.

But here I was, on the Ginza! Neon lights, exotic smells, music from numerous outdoor speakers, dense crowds of, well, Japanese people. What first? Food! I wandered around until I found an eatery that served something I thought I recognized, chicken-on-a-stick. I went in, offering various polite greetings that seemed to be appreciated. Seated, I asked if anyone spoke English. I figured, hey, a lot of these folk probably speak English, didn’t we conquer them twenty years ago? No. No English. From anyone. Then or later. My entire night in Tokyo I did not find a single Japanese person who spoke English, except for the bartenders, all of whom knew two words: “whisky sour.”

I was on my own, just me and Bob’s Guide to Useful Japanese.

“Biru, dozo. Takusan biru.” (Beer, please. Many beers.)

After takusan biru’s and several plates of yakitori and raisu (my phrase book was now up to twenty-two useful words and phrases), I headed back out on the streets to resume my quest for female companionship. It was then I discovered two disquieting facts. First, I realized that I had already spent almost half of my money and needed to reserve some of the remainder for the (Oh My God!) taxi ride back to base. Tokyo, even in 1966, was NOT cheap. The second ugly fact was that I had neglected to research and include among my useful Japanese language, the word for prostitute, whore, lady of the night, working girl. The best I could come up with was “geisha.”

“Geisha wa, doko desuka?” (Where is Geisha?)

Strangers to whom I put this pathetic query, stepped back, looked at me with derision, and walked away as quickly as possible. Even the bartenders wanted nothing to do with my question.

“Geisha?”

“Whiskey sour, hai?”

“Hai.” Sigh.

I started drinking whiskey sours and further depleting my funds. Sitting in a bar where everyone carefully ignored me, I was getting drunker and drunker. Am I having fun yet? There was a raucous commotion just outside, and in through the door exploded a group of British sailors, in uniform, in their hilarious little British sailor suits, with the ribbons hanging from their caps. I started laughing at them. A pint sized runt of a sailor walked up and demanded?

“What’s so fuggin’ funny?”

That really sent me into hysterics. I fell off the bar stool, howling. They stood in a circle around me.

“Get up, Yank. Get to yer feet. We’re gonna kick yer bloody arse.”

Still giggling, I got up and attempted to assume a lethal fighting stance. What happened next was up to them.

“Fight me, or buy me a drink.”

The sailors considered this choice, laughed, and decided to adopt me for the rest of the evening, their own U.S. Marine. Fightin’ Fuggin’ Devildog. We partied together and barhopped through the Ginza. We swore oaths of eternal friendship and cried like babies over the sentimental confessions of our souls. We sang the great songs of the British Navy and the U.S. Marines.

“God Save our Gracious Queen!”

“From the Halls of Montezuuuuuuuma
To the shores of Trip Pooooo Liiiiiiii.”

“A thousand gobs laid down their swabs
To fight one sick Mariiiiiiiiine!”

And that’s what I remember best about my night in Tokyo. Me and the British sailors, drunk and happy. Not a bad night, as these things go.

But in later years, I reflected back on my only trip to Japan with immense regret. My Ginza expedition was a modest success, lack of nooky notwithstanding, but I think of all the things I might have done, and was too young and ignorant to envision.

The Imperial Palace

A pilgrimage up Mount Fuji

A ride out into the countryside

A tea ceremony conducted by a real geisha

Sacred Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines

The Noh, Kyogen, and Kabuki theatres

(that most of all)

Even today, at this moment, I would like to send my apologies to Japan for such bad manners. To ignore the incomparable treasures of Nippon for a line of whiskey sours! To set my highest sights on getting laid by a hooker.

For shame.

I makes me blush to think about it.

..

INTO THE GREENWOOD—PART TWO

.

Go West, Young Marine

Imagine how peculiar, to go to war all by yourself?

In the books and movies, you always go with a platoon or a Legion or 300 Spartans or some kind of a team. The team usually has a troubled inner-city kid, and an overweight, but lovable kid, and a hick, and a coward, and John Wayne. But I just bumped along, all by myself, in the spring of 1966, with a sea bag and my orders. Heading west, toward the Elephant.

