A Cryptic Odyssey

By John Bartel Weston

The first three chapters of the book offer the author's depiction of his life leading up to his cryptic odyssey through various countries and continents of the world. The symptoms and signs of his mental illness are evident throughout the book, but they do not detract from a reader's comprehension and enjoyment of the storyline as it develops.

The descriptions of his experiences are generally quite lucid, educational, and entertaining. He offers little-known information relating to the field of precious metal prospecting, and he includes interesting world historical information that bears on his narrative. The book also offers vivid insights into the real world as seen by someone unknowingly suffering from mental illness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Aug 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483454894

Book preview

[e-mail]

AMERICAN BOYHOOD

I  WAS BORN INTO THIS world on July 23, 1944, at Flower Hospital, Toledo, Ohio, United States of America. Oddly, only one other boy, surnamed Easton, was born that day in the hospital. My mother was of Old Saxon extraction, from northwest and western Germany, while my paternal ancestry was New Saxon English. With such a strong Teutonic heritage it was likely that my instincts would be tied closely to the spirits of nature.

The ancient Teutonic tribes of northwest Germany were noted for their agrarian way of life and spiritual ties to nature. Their religion focused on families of gods who controlled the forces of nature. They acted as heroic models and strengthened tribal members with their powerful spirits. Individuals were considered capable of attaining godlike status in the afterlife if they achieved epical feats during their lifetimes. This potential parity between mortals and gods promoted defiance against human authority, and it led to the development of decentralized tribal social orders fiercely resistant to alien influences.

Unlike classical civilizations, which conquered neighboring peoples to enrich public coffers, early Saxon tribes fought solely for their gods. Life was considered a God-given trial with the laws of nature providing divine judgment; and the accused were sometimes thrown into raging waters to sink or swim free.

The seeds of neo-Western civilization were sown by the Saxon sacred belief in the individual. Self-reliance, privacy, and free will were regarded as natural rights of man.

After the age of one, my mother often took me by train from Toledo to her former hometown of Richmond, Indiana, 250 kilometers to the south-southwest. Back and forth we travelled between the cities until a divorce settled her uneasy marriage. She remarried a Richmond resident and this city of 44,000 inhabitants became my hometown.

Richmond was situated in the heartland of America along the original wagon trail to the west. Many of its residents were descendants of English Quakers and Germanic farmers who immigrated in the mid-1800s. Strange religious sects like Mennonites, Hutterites, and Dunkards fled persecution in Europe and established farming communities in the area. The fertile land was much the same as in Germany and allowed the raising of familiar crops and animals. Even the Ohio River, which was 100 kilometers to the south, looked like the Rhine in the Old Country.

This Teutonic immigrant stock gave the Richmond community provincial sentiments quite different from mainstream America. Many maintained anti-bureaucratic idiosyncrasies quite similar to their ancient Saxon forbearers, like wearing quaint clothing, refusing to accept modern machinery, and even keeping their children out of public schools.

I enjoyed an ordinary upbringing in a typical middle-class neighborhood near the edge of town. My progress at school was above average, and my disposition varied between bossy and quiet. My first artwork, which was completed at school when I was about nine years old, exhibited natural symbolism.

Even though I lived in a city environs, much of my time was spent outdoors, playing in yards and climbing trees in wooded lots. I often explored with friends along creeks into nearby pasturelands, where we hunted birds with BB guns. Fireworks fascinated me, and I spent hour after hour exploding them. I was impressed by the power and danger in the world around me.

Also at about eight years of age I comprehended the significance between life and death and focused my attention on the weather in the sky overhead. This whole new realm of mysterious power entranced me. Our four-season climate had almost every conceivable type of weather pattern, and I solemnly watched the cloud and color changes.

The hot days of summer meant little to me. When a thunderstorm approached, I dreaded the roaring sound of the wind blowing through the trees but enjoyed its powerful feel on my face. In the calm before the storm I stood still in the heavy air, gazing in awe at the rapidly approaching front line of black clouds. The first lightning streaks seemed to crack them open and give birth to the falling rain. The thunderclaps usually moved me into the house for shelter, and after the initial blast of wind, large hailstones sometimes blew down like shell shot.

In winter I enjoyed watching the snow fall from gray clouds. When there was no wind the snowflakes sometimes formed clusters and tumbled down up to an inch in diameter. Each intricately formed ice crystal in it was star-shaped differently. I always wanted more to come down, and I even sat up in my bed during the night watching it fall in the light of a streetlamp.

