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“For four long years,“ Wulf went on to say, “they tried to convince me this way of life is a necessary evil. They almost succeeded until I went to Vietnam, supposedly to stop the spread of Communism, and saw the truth for myself. “It appears they suffer some grand delusion that we are the good guys who’re going to save the rest of the world from bad guys, like the Communists. They misled me, for awhile, with this white lie of theirs, until I discovered they were only protecting their delusion—some fantasy called the American dream which, for many throughout the world, has become a nightmare. “For the real fight’s not out there, over in Vietnam, it’s in here, within ourselves. It’s the struggle with our own delusions, the lies we live by, especially the one which has us so convinced that what we need is more of what’s out there in Nature.“ “I don’t understand,“ I interjected. “Since time immemorial,“ he went on, “have we fallen for this lie, that our future lies hidden within our material progress. And yet, in our pursuit of this delusion, we’ve only succeeded in impoverishing the earth and its people. Thus have we helped to create a bipolar world, consisting of the haves ’n’ the have-nots, who have further polarized themselves over the issue of materialism by squaring off on either side of an iron curtain into two heavily armed, ideologically opposed camps or isms. “As I chipped away at all the hype ’n’ hysteria surrounding communism, I began to see it as a rather ambitious attempt by the have-nots to right the wrongs of capitalism, which has only succeeded in globally impoverishing the many for the benefit of a few. However, in their struggle to purge from the masses the sins of capitalism, that is, its rugged individualism, greed and failed trickle-down economics, the communists have only succeeded in creating a totalitarian nightmare instead of a utopia. As this nightmare invaded the collective consciousness of the world, it struck fear into the heart of the American dreamer and created mass hysteria. For this Red scare threatened to take everything away from the American dreamer in order to redistribute the wealth, he’d misappropriated in the first place, more equitably amongst its rightful inheritants, the have-nots of the world. “That’s when I saw the nightmare and the dream as two sides of the same coin, for both of them have resorted, in the past, to propaganda, economic ideology and guns to force their inhumane ways of life on the rest of us, the guilty bystanders caught up in this Mexican standoff. Whether we choose heads or tails, we lose—the many are impoverished for the benefit of a few—for a single coin was given to us long ago to benefit not only the individual but also the collective. Seeking Wulf out that evening, I found him up on the Signal Bridge where, with a fixed gaze, he stood wrapped in his own thoughts. Startled by the sound of my approach, he turned and smiled halfheartedly as if he weren’t too pleased to see me. “Hi,“ he finally said with raised brows and a wrinkled forehead, facial features he characteristically used to display an arrogant self-assuredness. “I hope I’m not disturbing you,“ I replied. “If you were, I’d have asked ya to leave,“ he said. “As it is, I feel the need for some good company and a bit of stimulating conversation.“ Struck by not only his honesty but also his impeccable dress, an obviously freshly pressed set of tailor-made dungarees, I asked him, “Did ya get in trouble today?“ “Nah,“ he answered, “I’m too short. With less than a week to go on this godforsaken can, they (meaning the lifers) can’t touch me.“ I was deeply saddened by the news that he’d be leaving so soon. Even though he wasn’t as warm and vibrant as Van, I nonetheless took an immediate liking to him. For I experienced this young rebellious intellectual from Boston, Massachusetts, as a godsend. Envious of his impending discharge, I wished I were in his shoes instead. “For four long years,“ he continued, “I’ve struggled against becoming an animal like the rest of these bastards. Next week when I walk off this ship for the last time, I’ll have prevailed.“ “I know the feeling,“ I interjected. “From the first day of my enlistment,“ he rejoined, “they drummed the idea into my head that I had joined this outfit for one reason only: to fight for my country. But they lied to me, for I ended up spending four long years fightin’ to save my ass from them. “Don’t believe a word of what the lyin’ vultures say, for they prey upon human flesh with talons made of lies. Resist the temptation to become one of them. And whatever you do, don’t let them rob you of the most precious gift you have, your humanity, for the wraiths will claw away at it until all that remains is the shadow of what was once you.