I’m so worried—wrote Mary—I don’t even know how to begin this letter. Are you all right? If so, why haven’t you answered my letters? Did you get the cake I sent you? In the last letter I received, you mentioned you were on your way back to Nam. I guess that’s what has me so worried. O Butch, I wish you’d write ’n’ tell me you’re okay. I don’t know if I’m being too pessimistic or what; but I keep thinking something terrible has happened to you. I’ve written four letters since I last heard from you. Have you received any of them? If so, why haven’t you responded? If you’ve been busy, I understand; but at least let me know that. Please Butch! I’m so worried.

How much longer will it be before you get back to Hawaii? Are you still planning on coming home around the first of the year, as you’d written in your last letter? I hope so.

What’ve you been doing lately—I mean on the ship? Are you still out on deck or behind a desk now? I hope you’re pushing a pencil instead, as that’s a lot safer. How are you doing with the correspondence course? Or have you received it yet?

Please write, Butch, and let me know how you’re doing. Even if it were just a few lines to let me know you’re doing fine, I’d be satisfied with that. Take care now.

Love,
Mary

While it certainly felt good to have heard from her, I wondered what’d happened to the other letters she’d written. Given her track record on keeping up with her correspondence to me, at first I didn’t know whether to believe her or not. Had she really written me as often as she’d mentioned in her letter; or had she only imagined she’d written me after having been inspired to do so on four different occasions? Maybe she’d forgotten to mail the letters or misplaced them. As my suspicions shifted from her to the Navy, I grew alarmed at the thought of anyone intentionally holding back my mail, for that smacked me as just the sort of thing the Communists would do. Did the Great Gray Whore see her, who had long ago captured the image of my soul, as the source of my rebellion? Or had this she-devil simply bungled again, and lost the letters? Or was this Fate’s doing—an attempt by God to wean me from an unsuitable projection of my soul?

“With your guns & drums ’n’ drums & guns,“ bemoaned my mentor, “the enemy nearly slew ye.“

Instantly, I knew that this part of the story would push the button of everyone who read it.

“Then keep it to yourself,“ demanded an inharmonious voice from somewhere deep within my being.

“My darlin’ dear, ye look so queer,“ moaned the dead man.

“Och! Johnny,“ began the right hand, ere it was cut off by the left.

“I hardly knew ye,“ completed the left hand, its ode to the dead.

“Knew who?“ asked a tremulous right hand.

“Who are you, anyway“ entreated the left hand.

“Dammit! Who are you?“ demanded the right hand, in an effort to ascertain what was going on here, before the dead man’s spirit slipped through my fingers, taking its awful secret with it.

With that, I realized I had finally destroyed the terrible image I had of my stepfather. He was the enemy I’d shot ’n’ killed, as I peeled away the lies, which’d hidden the truth from me for so long. With each round I had, figuratively speaking, fired into the face of this dark specter, I unveiled all the pain ’n’ suffering this miserable human being had inflicted upon me. No longer cursed to live out his fate, I was free now, to make my own choices. Or was I, for while the spirit was most willing, the flesh was still very weak.

Had I heard them right? Or had I only heard what I wanted to hear? If that were true, I certainly would not have wanted to hear again, that I did not belong here, without some input from my faculties as to where to go from here. But alas, I never turned up anything more constructive than to resist what I’m currently doing, as if I’ve been doomed to a fate of always having to undo what I’ve just done out of complete ignorance of what I should be doing. For I had not a mother who knew any better, according to my faculties.

With that, did my soul take center stage where with an Irish brogue, she started to sing the Civil War song, “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.” Only she changed the words to the song, as I remembered hearing it as a child.

“My darlin’ dear, ye look so queer,“ she sang to her one-man audience. “Och! Johnny, I hardly knew ye.“

And as my heart reverberated to the beat of the song, she sang in a voice so shrill, I was pierced to the quick.