After a snowstorm the sunshine melted snow on rooftops and formed icicles along shaded gutters. Sometimes they fell and stabbed like daggers into the ground below. Occasionally freezing rain followed a snowstorm and glazed everything with ice. In the sunshine the flashy ice-covered trees dazzled me to the fanciful edges of consciousness. It was like a frozen fairyland! Branches often broke under the weight of the ice and crashed to the ground. The slippery streets caused car accidents, and the elderly sometimes broke bones after slipping on iced footpaths. The beauty and danger of the sunlight and ice strengthened my respect for nature.

Like the heat in summer, the winter cold didn’t interest me. Apparently only the visual properties of the weather charmed me into submission.

As the weather passed through its yearly cycle my interest increased, and I developed a longing for freak storms, like tornados, even though I feared their lethal effects. Tales of houses being blown for kilometers and straw stabbed into telephone poles enhanced my enchantment. It was common knowledge that the weather affected the moods of people, but for me its influence was more profound. My almost reverent fear of its power gradually changed to an obsessive quest for understanding.

Science became my favorite subject at school since it answered many of my questions. I learned that the weather was the temporary condition of the atmosphere, and its power was derived from the radiation and motion of the heavenly bodies.

One day at school my science teacher proudly lectured the class on the virtues of individualism and warned us not to trust governments.

Don’t follow leaders blindly! she said emphatically. Think for yourself! Here in America we’re free!

Her passionate words reminded me of my Sunday School teacher and had a lasting effect on my development. My different interests welcomed her uncommon advice, as I already admired the powers of the weather more than anything else.

As the months passed I developed a rebellious attitude toward conventional standards, and my school grades declined. I pasted unusual slogans on my schoolbooks and even refused to recite the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag each morning. Eventually, my homeroom teacher, Mr. Nagle, called me out for a confidential talk.

Why don’t you give the Pledge of Allegiance? he asked, looking deeply concerned.

I don’t know if the country deserves my support, I replied. I’m too young to know for sure.

After talking for a few minutes more, we resolved nothing. My unyielding attitude disturbed Mr. Nagle, but he decided not to punish me.

A few days later I rejoined my classmates by reciting the pledge, and Mr. Nagle looked pleased. He probably realized that he represented the country to me, and his tolerance had won my respect.

At the same time my new argumentative attitude surprised my family, and relations with them soured somewhat. I had an older brother and sister, and two younger half-sisters. My authoritarian stepfather was of Welsh extraction and believed in classical conservative principles. Even though I complied with most of his teachings, I rejected much of his discipline. My mother seemed unconcerned but emphasized honest living, and she ensured that it was practiced.

I attended Lutheran church services with my family reluctantly, but I accepted the religious concept of special creation as well as the principles of conscientiousness and faith. During prayers I closed my eyes, blindly believing like everyone else. After all, I had no alternative answers to the enigmas of life.

It was the dictatorial nature of religious doctrine that I rejected since it discourages a think for yourself attitude. I wanted to search for answers on my own rather than beg for divine guidance. My refusal to take Holy Communion elicited disapproving remarks from my stepfather, but my mother tolerated my recalcitrance.

My dreams reflected my unsettled nature and the powerful world I observed around me. Most of them took me adventuring to faraway places—even out of this world! The danger and violence I encountered enlivened my spirit, but one recurring nightmare nearly took me too far.

When it began with the image of a moonlike sphere, I fell into a trance and couldn’t escape from its power. Soon after, gray cavities ate into its smooth surface, and I became horrified. The following phases were always too frightening for me to recall, and at the end, I found myself in a dark place sinking on one scale of a huge balance.

I frantically shoved off a falling sand-like substance as it rapidly accumulated around me. When it finally tipped, I fell off and woke up scared to death. One day the moonlike image hypnotized me while I sat in a chair, and I sensed that it was more powerful than a dream.

As the years passed my personality stabilized and relationships with my family improved. However, I was still bored by most social activities and yearned for travel and adventure. Arranging maps on the walls of my bedroom gave me satisfaction, and I memorized their geographical place names. Books, movies, and television only whetted my appetite for travel.

Each summer I got my chance to go someplace when the family vacationed. The two-week drives to neighboring states were the highlight of each year for me. I sat in the front seat with the road map and acted as navigator, calculating distances between towns.