I caught a flight out of San Francisco on a commercial jet to Tokyo via Anchorage. Yes, I have been to Alaska, if sitting on the runway for an hour while the plane takes on fuel and exchanges a few civilian passengers counts as a visit to “The Last Frontier.” I looked out the window. Rain. Fuel trucks. Slick tarmac. More rain. Alaska. What a thrill.

Flying by night over the north Pacific. I studied my Japanese phrase book, and created my own, slimmed-down version.

Bob’s Guide to Useful Japanese Language Suitable for One Night in Tokyo

Twenty Important Words and Phrases

Dozo please
Arigato thank you
Domo very much
Domo arigato thank you, very much
Do itashimashite you’re welcome
Konnichi wa hello
Biru beer
Ginza entertainment district
Konban wa good evening
Bijin beautiful woman
Domo gurai how much does it cost?
Hai yes
Iie no
Sukoshi little
Takusan many, much
Doko where
Benjo wa doko desuka where is the toilet
Ohayo gozaimasu good morning
Koibito girl friend
Sayonara good bye

By the time I had modified the phrase book to my own purposes, I was snockered. Remember I was only eighteen years old, and it in those days it was hard for a boy to get served alcohol--until we flew into international territory. My stewardess (no luke warm "flight attendant" nomenclature in 1966) was quite happy to serve one of the few, the proud as many beers as he could drink. I passed out.

The plane landed in Japan. I woke up. At the U.S. base outside Tokyo I learned an important lesson in military life. If you are carrying your own pay record, you can probably sweet talk the paymaster into giving you some cash. After inveigling a hundred dollars, I set off to see the sights of Tokyo, by which I mean, women. Surely a hundred bucks American was enough for one night of party. I had the idea that Tokyo was cheap. Remember, Made in Japan?

With the practical phrases of Bob’s Guide memorized, I figured I could nimbly handle myself on the streets of Tokyo. I grabbed a taxi at the gate and told the driver:

“Ginza, dozo.” (Ginza, please.)

Countries around the world brag about the daredevil driving antics of their cabbies. Don’t believe them. Tokyo taxi drivers are the worst, psychotic, suicidal lunatics who have recently escaped from the city’s psychiatric wards. Surviving the ride from the base to downtown Tokyo was one of the most terrifying episodes of my four years in the United States Marine Corps. I toppled out of the taxi and barely resisted the impulse to kiss the sidewalk.

But here I was, on the Ginza! Neon lights, exotic smells, music from numerous outdoor speakers, dense crowds of, well, Japanese people. What first? Food! I wandered around until I found an eatery that served something I thought I recognized, chicken-on-a-stick. I went in, offering various polite greetings that seemed to be appreciated. Seated, I asked if anyone spoke English. I figured, hey, a lot of these folk probably speak English, didn’t we conquer them twenty years ago? No. No English. From anyone. Then or later. My entire night in Tokyo I did not find a single Japanese person who spoke English, except for the bartenders, all of whom knew two words: “whisky sour.” I was on my own, just me and Bob’s Guide to Useful Japanese.

“Biru, dozo. Takusan biru.” (Beer, please. Many beers.)

After takusan biru’s and several plates of yakitori and raisu (my phrase book was now up to twenty-two useful words and phrases), I headed back out on the streets to resume my quest for female companionship. It was then I discovered two disquieting facts. First, I realized that I had already spent almost half of my money and needed to reserve some of the remainder for the (Oh My God!) taxi ride back to base. Tokyo, even in 1966, was NOT cheap. The second ugly fact was that I had neglected to research and include among my useful Japanese language, the word for prostitute, whore, lady of the night, working girl. The best I could come up with was “geisha.”

“Geisha wa, doko desuka?” (Where is Geisha?)

Strangers to whom I put this pathetic query, stepped back, looked at me with derision, and walked away as quickly as possible. Even the bartenders wanted nothing to do with my question.

“Geisha?”

“Whiskey sour, hai?”

“Hai.” Sigh.