“With your guns & drums ’n’ drums & guns, hurroo, hurroo,
With your guns & drums ’n’ drums & guns, hurroo, hurroo,
With your guns & drums ’n’ drums & guns the enemy nearly slew ye.
My darling dear, ye look so queer.
Och! Johnny, I hardly knew ye.

“I’m happy for to see ye home, hurroo, hurroo,
I’m happy for to see ye home, hurroo, hurroo,
I’m happy for to see ye home. O, but darling,
So pale ’n’ worn! So low in cheek, so high in bone!
Och! Johnny, I hardly knew ye.

“And where’re your legs that used to run, hurroo, hurroo,
Where’re your legs that used to run, hurroo, hurroo,
Where’re your legs that used to run when ye went to carry a gun?
Indeed, your dancing days are done!
Och! Johnny, I hardly knew ye.

“And where’re your eyes that were so mild, hurroo, hurroo,
Where’re your eyes that were so mild, hurroo, hurroo,
Where’re your eyes that were so mild when my heart ye beguiled?
Why did ye run from me and the child?
Och! Johnny, I hardly knew ye.

“They’re rolling out the guns again, hurroo, hurroo,
They’re rolling out the guns again, hurroo, hurroo,
They’re rolling out the guns again but never’ll take our sons again.
No, they never will take our sons again.
Och! Johnny, I’m swearing to ye.“

With that, did my faculties break in, singing the refrain over ’n’ over until I couldn’t stand it, for my mother hadn’t known any better than to send me off to war.

As I ventured down avenues seldom, if ever, traveled by the likes of me, I stumbled upon a great fault in my personality, that volcanic rift between self ’n’ soul which’d been handed down to me through a line of ancestors that went all the way back to the beginning of time, when the Original Being was split in two for the sake of consciousness. Peering over the side, into the historic depths of this great rift, I watched as, ages ago, this crack spewed forth a magician, whose magical powers were second to none but those of the Creator. Immediately I recognized the magician as the Great Necromancer whom I’d encountered earlier. As it became clearer to me how much his very existence depended on this rift, I realized he was the one who had driven the soul underground and set up the self as a puppet dictator.

Having grown up oblivious to the wants ’n’ needs of my soul, with the onset of puberty had I fallen headfirst into this rift, where I wandered in darkness until Fate, the mother of soul, forced me to choose between her daughter and my self. Having been enlisted by the Navy to go off and free the soul of this country, Miss Liberty, from the clutches of the evil magician, Ho Chi Minh, little did I know I’d been duped, along with thousands of other young men, into fighting for one of Uncle Sam’s alter egos, a puppet dictator in South Vietnam. Thus was I cast to play the part of a fool in this human tragedy or adaptation of a divine drama in which I was to simultaneously star as the real hero.

As the experience opens, I find my self at odds again with my body. Driven by some asinine instinct to look beyond the dry, uninspiring and lifeless mode of existence my head has chosen to pursue, I trudge off, one day, with the curiosity of my youth, to explore the farthest reaches of my imagination. Looking back, I realize I’ve gotten mired down in an unsuitable way of life due primarily to a stubborn refusal on my part to trust any other aspect of myself but my head.

At wit’s end, I’m forced to delve ever more deeply into my imagination for inspiration. Because I have such a great fear of losing control, I’m willing to go only so far, to keep from getting too carried away by my imagination. Naturally, I only succeed in getting caught up in circular thinking. After all, how can I put my trust in an instinct that’s so often led me astray. And yet, I’m forced to rely on this same instinct, or inner urge to play with my self, if ever I wish to find a way out of reliving the fate of my fathers. In the struggle to let go of my self, I finally give my imagination free rein.

As I lose my self in play, I panic. In my inability to let go of the urge to play with my self, I race off after this instinct, only to fall flat on my face when my imagination fails me. Having exhausted every effort on my part to make something happen, I finally let go of my conscious self, long enough to fall into the dreadful darkness that still clouds my mind, where I lay until I catch wind of a new awareness stirring about.