One rainy day, as we travelled through undulating wooded country in Tennessee, water flowed in small, natural drainages parallel to the road. Each time that it came into view after we passed over a ridge, I hollered Billy, as if the water was an animate friend running with me. The whole family enjoyed my play with nature.

When we had no specific destination, I urged us to keep on travelling. The farther we went and the more unfamiliar the land looked, the greater I enjoyed it all.

I saw my first mountain on a trip to Tennessee. The forest-covered ridge near Cumberland Gap in southeastern Kentucky was a famous landmark for an old wagon trail. On other holidays I saw the Great Lakes and went as far south as the Florida Everglades.

After my stepfather bought an airplane, he invited me to fly with him one day. It was a dreamlike first flight, looking down on the landscape rapidly diminishing in size. I felt so free rising like the clouds above so much land. However, at an altitude of over 1,000 meters its plain form became less palpable, and I missed its contact.

After flying several times, I found that I enjoyed the takeoffs and landings most. The close-up views of the fast-moving landscape thrilled me. My yearning for travel seemed to be tied to the land.

During high school my introverted personality, like my above-average grades, remained unchanged. I socialized little and concentrated on the unconventional aspects of life. The casual relationships between life and the physical sciences interested me more than one specific course of study. The unknown nature of everything intrigued me, and I wanted to know how it all came together to form a logical whole.

Several of my science teachers challenged me with difficult questions. If I respected them, my answers were usually correct despite the fact that they were given in unorthodox terms. I was told that my thinking was creative.

I enjoyed the game of golf more than any other sport. The individual effort suited me, and I enjoyed the peaceful country surroundings. I played well for my age and scored several tournament victories before qualifying for the high school golf team.

After receiving my bright red letter jacket, which was a school status symbol, I was eligible to join the prestigious Letter Jacket Club. I refused despite pressure from some of its members. Its conventionality offered nothing new for me. Fellow students were baffled by my aloofness as they knew that I had the potential to be popular. The fact that I wished to view people from an outside perspective irritated many of them.

One night at a weekend football game as the players ran off the field at halftime, I commented that they didn’t know where they were going. My friends first looked puzzled, but then mocked me. They didn’t appreciate my disdain for pack-like behavior. My uncommon nature seemed to be religiously oriented.

As the months passed I realized that my reluctance to commit myself socially was linked with my longing for travel. The world was huge, and I didn’t want to limit my perspectives within social boundaries.

In spite of my restrained teenage life I respected the community, and my law-abiding behavior attested to this. Most of my close friends were of Teutonic ancestry and liked my original sense of humor. Besides playing golf with friends, my main extracurricular activities were card playing, beer drinking, and women wooing.

I particularly enjoyed driving alone for long distances to attend country dances. The drives to these new places, like the vacations in my earlier days, were as pleasurable as female companionship. The movement of passing land seemed to be related to my adventurous spirits.

During my last year of high school, a serious relationship developed with a girlfriend. I even considered marriage before realizing that such a social commitment would hinder my plans to roam. After the breakup I looked forward to college life. I wanted to attend Indiana University at Bloomington, 200 kilometers southwest of Richmond, as it had a high academic accreditation and reasonable tuition fees.

After graduating from high school in June 1962, I was admitted to Indiana University. I was happy to leave home and anticipated having greater independence at college. At this stage of my life I had no specific goals for the future. I viewed my coming years at college as the final act of my formal education before entering the real world in the work force.

My boyhood had been a sheltered period, epitomized by the family home. However, like the other social institutions in my hometown, it hadn’t shaped my life much. My lackluster attitude toward humanity was caused by outward yearnings. I didn’t need much psychological or spiritual protection provided by society, and I believed that my future travel would find the right place in the world for me.

UNIVERSITY TRIALS

O N A SEPTEMBER DAY IN 1962 my parents drove me from Richmond to the Indiana University campus in Bloomington. From my dormitory window on the second floor, it took several goodbyes to separate from my mother. We both knew that it marked the end of her protective role and the beginning of my new autonomy.

For the next few days I wandered about on the huge campus completing my matriculation. The tree-lined streets and wooded areas seemed to relax the atmosphere around the crowded walkways. Struggling through the hordes of students exhausted me at the end of each day. Even in the dormitory there was no escape from the hustle and the bustle in the hallways. Only in my room was I at ease from the confusion. I knew that for the next four years I had to adapt to my contradictory situation. I didn’t like living anonymously with so many people and had only one alternative, and that was to join a fraternity.