I started drinking whiskey sours and further depleting my funds. Sitting in a bar where everyone carefully ignored me, I was getting drunker and drunker. Am I having fun yet? There was a raucous commotion just outside, and in through the door exploded a group of British sailors, in uniform, in their hilarious little British sailor suits, with the ribbons hanging from their caps. I started laughing at them. A pint sized runt of a sailor walked up and demanded?

“What’s so fuggin’ funny?”

That really sent me into hysterics. I fell off the bar stool, howling. They stood in a circle around me.

“Get up, Yank. Get to yer feet. We’re gonna kick yer bloody arse.”

Still giggling, I attempted to get up and assume a lethal fighting stance. What happened next was up to them.

“Fight me, or buy me a drink.”

Instead, they decided to adopt me for the rest of the evening, their own U.S. Marine. Fightin’ Fuggin’ Devildog. We partied together and barhopped through the Ginza. We swore oaths of eternal friendship and cried like babies over the sentimental confessions of our souls. We sang the great songs of the British Navy and the U.S. Marines.

“God Save our Gracious Queen!”

“From the Halls of Montezuuuuuuuma
To the shores of Trip Pooooo Leeeeeee.”

“A thousand gobs laid down their swabs
To fight one sick Mariiiiiiiiine!”

And that’s what I remember best about my night in Tokyo. Me and the British sailors, drunk and happy. Not a bad night, as these things go.

But in later years, I reflected back on my only trip to Japan with immense regret. My Ginza expedition was a modest success, lack of nooky notwithstanding, but I think of all the things I might have done, and was too young and ignorant to envision.

The Imperial Palace

Sacred Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines

A pilgrimage up Mount Fuji

A tea ceremony conducted by a real geisha

A ride out into the countryside

The Noh, Kyogen, and Kabuki theatres
(that most of all)

Even today, at this moment, I would like to send my apologies to Japan for such bad manners. To ignore the incomparable treasures of Nippon for a line of whiskey sours! To set my highest sights on getting laid by a hooker.

For shame.

I makes me blush to think about it.

.

INTO THE GREEN WOOD--PART ONE

John Wayne and Carol

The South China Sea was rolling us side to side, side to side, with a slight swell. In flat-bottomed amphibious landing craft, a slight swell is enough stomach-churning motion to get everybody except the swabbies seasick. Even with the open top, we were breathing a thick soup of diesel fumes and vomit stench. Our nausea was amplified by the gut-wrenching terror we felt as our amphib churned toward the beach.

Those celestial military powers who decide such things had sent us in on a moonless night. It was about as dark as a night can be except for a zillion stars blazing down on us and the little red caution lights that, optimistically, kept the eighteen assault boats from running into and sinking each other.

The first machine gun opened up and was immediately enjoined by every piece of ordinance the NVA had emplaced for the defense of Chu Lai. The small caliber rounds pinged off the armored front doors of the landing craft and we waited for cannon or heavy caliber fire to smash into us. As we got closer, pre-targeted mortar rounds began to hurtle down. All we could do was crouch a little tighter and hope the shells landed somewhere else, anywhere else. An earsplitting explosion, followed by a shock wave, meant that the amphib on the starboard side had been hit. Tough. Not us.

We felt the tracks find purchase on the bottom. The swabbie driving the boat gunned the motor and we lurched up onto the beach. Thank God he didn’t chicken out and stop short, leaving us to wade ashore under fire. Not our swabbie! Good swabbie. The front gate slammed down and we got out of that thing about as fast as a scared-to-death platoon can move. My fire team went right and up to 2:00 o’clock as planned. We hit the sand and started to return fire.

We were in Viet Nam!

We were at war!

Well, not really. That was a scene from Sands of Iwo Jima starring John Wayne. If you want that kind of war story you should rent it on Netflix, or maybe The Boys From Company C or Platoon. If you want a movie that more closely approximates my combat tour in Viet Nam, you should maybe rent Catch 22. No, I didn’t arrive in Nam in the guts of an amphibious landing craft. I landed in Da Nang in the bowels of a Pan American 707. Whoop de doo. But I get ahead of myself. My actual voyage to Southeast Asia was even more capricious and bizarre.

Here’s what really happened.