“ Turning, I caught sight of this dude standing there, with his dungaree pants cut into ribbons from the knees down. Shocked, I approached him. “What happened to your pants?“ I asked with a slight snicker. “I cut ’em up,“ he arrogantly replied, “to protest the deplorable condition in which my clothes repeatedly come back to me from the ship’s laundry—chewed up, torn, wrinkled and often unwashed.“ I laughed aloud. “It’s not a laughing matter,“ he responded with raised brows and a wrinkled forehead. “I know,“ I replied with a chuckle. “For many of my own clothes have gotten lost in the laundry. In fact, I’m down to my last pair of dungarees. And I don’t have the money to buy another pair.“ “You see!“ he added. “I’m sick ’n’ tired of it all.“ “But what d’ya hope to accomplish by paradin’ around with your pants all cut up?“ I asked. “Well,“ he exclaimed, “I may not accomplish a damn thing, other than the ventilation of a little steam. And that’s okay too. After having failed to elicit a response from the goddamn lifers on this ship by going through their silly-ass chain of command, I’ll guarantee you one thing, that my appearance will raise more than a few eyebrows fore the day is done. I’ll get a response, all right, from the lousy sons of bitches, fore I take these rags off. You’ll see!“ he boasted as he turned and marched off the mess decks, muttering to himself. “Who is that guy?“ I asked someone sitting at a table nearby. “His name’s Wulf; he’s a signalman,“ came the reply. He impressed the hell outta me, for here was an individual who not only thought for himself but also acted upon his thoughts with volition and incredible courage. He was like a breath of fresh air to the lamp of hope barely flickering within me as a result of the moral vacuum, the rest of the crew had created. In fact, he raised the expectation that I might find a like-minded friend in this hellhole after all. Alone and isolated, I grew despondent. I didn’t care if the Navy broke my spirit. I hated the pain this spirit caused me. I hated the tension it created in my life, between what’s in the flesh and what’s not, and the way it drove me to release this tension. I hated this spirit—I hated it. And yet, I found myself falling in love with the very same spirit. “How could this be?“ I wondered. “How could I fall in love with what I couldn’t see?“ Yet the feelings I was experiencing were unmistakably clear. After all, hadn’t I fallen in love with Mary for the very same reason, the love of some spirit I couldn’t see? Who was this spirit, which so skillfully eluded my grasp? And why did I feel such a compulsion to unite with it—with what I did not yet know? Suddenly, I felt an incredible hunger for self-knowledge. I wanted to know everything there was to know about myself. As tears welled up in my eyes, I felt excited about the prospect of getting to know myself from head to toe, inside and out. I looked forward to this new relationship with my Self, like a newfound love. Impatient, I wanted the relationship to develop more quickly than it was, for I’d been overcome by an insatiable desire to learn the true nature of this spirit. “How amazing is this spirit!“ I thought to myself. “Where just a moment ago, I felt depressed and even expressed hate for this spirit, I now felt hope.“ I hadn’t heard from my girlfriend back home since I had arrived onboard the ship, three or four weeks ago, until I found a letter from her lying on my bunk. As my heart leapt within my chest, I grabbed the letter and tore into it. Dear Butch, Now I felt totally misunderstood. While I sometimes doubted my sanity, I certainly didn’t want to become some socially accepted, schizophrenic beast like M. For I saw the rules ’n’ regulations, all the pomp ’n’ plume of the military, as a facade shrewdly constructed long ago to hide the true nature of this beast from the consciousness of the general public. With the beast so well concealed, how could I ever get Mary to see military service as the bloody poison which transforms the young Jekylls of this country into hideous Hydes, so that they, who were once men, can kill without feeling, consciousness of the soul or a conscience. How could I convey to her what has happened to the M.’s of this country? How could I tell her about the Hyde who lurked within my own body and periodically dragged me down to hell? And lastly, how could I ever convince her that it is the discipline of the soul rather than of the military, which ultimately transforms the beast? Why even the mess decks had its share of seedy rogues, of whom the worst was a little wiry, dark complected guy named B., who cussed incessantly in that same gruff gravelly voice. Just watching him cook was enough to make me sick. Having wiped the sweat from his brow with his finger, he’d often fling it into the food he was preparing. Or whenever he cleared his