The Greek fraternities and sororities were student associations that had been established at American colleges in the last century. My father, mother, and brother had become members, and this motivated me to visit one. It was the Sigma Pi fraternity, conveniently situated between the campus and downtown Bloomington.

After entering the large house, several members shook my hand and immediately began talking about the fraternity. As we looked at group photographs of members on the walls, I was told that it was a fellowship of kindred minds. Then we sat in a lounge, and I learned that the fraternity sought to strengthen characters, promote scholarship, and diffuse culture. The lack of religious affiliations and the ancient Greek teachings impressed me, and by the time I left, I understood the basics of fraternal life. The fraternity was like a club, dedicated to prepare its members for a free future.

For the next few days I attended my first classes and felt like an invisible number in the huge rooms, where professors lectured with public address systems. When the bells rang I rushed from the auditoriums and zigzagged through the crowded corridors to arrive at my next class on time.

Then one night while studying in my room, I slammed the book shut and decided to move out. I couldn’t tolerate the impersonal routine of the giant educational system any longer. I wanted new, down-to-earth experiences at the Sigma Pi Fraternity. The fraternities had broken away from the gray masses, and that attitude suited my different color. Their ancient Greek origins also stirred something within me.

A few days later I had a room in the Sigma Pi fraternity house. While attending classes, I wore a green cap on my head to prove that I had pledged myself to become organized.

The social structure of the fraternity was neo-classical. The elected sage, or wise one, directed its affairs in consultation with the other bona fide members. These actives were the privileged class who supervised the pledges, and their word was the law. Standards of conduct were strictly enforced, and when they were infringed, pledges dropped to the floor and pumped push-ups. Sometimes the active-pledge relationship was more like master and slave.

One day I had to stand near a window in the television room and hold up a piece of cardboard. An active, who was lounging in a chair, needed a sun shade to watch the television.

The pledges were the workers, and daily work sessions kept the house clean and tidy. At supper, some served food while others worked in the kitchen. On weekends all four floors in the house had to be hand-waxed and polished.

I agreed with the rigid discipline, as it strengthened character. Like walking or eating, it was a basic necessity for fostering healthy achievement. I also recognized that the mundane tasks in life were accomplished more effectively with a class structure. But its simplicity seemed more appropriate for lower beings. I believed that the eternal spirits in men were egalitarian and greater than material privileges. My independent mind didn’t like being linked with chains of command.

Although I worked hard, my rebellious nature revealed itself, and I was singled out for special treatment. My continued obstinacy under pressure infuriated many actives, and one night it culminated with constructive consequences.

During a wild calisthenics session for pledges, a mass mutiny occurred, and pledges ran out of the house with actives in hot pursuit. I kept moving in the dark and was the only one who eluded capture.

I casually walked back into the house about an hour later and was hailed by my fellow pledges. They were still exercising in a hectic atmosphere dominated by the shouts of actives.

One active ran up to me and hollered questions furiously. While everyone watched, I stood silent and stone-faced, ignoring his threatening gestures.

Weston, I’ll hit you if you don’t answer me! he shouted, with a clenched fist raised to strike. Silence pervaded the tense atmosphere as everyone waited for me to reply.

Slowly I smiled into his angry face and then began laughing. As he lunged for me, actives and pledges alike laughed, and several actives protected me by moving in between us. My ability to smile in the face of danger had impressed everyone.

I learned later that up to that incident many actives had wanted to blackball me from the fraternity. Apparently my egocentrism had been perceived as negative.

As the year progressed I recognized that the minds in the fellowship were not so kindred. At conscious levels there was a general meeting of the minds between the two dominant races, which were Anglo-Saxon and American Indian. Jokes were traded without reserve and subjects of interest were common. Longer-term friendships and antagonisms developed along racial lines, and personality conflicts caused disunity. Like family ties, racial homogeneity appeared to be an important factor for harmonious sociability on a larger scale.

After the first year many students had to leave the university. The difficult non-elective courses for freshmen were designed to eliminate weaker students, but a second chance was available at the Indiana University centers in other cities of the state.