Gunny Cunningham handed me my pay record and orders and told me to get my ass to Bravo Battery, 2nd LAAM (Light Anti-Aircraft Missile) Battalion, Chu Lai, Viet Nam, as soon as possible.

“By when, Gunny?”

“Still hard of hearing, Jenkins? As soon as you can get your lazy ass over there.”

By this time Gunny had taken a real liking to me which was why he was talking so sweet. The C.O. (commanding officer), Lieutenant Mike Stevens actually came out of his office to shake hands and wish me luck. He offered this advice:

“Volunteer for everything. Maybe you’ll see some real action.”

“Aye, aye, Sir, I will. And, sir, thanks for the transfer.”

“Get the fuck out of my Battery.”

Like Gunny Cunningham, the Old Man had a soft spot for me and was fighting to hold back his tears.

“Now, Jenkins, now!”

That was it. My departure ritual. Pomp and circumstance. No expense spared.

I had no reason to hang around Cherry Point, and my North Carolina kin were not much for ceremony, so I thought what the heck? I might as well head on over to the war. In those days, military men on their way to Viet Nam just showed their orders at the ticket counter to get a seat on any west-bound flight. Even if the plane was full and they had to pull some civilian off the aircraft, soldiers and Marines got a seat. Not stand-by; priority seating. If there was an empty chair in First Class, we got that, too.

From Cherry Point I finagled my way on a patched-up DC-3 to Raleigh, then commercial to Sacramento, and a bus to Travis Air Force Base which was the hub for MATS (Military Air Transport). The main attraction to Travis AFB was it’s proximity to San Francisco. The main attraction to San Francisco was the Twin Peaks.

The Twin Peaks of Carol Doda.

Carol Doda and her “Twin 44s” were already legendary by 1966. I considered it my patriotic duty, my obligation on the eve of my departure to defend America by ogling the largest bosoms to ever be displayed upon the national stage. Or at least upon a grand piano in the Condor Club up on San Francisco’s North Beach. For an eighteen year old Southern boy who had never been in a bar, much less a strip club, Doda and her “Girls” were a really big deal, or deals, to be precise. A large warm mammary, I mean memory, to comfort me in the hell of mortal combat. Had to have a look, didn’t I?

MATS ran a free liberty bus into San Francisco with a return bus late in the evening. I arrived downtown about mid-afternoon and realized I had made two critical mistakes. First, I was wearing a pair of light weight slacks and a short sleeve shirt. As the saying goes, “I spent a frigid winter one evening in San Francisco.” Damn, it was cold. And windy. And foggy. What the hell? The weather was great at Travis. My second mistake was arriving with about fifteen dollars in my wallet. I spent about ten bucks on a butt-ugly tourist sweatshirt, leaving me about five for my Dodaquest. I started walking, asking directions, and eventually arriving at the Condor Club where Carol’s bosoms were about ready to make their second or third appearance of the day. They had that girl flying in from a hole in the ceiling about fifteen times a day, and I am not making the number up. I call her a girl, because Carol Doda was not much older, in years, than I was. Please, do not dis-respect Carol Doda; the girl worked hard for her money.

My problem was also money. There was a cover charge and you had to buy drinks while you were there. I talked my way past the cover charge with a guns, guts, and glory tale of my impending heroism, and spent the last of my cash on a couple of whisky sours. Whiskey sours. I told you I was naïve.

Down she came from the rafters, this Rebel Without A Bra, trailblazer for many things pornographic and prosthetic yet to come. Carol Doda was quite pretty, if you actually looked at her face. But that was not the point. She danced around and maybe sang a song or two. My memory is shaky on the singing part. She smiled and shimmied and shook and swayed and swung her huge fleshy bags. Men whistled and yelled and starred at large breasts. Something was wrong with me. After a few salutary whistles of my own, I shut up, and started feeling bad. I just sat there, getting more and more depressed. It was just so . . . weird. I was not aroused or sexually excited in the slightest. My main feeling was discomfiture. I was embarrassed for the other men in the club, and for myself. What’s a nice boy like me doing in a Frisco strip club?