Once I engage my imagination, I catch sight of some vague notion fluttering about my head, which, at first, seems so preposterous I simply dismiss it. As I come to my senses, I think, “there’s no way this crazy notion can be true,“ whereupon my feelings quickly let me know that what I’m about to see is the truth.

As I come to this new awareness, I suddenly find myself deeply engaged with the concept that consciousness and the material world are one and the same. Stirred by the very breath of life within me, I come to the realization that I live in this Spirit, just as it lives in me. I come to understand Jesus’ words: “On that day you’ll know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you,“ (Jn. 14:20) for “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.“ (Jn. 8:12) “Is it not written in your law, ’I have said you are gods’?“ (Jn. 10:34) Again, “I say, ’you are gods, children of the Most High, all of you’.“ (Ps. 82:6) Made in the image and likeness of God, in my ecstasy, I come to the realization that, like Jesus, I Am Who Am.

As I struggle to see through the matter that envelopes all consciousness, I am drawn to the tree of life, an image of God in which the hidden feminine side of the Original Being suddenly stands out like never before. At first, I’m so completely captivated by the exquisite beauty of Nature, that I cannot yet see her real identity, the feminine side of my nature. Taking a closer look at this image, I see Wisdom, her whom the Creator “poured out upon all his works, upon all the living according to his gift.“ (Sir. 1:9–10) Cloaked in the simple language of her images, I find Christ’s words: “You will live in my love, if you keep my commandments, even as I have kept my Father’s commandments, and live in his love.“ (Jn. 15:10–11) For true wisdom is the ability to apply what one has acquired mentally to the conduct of his own affairs.

Once I realize the significance of the stone tablet, I find a way back to my heart where I am reminded of the words of the prophet Jeremiah: “I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts. No longer shall they teach one another, or say to each other, ’Know the Lord,’ for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, says the Lord.“ (Jer. 31:33–34)

And I find that the way to my heart is through the door opened by those things in the world which contain a hint of what I do not yet know about myself. As soon as something in the material world strikes a chord in my heart, I am reunited with that part of my soul, which remains locked up, out there in nature, far from consciousness. Struck by an arrow of Eros, or some feeling for the thing, am I driven to take possession of whatever it is that eludes my grasp. In my lust, or need for instant gratification, I may fall for the very thing itself, if it remains too far from consciousness. Or if I am patient, I may stumble upon the naked truth of Wisdom herself as I play with her images, for it is in going to her as a lover of truth that she whispers their meaning in my ear.

Like a vulture, did he swoop down on me. “You’re on report,“ he screeched out.

“What for?“ I asked.

“For disobeyin’ a direct order,“ he squawked, “and for leavin’ your appointed place of duty without my permission.“

“I had to take a shit, Farris,“ I tried to explain to him. “And when I couldn’t find you anywhere on the mess decks…“

It was useless trying to explain anything to him, for he was totally unreasonable. “You’re on report,“ he kept screaming into my face, over ’n’ over. “You’re on report.“

“I’ll tell you one goddamn thing, Farris,“ I finally interjected. “I’ve never once had to ask anyone on this ship for permission to take a shit, unless I was on watch. And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna start now.“

Immediately, he spun around and raced off across the mess decks, only to disappear down the forward passageway.

“The guy’s a f____n’ animal!“ exclaimed Marty.

“Nah,“ I replied, “he’s just afraid; that’s all. Like the rest of them, he’s afraid of the tide of resistance that’s risen up from amongst us plebes, and threatens to sweep over the ship like a tidal wave.”

Although this fellowship was short lived, I nonetheless found great consolation in the affirmation I received from them, for the views I held. Seeing others, for the first time, under the spell of the same fantasy that plagued me, namely this underground resistance to the war in Vietnam, helped me to realize that I wasn’t so crazy after all. With participants from every division on the ship, I felt energized by the potential for action that lay within our grasp.