throat or blew his nose, he’d occasionally spit the phlegm or blow the snot onto the grill and mix it into the food he was frying. Once he even beat off on a raw steak, which he then threw onto the grill to be cooked and served to the crew along with the others. In my opinion, the dude was crazy, and yet he was greatly admired by those around him for his audacity. For my part, I absolutely refused to eat whenever he cooked. How else was I to make the best of such memorable experiences? If I reported him, who’d believe me? It’d be his word against that of a f___-up. How could I ever make the best of anything in this hellhole? Although I empathized with R’s problems around sex and his dislike for the Navy, I would talk to him only about my feelings regarding the latter. For in my shame, I could never talk to him about my difficulties with sex. Whenever he brought up the subject then, I merely listened to what he had to say in hopes of picking up anything that might help me understand this insatiable drive for sex. About all I ever gleaned from these sessions was some vague notion that both problems were inextricably bound together. At first I couldn’t imagine how the two could even remotely be related. Then the connection dawned on me one day when I imagined I was back at the Academy bemoaning my plight. Having walked out into a courtyard between dormitories, I shouted out in a very loud tone of voice, “I wish I could get the f___ outta this hole“. Only instead of hearing an echo of what I’d just said, I heard, “and that hole too,“ meaning the female genitalia. Suddenly, it dawned on me that I’d symbolically plugged my libido into the wrong hole when I joined the Navy. Because I continued to put my energies into the wrong place, I was being driven by instinct to seek that outlet into which I could rightly plug my libido. “What the hell am I to do?“ I shouted back in angry frustration. “Hey, Dury!“ I heard R. yell out as he tugged away at my arm. “Who the hell ya talkin’ to?“ I laughed. “O, I was just thinkin’ out loud, that’s all,“ I replied. “Well, ya sure looked awful serious,“ added R. “Yeah,“ I responded, “I sometimes get a little carried away by my own thoughts.“ “I thought maybe ya was trippin’ out on me,“ he replied. Since each division was required to supply the mess decks with a new man every three months, I was the logical choice when the time came for First Division to send a replacement. Besides being low man on the totem pole, I proved to be such a vexation to the First Division lifers, they no doubt welcomed the opportunity to get rid of me. So off to the mess decks I went. Greatly disappointed, I would much rather have stayed where I was. At least with the lifers in First Division, I knew how far I could push my rebellious behavior without blatantly overstepping the rules and regulations of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. By playing ignorant and purposely fouling up whatever my hands touched, I’d been relegated to the innocuous task of cleaning the head. But even this job I performed so poorly that, presumably, the lifers decided to transfer me up to the mess decks to see if they could break my rebellious spirit by subjecting me to an even more odious task. Thus would I have to start all over again, in testing out a new set of guys, to see just how far I could push my noncooperation without getting written up. Besides, I had finally found someone, in the person of R., with whom I could go on liberty and have a good time without getting drunk or laid. Oftentimes, I could appeal to the gentler side of R., but only when he wasn’t hell-bent on “getting liquored up enough to go down on the strip to get some of that nasty ole poontang,“ as he used to say. For R. was a simple kind of guy who expressed little feeling except around sex and his hate for the Navy which was very profound. In fact, he blamed the Navy for having made him into a “f____n’ animal“. “There’re times,“ he’d say, “when I just feel like goin’ out ’n’ f____n’ every bitch in sight, or else gettin’ good ’n’ goddamn drunk. Or sometimes I feel like goin’ out ’n’ kickin’ ass, just for the hell of it. I never felt like that fore I came into the Navy. I’m tellin’ ya Dury, the Navy f___s with your mind in some strange kind a way; it turns ya into a f____n’ animal.