I was not embarrassed for Carol Doda. She was in charge. I looked at her eyes, way, way up behind those plastic bumpers. Her eyes were alert, moving around, working the room. Pro, no doubt about it. And nice, I thought, basically a nice girl. In the flush of youthful righteousness, I wanted to save her, redeem her, get to know her, be a pal, take her away from all this.

But before I could put a rescue plan in motion, the manager sidled up and whispered that I had to leave. There was a line outside waiting to come in, he said, and that I had long since slurped down my drink. He nicely whispered the news of my ouster, and that was fine with me, because I was done. I re-emerged on the cold, hard streets. Took a deep breath. Somehow I found my way to the pickup point to meet the bus back to base. It was over two hours before the bus arrived, and I will tell you, that was one damn cold wait. When it finally arrived and I climbed on board I saw that there were already several Marines and a few mismatched service men from the other branches quietly talking and smoking. The bus was warm and smelled like a barracks. I felt comfortable, at home, peaceful, right where I belonged.

I didn’t recognize at the time that I was already leaving the “World” and sliding inexorably down into a strange new land, a truly strange new land.

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INTO THE GREEN WOOD—PROLOGUE

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Arjuna

Tonight I help my son, Luke, prepare for combat in Afghanistan. He asks for the war paint. I take out my old jar and try to open it for him. The lid has rusted tight; hasn’t been used in such a long time. I no longer have the hand-strength to twist the lid off. He does.

As my son applies the green and black pigment to his forehead, and under his eyes, and on his cheeks, I study an apparition of my younger self as I made my own brave preparations for what was to come. So many years ago, and now, the night before battle, the memory returns in the body of my own child. I know he will be courageous and resourceful, for that is how he was raised by me, and trained by the Corps. Will it be enough? Will it give him the edge? Will he fight well? Will he hesitate at a life-and-death moment?

Luke is a liberal and a democrat, something of an anomaly among the rank-and-file of the Corps. He considers things deeply. How will he reconcile his humanistic instincts with the brutal demands of his profession?

I seek reconciliation of his dilemma, and solace for my suffering, in scripture.

At the climatic engagement of the Mahabharata, Arjuna, the combat commander of the Pandava nation, is driven by chariot to Kurukshetra, the sacred field, between the two armies. He is there to blow the war horn that will signal the beginning of the mêlée. Arjuna looks upon his enemies, rank upon rank of former friends, teachers, and even relatives from within his own family. He envisions the internecine carnage to come, the massacre that he himself will commence with the sounding of the great horn. He is overcome with the conflict between his compassion for humanity and his duty as a warrior.

Unwilling to initiate the slaughter, Arjuna climbs from the chariot and throws himself to the ground. The two armies are frozen in place. The battle, constrained by the formal conventions of the time, cannot begin until the horn is blown. From both armies, combatants shout for Arjuna to give the signal. He ignores the shouts.

Arjuna’s charioteer, a kinsman by the name of Krishna (yes, that Krishna) joins him. Krishna asks the reason for Arjuna’s distress.

"I see my kinsmen so willing to shed their common blood. My limbs fail. My mouth is dry. A shudder shakes my body. My bow, Gandiva, slips from my hand. A fever burns my skin. I can hardly stand. My mind is spinning. Nothing but sorrow and evil can come from this war. I am confused and lost. I no longer see what is right. Show me what is best. I will be your student. Please instruct me and guide me."

Over the next several hours, as the martial hordes of two nations wait in the hot sun, Krishna speaks quietly to Arjuna. Krishna’s discourse, of course, is the crown jewel of Indian scripture, the Bhagavad-Gita, the Song of God. The Gita explicates the many aspects of Dharma, correct and conscious living, but key is Krishna’s charge to understand, accept, and act on Arjuna’s duty as a warrior for righteousness. Upon the conclusion of Krishna’s sermon, Arjuna ascends the chariot, blows the horn, and launches the war.

Arjuna’s predicament is also my own. As a warrior, and as a yogi, my duty to country and Corps (not necessarily in that order) stands in stark contrast with my commitment to love, gentility, and the other elements of my spiritual aspiration.