My grades were satisfactory and enabled me to select my curriculum for the second year. Without considering my future after college, I chose earth science as my major study since it covered all of the physical sciences, including the weather. I was still intrigued by the world around me and wanted to get to know it better.

Psychology became my minor course. I had taken a basic psychology class in high school, but I wanted to further investigate myself. I suspected that there was a connection between my unconventional thinking and preoccupation with nature. Even though the vagaries of psychology were unseen and the physical world was visible, the same scientific methods applied to both, which implied that logical forces tied them together. I believed that psychology examined the subjective forces in the mind, which in turn motivated the higher faculties of consciousness. Without specific unconscious urges, reasoning failed.

On several occasions hypnotic sessions in the fraternity revealed my non-commonality, as I was the only member who didn’t fall under the control of the hypnotist. Apparently my independent nature was related to my peculiar unconscious will, so my sociability was based more at the conscious level.

At the beginning of my second year I became an active member of the fraternity after a grueling initiation ceremony. For several days, pledges prepared for a written test, which covered the fraternity history.

After it was passed on a Saturday afternoon, calisthenics sessions kept the neophytes busy for the rest of the day. We worked hard, like beasts of burden, doing meaningless tasks in this man-made hell. After being blindfolded, mental harassment ensued until the wee hours of the morning.

By daybreak everyone was too exhausted to stand in a straight line. Then, while still blindfolded, we were given bottles of a sacred potion and told to drink it all—fast. After the first swig many pledges vomited. The thick liquid was a concoction of hot sauces.

That final ceremonial trick kept us alert for the secret teachings that followed. Several actives took turns reading paraphrased Greek parables to us, but I found their mystical nature difficult to accept. Afterward, in the more relaxed atmosphere, we were awarded certificates of membership. Our long ordeal was over!

I walked outside in the early morning sunshine and felt exalted while looking upward toward the sun. However, for the rest of the day I thought wistfully. I still had mixed feelings about the fraternity. I viewed it as a necessary but evil mini-tribe, as it restricted the individual. Its ancient spiritual foundations affected me in a strange way, and I sensed a spiritual connection that wasn’t quite compatible.

My first earth science class was geology. This was the study of rocks and the natural processes that created, altered, and destroyed them. I enjoyed learning about the powerful movements of volcanoes, rivers, and the weather. But the land was the main subject, and the rock record enabled a reconstruction of earth history. It had been compiled over the years by correlating rocks from around the globe. The 4½-billion-year age of the earth was computed by radioactive dating techniques, but it was organic evolution that stirred my religious notions.

This theory was based on the fossil record, or on the physical evidence of ancient plant and animal life preserved in the rocks. As one moved from older to more recent rocks, the fossils clearly changed from simple to more complex configurations.

As the crust of the earth cooled, the seas formed and then ultraviolet sunlight created cells of amino acids from its chemical constituents. Lightning strikes apparently sparked the floating, egg-like cells to life by causing them to divide. With this electrically powered liquid origin, life moved, and over millions of years, continued to replicate, mutate, and compete to highly complex forms, like the chain reaction.

The fact that higher life, including man, held electrical energy within its salty blood convinced me that the evolutionary chain of life was true even though the reason for its scattering wasn’t explained. This mystery led me to believe that there was a divine purpose within the spirit of life.

All life possessed a curiosity that impelled movement, even after the primitive instincts were satisfied. Man appeared to be leading life in this great migration. His sense of moral responsibility and ability to systematically organize in consonance with the laws of nature seemed to separate him from other life forms.

After completing psychology, geography, climatology, and astronomy courses, I theorized that it was the invisible forces between matters that impelled life to scatter. My unconventional wish to wander was real and seemed innate. Life had been created by the elements, and my reverent feeling for them was also real. Now man was basically a land creature and seemed to be tied to it by primordial unconscious motivations.

What I learned in psychology classes substantiated my special theory between life and the elements. Scientific testing had proved that heredity motivated life more than environmental learning. In other words, hereditary instincts controlled conscious learning just like I had originally presupposed. Even the basic needs of food, water, shelter, and sex were subordinate to the spirits of life. Apparently, once the genes were in place, physical deprivation or brainwashing couldn’t alter the course of life. It moved according to the same laws of motion between all matter and scattered in the expanding universe for reasons known only to Almighty Nature.