“ I knew very little about Vietnam, except that US troops were being deployed there to halt the spread of Communism. While I had no qualms with this goal on the surface, underneath I simmered in a pot of emotional uncertainty that seemed to contradict this a priori assertion. At the time, I was unable to pinpoint any specific feeling, other than a certain uneasiness I experienced around just how far I could go with regard to taking part in the killing of other human beings. By now, my discomfort with the Navy had grown to such an extent that I began to wonder what my body, in its more infinite wisdom, was trying to tell me. As the underground resistance to my life in the Navy had spread throughout my body, I found myself feeling more like a stubborn mule that refused to budge no matter how much I cajoled or prodded it, than I did the human being that’d gotten it into this mess. O how I wished I could see what it saw in its earthy wisdom. But alas, I seemed hopelessly trapped in an inescapable morass or nightmare, from which not even I could free my own ass. Although the mule has received a bum rap as being a dumb animal or “dumb ass“, like the jackass who sired it, more often than not, it takes after its mother, the mare who gave birth to it, in the way it generally behaves. However, if it senses a command’d shove it beyond the boundaries of appropriate behavior for a mule, it’ll quickly revert to behaving like an ass. Seeing such orders as a lie to be resisted with every wily trick at its disposal, thus will it play dumb, ignore the command, or refuse to budge, choosing instead to sit down on its haunches and bray at our stupidity while we—with our superior intellect—stumble off into the very nightmares our more asinine instincts refuse to go. And so did I assume a more mulish role onboard the ship by playing dumb, ignoring commands or pretending to misunderstand such orders. Whenever I caved into the demands of the lifers and tried to lead an exemplary seaman’s life, I’d grow increasingly agitated. As soon as I returned to my mulish escapades, I found happiness again. Subjected to a form of behavior modification by my mule, I quickly learned to pay closer attention to his wily ways. Like the mule, then, I could see that this life was not for me, that it was out of bounds for me—against my truest instincts. But I couldn’t see any further than the end of my nose or the instinctive reactions of a dumb ass, for unlike my mother, or the more marish part of me, I was incapable, at the time, of verbalizing what I felt. I awoke the following morning only to find myself rushing around to get to my battle station on time when, after a leisurely breakfast, the call went out over the loudspeaker for all hands to report to general quarters for my first real taste of war games since coming onboard the ship. No sooner had I plopped myself down inside the five-inch gun mount to which I’d been assigned for GQ, than I succumbed to a frightfully dissociative mood. Rendered barely functional by the feeling side of my personality as she dissociated herself from me, I could hardly hear what the others were saying to each other in the resulting void. At that point, I was abruptly pulled back from the void and temporarily reunited with what I was painfully feeling when a third class gunner’s mate questioned me. “You don’t like the Navy, do ya Drury?“ “No, I don’t,“ I replied rather feebly as the sights and sounds of the present moment came crashing back into my awareness. Suddenly, the gun mount began to swivel about, jerking back and forth with a whining sound, before it settled upon a particular position. The cannon too, was raised, then lowered into position for firing. And with that, several rounds were fired off in quick succession at a small island called Kahoolawe, the Navy’s firing range. While the gun mount recoiled around the deafening sound of each round, I found myself getting sick from the combination of the smell of gunpowder, the gyrations of the gun mount and the ship’s bobbing up ’n’ down, like a cork, as it stood dead in the water. How easily did I slip back into my stupor to escape the intolerableness of the moment—the intensity of the screaming in my head and pain in my chest. How long I remained mentally and emotionally blacked out, I do not know since I didn’t come to, until sometime later, down in the compartment. What had transpired in the interim, I could not recall at the time. Only now do I recollect having had a fantasy in which I was washed up onto the shore of some strange island as the sole survivor of a shipwreck. How long I lay there passed out upon the beach, I do not know. At some point, I vaguely remember feeling the soft hand of a woman caressing my face. But I could not see her, for I was unable to open my eyes, which had swollen shut as a result of their having been overly exposed to salt water. When I did finally manage to open my eyes, I found myself standing down in the compartment, looking into the mirror that hung there. And at first, I could’ve sworn I saw no reflection of my self in the mirror. In fact, I was shocked when I actually felt an urge to walk back into the mirror, or through the looking glass, so to speak. At that point, I saw my reflection and began to hear the sounds of other people milling about me. |
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