In the face of similar decrees in other divisions throughout the ship, and with the exception of a few stalwarts like Marty ’n’ myself, I saw this fellowship quickly disintegrate. In the end, I—like so many of the others—grew fearful of the consequences we’d suffer if we acted against the Navy. Unwilling to lay my life on the line, at this point in time, by joining this underground resistance, I simply stood aside and watched it fester beneath the surface until it gained enough momentum to push me over the threshold between fantasy ’n’ reality—to openly rebel.

Onboard the train, I was amazed at the speed with which the train zoomed through the countryside, stopping just long enough to allow passengers to get on and off. And I wondered why we didn’t have in place such a modern and efficient means of transportation in St. Louis. I certainly would’ve had it easier, traveling from South County, where I lived, to see Mary at her parents place in North County.

What little I saw of the countryside from the window of the train was simply gorgeous. However, the lush beauty of the precipitous foothills that surrounded the quaint little villages, nestled snugly into every nook ’n’ cranny along the line, quickly gave way to a flattened terrain, monotonously dressed in the urban sprawl of a more modern Tokyo.

When it came time for me to disembark from the train, I felt as if I were stepping into some fantasy without the slightest clue of what was going to happen next. For I’d found no unfolding tale here to guide me, till I stumbled upon the most unusual park I’d ever seen, one completely surrounded by a massive stone wall, like the fief of some medieval warlord. Upon entering the grounds, through one of its large open gates, I wound up roaming about this dreamlike world for hours, taking pictures of its perfectly manicured gardens, groves of cherry trees in full bloom, and quaint old Japanese structures. I was never more impressed by anything I saw in Tokyo than by this singular glimpse into Japan’s past, for Tokyo was like any other large city in the States, choked with its monuments to commercialism like an overcrowded cemetery.

Having worked up an appetite, I flagged down a cabdriver who seemed to understand as well as speak a little English. When I asked him to take me to a good but reasonably priced restaurant, we sped off down through a maze of very narrow ’n’ windy side streets as if he were trying to catch up with the other entrants in the Grand Prix after having been forced to make an unexpected pit stop. So did I about have a heart attack whenever we zoomed past an oncoming vehicle traveling at the same high rate of speed. Not realizing what I’d gotten myself into, I thought my fate was surely sealed as I imagined a head-on collision with every car we passed. Still in a near state of shock by the time this roller coaster ride came to an end, I was miraculously left standing in one piece on the sidewalk in front of a place that looked like any other small ethnic, neighborhood restaurant back in the States.

Having regained my wits about myself, I entered the restaurant and sat down. Shortly thereafter, an elderly Japanese woman handed me a menu which, much to my surprise, was written in English. Looking forward to a good sampling of Japanese cuisine, I soon discovered that I was about to enjoy a good old-fashioned American meal. After feasting on a sumptuous steak dinner, I graciously thanked my very modest hostess for such an excellent meal, whereupon I quickly found myself back out on the streets again.

Upon learning, right before lunch, I was scheduled to stand the afternoon watch, I hurried up to the mess decks, only to find a long line. So I grabbed an orange, to tide me over till dinner, and raced up to the bridge where I was told to relieve the starboard lookout. Once up topside, I was informed by the last watch to keep a sharp lookout for any torpedoes—dummies, that is, of course—headed our way, for we were involved in an antisubmarine warfare exercise with the other ships in the fleet. Having donned the microphone and headset, I quickly scanned the surface of the water with my binoculars. However, I saw nothing that even remotely resembled a torpedo. Instead, I felt as if it were going to be just another one of those long boring watches, I had grown so used to standing by now.

How quickly I found myself sitting out in the middle of the ocean in a rowboat, or daydream, without any means to propel it. Suddenly, from out across the water, I heard a young girl scream for help, as she struggled to keep her head above water. Without thinking, I leapt out of the boat and ran across the surface of the water to save her. Having pulled her from the water, I carried her in my arms, back to the boat. As I stepped into the boat, it dawned on me that I’d just walked on water. Astounded, I put her down in the boat.

“Are you all right?“ I inquired.

“Yes,“ she replied. “I’ll be fine as soon as I catch my breath.“

“What’re you doin’ way out here, by yourself?“ I asked.