Outside of science and psychology classes, only English literature interested me. The adventure in Homer’s The Odyssey fired my imagination, and the psychological drama described by Tolstoy in The Death of Ivan Ilyich stirred my emotions. The hardships of adventure and a slow, agonizing death both revealed much about the spirits of life.

Toward the end of my second year, my association with other fraternity members stabilized. Many brothers had adjusted to my odd sarcasm. The time spent clowning around relieved scholastic tensions and bridged personality chasms. The more conventional social activities, like serenading sorority houses, enhanced the morale of the entire student body. As in my boyhood, I still demonstrated positive community feelings.

In the classroom many of my professors irked me with their snobbery. Most were socialists and biased against Anglo-Saxon students. One stated that he was a worldist, and he ensured that his foreign students passed. I considered the professors as brainwashed bookworms who had never looked at the real world or thought for themselves.

Each semester I demonstrated my contempt for the intellectual establishment by forsaking a course. My failure to complete it seemed self-defeating from the ivory towers, but my academic aspirations weren’t aimed to impress anyone. I only wanted minimum passing grades.

At the beginning of my third year I entered the university Air Force Reserve Officer Training School. I intended to become a reserve officer after graduation, and I passed the required written examinations. My score on the pilot test was nearly perfect, and I looked forward to flying since it suited my independent instincts for travel.

The course consisted of military science lectures and command exercises. As a cadet officer I drilled squadrons of younger military students on an athletic field.

During 1965, many socialist professors and students staged protests against the war in Vietnam on the campus. This was the year when America dramatically increased its military forces in Southeast Asia. Most students ignored them, but their action forced me to better define my own personal philosophy.

I was opposed to organizations that lacked homogeneity since they possessed little spiritual unity for effective co-operation. Groups were suitable in specialized societies as they streamlined work and satisfied emotional needs of members. But for me, the need to belong was not strong, and I felt little patriotism for them. I believed that the rights and responsibilities of the individual were sacred. Even in war, acts of self-sacrifice originating from within individuals were usually more heroic that actions ordered by superiors. As long as directives were honorable, I had no qualms about following them. I firmly believed in military doctrine. Pacifism in a powerful world was a perversion.

I viewed the Vietnam War protestors as just another group acting legitimately within a larger social system. However, I was against their Asian style and collectivist politics, which advocated comprehensive limitations on individual expression.

One day while sitting in a military science classroom, I doodled a swastika on a piece of paper and wrote, the only way next to it. An acquaintance of mine saw it and got all excited. His German parents were from Silesia and had fled the Russian advance toward the end of World War II. I probably drew the Teutonic symbol to express my contempt for collectivism.

Between my third and last year at Indiana University, I attended summer camp training at Lockbourne Air Force Base in Columbus, Ohio. Air Force cadets from universities all over the American heartland were required to attend this course. During my physical examination, to my chagrin, I failed the eye examination for pilot training. In only a few seconds a wall chart had shot down my future flying vision.

I lived in barracks with several hundred other cadets, and the intense physical exercises each day reminded me of my fraternity pledge training. The baseness of it all repressed my unconventional yearnings. I felt like a cog in a wheel marching around the drill field. Only my acceptance of military doctrine kept me in it. I was subordinating my freedom to enhance community security.

Near the end of the course I was given a joy ride in a warplane. It was a Korean War-vintage fighter, and the seasoned pilot in the front cockpit performed acrobatic maneuvers that rapt my senses.

We looped and barrel-rolled, and I smiled at the revolving horizons and changing land views. Without normal gravity there was no sense of up and down.

Tighten your stomach muscles! the pilot warned, just before we pulled out of a dive.

A moment later excessive forces of gravity compressed me into the seat, and I nearly passed out.

A few minutes later the pilot let me take control of the aircraft. I was in a reckless mood and jerked the stick to the right, dipping the wing sharply.

That’s enough! the pilot shouted quickly. I’ll take it now!

I let go of it but only slowly. New, atmospheric forces of nature had numbed my sense of reality.

After we landed on the hard tarmac I regained my earthly senses. I realized that the flight has stirred me into a strange stupor, and I remembered the words of an instructor who said that there were bold pilots and old pilots. Maybe it was fortunate that I had flunked my eye examination. Bold pilots died young.

After finishing the summer camp training, I wondered if my fleeting spirits could cope with military life now that I was not going to fly. I was in a dilemma. On the one hand, the adventure I sought intoxicated me to perilous foolery; and on the other, a sedentary life style restrained my restless spirits. I enjoyed the dynamic aspects of life and abhorred the stale uniformity demanded by the armed forces.