Knowing that Luke’s deployment to the Afghan conflict was imminent, I ask Swami Nityanand for his counsel. Nityanand is not my guru, and I offer no opinion as to his legitimacy or competence, but he treated me with kindness and respect, so I ask him for a blessing for my son and any advice he can offer. Nityanand thinks for a few minutes, and says these words:

“Blessings on your son. Tell him to do his duty. But whenever he can, tell him to see God in the innocent people he will meet and treat them with great kindness. That way he will preserve his soul and return with the knowledge that Dharma has prevailed in him.”

Nityanand says it better, but that’s the essential message I pass along to Luke.

Later, I overhear Luke talking to his men.

“You will be in shape before we deploy, especially your cardiovascular conditioning. You will run until you go blind or you will get my boot up your ass. You will not get anybody knocked up. You will not run off and get married between now and spin-up. And one more thing . . . when we get over there you will treat the Afghan people with respect and kindness. You will be a credit to the Marine Corps and to yourself. You hear me, Marines?”

I marvel. My little boy, my Arjuna, is commanding a fire team of warriors. Their lives are in his hands; and his, in theirs. How can I let him go? How can I hold him back? How will I go on living if he . . . . no, put that terror back in its dark little box and shove it deep into a far corner where I can pretend it isn’t there.

War paint complete. He is fierce and frightening. Then he winks at me and mugs with his tongue out the side of his mouth. I have to laugh. Killer and clown. My only son.

I want him to listen to me. Wire it tight. Watch your six. Think. Keep your eyes moving. Think. Use every piece of cover. Think. The ground is your best friend. Be silent. Use the darkness. Think.

“Thanks, sir, all good advice.” He humors me. Pops. Old Corps. Dad.

His men are strutting young roosters. I love them. I’m terrified for them.

“We’re the professionals, sir. We have stuff you never dreamed of. Don’t worry, we’ll all come home, and bring Corporal Jenkins with us. Hey, assholes, mount up! There’s beers to drink and women to woo! Let’s go see the Elephant! OoRah!”

OoRah. Whatever the hell that means.

I watch them drive away in my son’s beat up Camry.

Just me now.

Alone.

Drifting away into the remembrance of my own initiation.

Nineteen Sixty-Six.

The year I went to see the same damned Elephant.

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PRAYER COVE

Five miles into the Weimar run we stop at Prayer Cove, a secluded clearing just off the Coyote Creek trail.

Dharma drinks and splashes around in the creek while I pray, or rather, chant a beautiful Sanskrit prayer called “Jyota se Jyota,” irreverently translated to mean “Come On, Baby, Light My Fire.” I chant or sing the chorus and six verses at the top of my lungs, letting the song ring out through the green woods.

My musical treatment is not Siddha Yoga approved. I riff the rhythms and embellish the phrasings as the spirit moves me. I even make a couple of slight, but profound changes in the words. I begin and end the chant with “Om Shantih Shantih Shantih (Om Peace Peace Peace)” instead of “Sadgurunath Maharaj Ki Jay,” the traditional invocation and benediction. I change the first line of the sixth verse to “Jivana Nityananda Avinashi.” For those who have hung around SiddhaYoga, this is an eyebrow-raising alteration. It won’t be the first time I’ve played fast and loose with the orthoodoxy. I’ll probably get a midnight knock on the door from the Siddha cops.

I offer the chant, and myself, to the Mother of us all. I open my arms wide and turn in slow circles, inviting all of nature to pour into me.

Sun,

sky,

clouds,

creek,

creek sounds,

trees,

wind,

bushes,

berries,

poison oak,

fungus,

dirt,

birds,

bird songs,

animals,

insects.

All of it. Welcome. I adore you.

That’s my prayer. Am I praying to an old white guy in the heavens to grant me personal favors? A cure for cancer? World peace? C’mon. So why do it? I pray as discipline, as spiritual practice to help me keep my feet on the Path.

I pray because I like it.

The final chorus of “Jyota se Jyota” picks up speed, and some folks, including me, like to add spirited hand clapping. Dharma’s head snaps up. The hand clapping is her signal that it’s time to get back on the trail.

“Om Shantih Shantih Shantih.”

"Woof"

"OK, dog, let’s go!"

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Silence

.Silence

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