1 Chapter 1

1: Evacuation

When I was conscripted to one of the divisions of Marines involved in the attempt to keep the peace during the civil strife of a south Pacific state, its sounds perhaps more romantic, and more erotic than it actually was. I was there as a civilian advisor, supporting the Marines and acting as a possible liaison with the locals. I am a psychologist, complete with degrees and accreditation, but it was my doctoral dissertation research on the psychological stressors associated with the repealing of the don’t ask don’t tellstricture on gays in the military that got me attached during this action.

The truth is, I just plain likemilitary men, whether they be soldiers, sailors, airmen, or Marines. Mostly, however, I prefer the last. They have, in my experience, the most truly military natures. Perhaps it comes from the principle of opposites attracting. The clean-cut, physically capable military man, who gets physical things done with a calm efficiency—that’s kind of the opposite of me. Any athletic feat requiring physical coordination, even throwing a ball, for example—I seldom could hit a target at any distance. I think that was part of why I never actually joinedthe military—even though, after completing my master’s thesis on the psychological effects of military culture on young men, I was invited to do so. The other part was the spit-polished and organized life I associated with military men. I might admire it in others, but doingit, no. Even getting up early is something I find a challenge.

But, like I said, I am attracted to all of those things, and military men in (or out of) uniform, ring all my bells. So, when I was asked to join the Marine expeditionary force as an advisor, to be embedded with the troops, I just couldn’t say no.

* * * *

I know that there are those who decry American interference in foreign crises, and certainly the results of many such interventions have been sufficiently mixed to at least raise the argument. But personally, while I too might doubt the wisdom of a given action—which is often really hard to determine until years after the events—I do believe in the general good-will or intentionsof most of such American actions. And yes, I know what they say about good intentions paving the road to hell. But still, isn’t it arguable that on occasion such attempts just might be justified?

Anyway, good, bad or other, we were there, and I was—well—what seemed at times to be hip-deep in Marines.

I found that I had few real complaints.

I never heard the full story about the crisis until much later—due to what happened and where I was at the time—but the chief characteristic about what I remember about that final day was confusion, along with frenzied activity and, of course, fear. The air was fullof testosterone—capable, resourceful, and virile men doing their utmost to perform the evacuation with a minimum of casualties.

What I heard, by word of mouth, was there appeared to have been a major sea change in the local situation, at the highest levels—though whether that was a coup or some other political change, nobody seemed sure. Mostly, those in the expeditionary force were too busy to speculate.

At last, I was escorted by one of the larger specimens among the Marines, out onto the landing strip. When I saw the aircraft I was being led to, I was surprised. I had arrived with a Marine contingent in one of those enormous Lockheed Hercules and, though there wasone of those on the tarmac at the time, it was already taxiing. Presumably, full of Marines. The aircraft my Marine and I were heading to, was a Beechcraft Huron, a small turboprop that ordinarily seated thirteen passengers.

I remember that the smallness of the aircraft brought on a feeling of unease. Somehow, being sandwiched in among all those Marines in the Hercules had ameliorated the effects of my tendency toward anxiety about flying. This aircraft, I thought, looked—well, vulnerable—even though I was assured that there was minimal danger of our coming under fire.

There were four of us, other than the pilot—and there were no empty seats. Most of the interior of the plane was filled with equipment. And, though I didn’t do more than look as I passed it on my way to my seat, it was pretty clear that the equipment was of the surveillance system electronics variety. Indeed, after we were seated and the plane started to taxi, the two passengers in the row in front of us hastily got up and did a last-minute check, pulling on straps and generally making sure the equipment was securely strapped down.

I craned my neck around, watching this with unease, but when I straightened my neck, I caught the gaze of the Marine sitting across the aisle from me. He gave me a reassuring smile, which, partly because a smile on that good-natured, masculine face was quite decorative, did something to sooth my nerves.