During my senior year at Bloomington, I concentrated on fulfilling the academic requirements for graduation. My grades improved slightly, and I became less involved in fraternal affairs. After the four years of fraternity life, I recognized that factional infighting had retarded its effectiveness.

Over the years on a broader scale, Greek fraternities throughout the country had weakened, just like families. More and more incoming students rejected the non-academic responsibilities of fraternity life. The modern, consumer-oriented society quickly satisfied the baser, material needs and undermined the will for spiritual training. There was a decadent trend in America.

My scorn for social institutions was not materially based as I recognized their importance and cared for humanity. However, before permanently committing myself socially, I needed to travel and learn more about the spirits of life.

In 1966 I graduated from Indiana University and felt ready to tackle the world. Even though my plans were to travel in the United States Air Force, as a graduate from the School of Education, I was licensed to teach earth science at the junior college level. My university training had prepared me well for the working world.

Material gain was not one of my primary goals in life. The riddles of nature attracted me away from mainstream endeavors. Marriage and a stable home life were not on my agenda. I sought a different kind of stability in the world and knew that my yearnings, ironically, could only be calmed by my movement. My strange dynamism seemed as enigmatical as the unknown parts of the world I wished to see.

MILITARY SERVICE

I T WAS NOVEMBER 3, 1966 when I was sworn in as a commissioned officer in the United States Air Force. My sister, Sara, affixed the lieutenant bars onto my shoulders during a brief ceremony on the Indiana University campus. I was now a soldier responsible for defending my country. My first assignment was to attend a munitions officer training course at Lowry Air Force Base in Denver, Colorado.

I was delighted to be going out west and felt suitably placed in the munitions career field. Since a schoolboy I had been fascinated by the powers of nature, and munitions were nothing but physical energies molded by men.

On a cold wintry day in January 1967, I looked out the frosty window of my train compartment and waved goodbye to my relatives. They were waving back from the Richmond train station platform. I was leaving behind my home permanently, and everyone knew it. Ahead I hoped for a life of travel and adventure that would hail the unexpected and touch the unusual.

After arriving in Denver, I was surprised to find it in open country at the edge of the Great Plains. The Rocky Mountain high country, with its front line foothills aligning north and south, was 20 kilometers to the west. The sight of the snow-clad mountain peaks jutting into the sky was impressive.

I rented an apartment near Lowry and quickly settled into the munitions school routine. The daytime classwork and nighttime study was much like college life. I met some school friends from Indiana University who were attending other courses, and we reminisced about old times.

During the six-month course I learned maintenance, storage, and handling procedures for conventional as well as nuclear weapons. It was an interesting study that covered a wide spectrum of munitions. At the end I qualified as a munitions officer and received orders to report for duty at the 51st Munitions Maintenance Squadron, Strategic Air Command, Vandenberg Air Force Base, California.

I was excited about my new assignment in the Far West. I had never seen it before and knew that the restlessness of frontier country often inspired new notions. I purchased a sports car in town and left for California one morning in late July.

The road serpentined through the Rocky Mountains and then slowly descended into a broad valley at Grand Junction, Colorado. On the other side of town near the Utah state border, I noticed only scant vegetation in the countryside. Then, on a crest along the road ahead, I saw a sign that read Open Range.

After passing it, I looked onto an enchanting landscape. It was something that I had never seen before. It was a desert, visible as far as my eyes could see. It looked so clean and free from life, with a distinctive beauty suggesting primordiality. I couldn’t describe my feelings or define reasons for my fascination with it, but I knew now for certain that I was in love with nature.

I stayed in Richfield, Utah that night, and I was still moved by the mountainous desert around me. I had seen photographs of deserts in books before, but the actual sight of the undisguised landscape stirred something primal within me.

The next day I drove through Las Vegas, and then on to Los Angeles, enjoying every minute of my travel.

On August 3 I headed northwest from Los Angeles, and 300 kilometers later I arrived at Vandenberg. The huge base was near Lompoc, along the coastal heel of southern California, and roadside eucalyptus trees characterized its central environs. Vandenberg’s mission was to test-fire missiles and send satellites into space.