“I’ve been waiting for you to save me,“ she replied.

“I don’t understand,“ I declared. “Who are you, anyway?“

“I’m the little girl you left to drown some years ago,“ she answered. “Don’t you remember? You told your high school counselor about me.“

“Why that was just a story I made up,“ I responded, “to help me explain what I was feelin’ at the time.“

“No,“ she screamed. “It really happened—you left me to drown, choosing instead, to go off ’n’ play with your self.“

Momentarily struck speechless by the truth of her words, I wondered how what’d started out as make-believe could end up being so real.

“May I have a bite of your orange?“ she asked after a long pause.

“What orange?“ I muttered, for I still couldn’t believe all of this was really happening.

“The orange you have in your pocket,“ she replied.

“Of course!“ I exclaimed as I grabbed the orange and started to peel it. “How’d ya know I had an orange?“

“I’ve been waiting for you to peel it,“ she replied with a smile.

As I did so, I tossed the peelings over the side, completely unaware that, in reality, I was bombarding the Captain and the Officer of the Deck with them.

Suddenly, I heard the Captain scream, “Why hasn’t the starboard watch reported the torpedo approaching the Davidson off the starboard bow? I want that man relieved of his watch, immediately, goddamn it!“

I looked at the little girl in the boat, as she smiled at me with the most sympathetic look on her face. “You set me up for this, didn’t you?“ I demanded to know before she vanished.

As the rowboat sank beneath the surface of the water, I realized she had just torpedoed me again. If these were the sort of tricks the little sprite was going to play on me, no wonder I had been so reluctant to rescue her in the past.

The first person I met was Greg. From Los Angeles, he was the gregarious magnet that drew us all together. In build, he reminded me of a lanky turtle without its shell, for from out of his rounded shoulders protruded a long skinny neck on top of which sat a head he always held cocked slightly forward and off to one side. He stood his ground, though, against the taunts he incurred around his slow, deliberate movements and somewhat effeminate mannerisms. Gifted with an ability to draw, he rose above the herd mentality of his tormentors by drawing satirical caricatures of them. In his hate for the Navy, he regularly smoked marijuana and, on occasion, dropped acid with another shipmate to escape the pain of it all.

Shortly thereafter, Greg introduced me to Harold, a rabbity-looking fella from Collinsville, Illinois. Of slight build, Harold was a very warm and gentle person, who approached others with his nose twitching as nibbled on one of his fingers or puffed on a cigarette, like a novice smoker. With his big watery brown eyes fixed elsewhere, on some distant worry, he often had little to say. When he did, he never spoke an unkind word about anyone, even the lifers. For unlike Greg ’n’ I, his dislike of the Navy had been tempered by the more satisfying position, he held, as a clerk typist in the ship’s office. Besides, he had a wife and a newborn baby back home to think about. For he had apparently gotten her pregnant before they were married—before he was ready to assume that much responsibility in his life.

The next person, I met, was Marty, a wild and high-spirited stallion, who would soon prove much more difficult to keep corralled than either a boxed turtle or a caged rabbit. For he would go on to become one of the most outspoken members of the crew beside myself. While he could never accept such a position for himself, he deeply respected the stand I had taken against the Navy and stood by me to the very end.

From a tough working class neighborhood in Baltimore, Maryland, Marty never cowered from speaking his mind and challenging the other members of the crew. For he hated the Navy and the animallike behavior of the lifers. A hard worker, he always followed orders, in spite of the abuse he suffered at the hands of some of the lifers for expressing his views. And even though Marty stood up for what he believed, he always acted within the confines of the law he felt bound to obey. As an electrician’s mate did he short-circuit many a lie the lifers lived by. An answer to a prayer, Marty was more than a like-minded companion, for he was another voice in the desert.

And even though I didn’t know it at the time, I was the missing link, that hypothetical intermediate between the myth of man and his animal ancestry. Indeed, I was the next great step in the evolution of mankind, which so many of us long to see and yet bitterly detest when we do.