I moved into my bachelor officer quarters at 13 Guadalupe Street and promptly reported for duty at the squadron. The top-secret area was located about 15 kilometers away, only one kilometer from the Pacific Ocean. There were three occupied buildings and several storage sheds enclosed by a high steel security fence. Guards were present 24 hours a day and patrolled the grounds at night with dogs. Entry was granted only to authorized personnel carrying Top Secret security badges.

Once inside I met my commander, Colonel Dexter, and my immediate superior, Captain Moriarty. They briefed me on essential matters and introduced other squadron personnel. Before leaving I was given reading material to familiarize myself with squadron responsibilities.

The squadron mission was to assemble re-entry vehicles for mating to missiles. Re-entry vehicles were the cone-shaped tips of missiles that housed nuclear warheads. They separated from the missiles in the outer atmosphere and opened after re-entering the atmosphere to allow warheads to home in on their ground targets. Dummy warheads were installed to simulate explosions, and the missiles were fired to the central Pacific Ocean. This tested the reliability of all the missile systems.

Re-entry vehicle missile maintenance teams from operational bases came to our facility to assemble their re-entry vehicles for mating. In addition, our personnel assembled and mated re-entry vehicles for special testing.

For the first couple of weeks I stayed in the production control building with Captain Moriarty. Next to his office was the communications room where all work assignments in the squadron were monitored. The captain had just returned from a six-month course at an explosive ordnance disposal school, and he was readjusting to his job as production control officer.

Almost every day at some time a thick fog rolled in from the sea. This dispiriting act of nature reduced visibilities considerably and exacerbated security problems. The sea also hosted something else that interfered with our work. It was a Russian spy ship disguised as a trawler. It slowly cruised back and forth near the shore and only stopped to track missiles when they were fired.

Eventually Captain Moriarty designated me as officer-in-charge of the re-entry vehicle maintenance facility, which made me directly responsible for most of the work conducted by the squadron.

As soon as I settled into my new office serious problems confronted me. We were undermanned, and nearly all of the newly assigned troops were inexperienced in the missile career field. It was like a madhouse. Men milled around trying to learn their jobs, and I was too green to assist them.

As the days passed, I knew that time was running out for us. I had learned in the captain’s office that a major inspection was scheduled in only three weeks, and I could only hope that my men would be prepared in time.

Sir, Sergeant Bergen said. We’re not ready for the general inspection! We need more time to learn our jobs!

His bad news was not unexpected. However, his downcast look made me feel sorry for him. There was only one way out for us.

I’ll request a one-month postponement, I said. Sergeant Bergen immediately looked relieved.

Thank you, sir, he replied.

As I picked up my phone to call Captain Moriarty, the sergeant left my office.

Captain, I said, one of my men just told me that we’re not ready for the general inspection next week. Can you get it postponed for a month?

Oh, John, he replied slowly.

From his dull reply I perceived that he hadn’t been surprised by my pronouncement and was against postponement.

I can’t tell the commander that we’re not ready, he said, almost whispering.

He waited for my reply, but it never came. I was too disappointed by his lack of courage.

John, he continued, I’m sorry, you’ll have to go through with it! Then he hung up.

Slowly I lowered the telephone receiver. I recognized that I was caught in the captain’s trap. He had known all along that the troops weren’t ready, and he placed me on the front line to take the brunt of the blame when they failed.

I was incensed by my hopeless situation and thought about calling the commander, but I knew that breaking the chain of command was an infringement of military conduct.

A week later the general inspection team arrived, and my men omitted a critical assembly procedure. We had failed. Colonel Dexter was furious, and every man in the squadron felt his wrath. Captain Moriarty removed me from my position and appointed me as the squadron safety officer.

The sad sequence of events that had occurred was demoralizing. I felt that our failure could have been avoided if the captain had shown strength of character.

As the months passed I drifted along with my new responsibilities and pondered the very essence of military principles. I believed that its bureaucratic structure was necessary and supported military doctrine. However, I sensed that the social factor in the operational equation was deficient. The troops were not like their uniforms. They represented a diversity of conflicting cultures like at the Sigma Pi fraternity, and the disunity affected morale and reduced competency.

After six months, I received my first effectiveness report from Captain Moriarty. It was below average, even though the narrative portion suited a higher rating. Colonel Dexter had to endorse it and believed that I deserved better, but nevertheless, he concurred with the captain.

Two months later both men were transferred to other bases, and Major Olson and Captain Wilson replaced them. Both officers had just returned