Constitutional Governance, For a Change

Recently, the chief political correspondent for The Colonel's Corner -- the Colonel -- sat down for a wide-ranging on-the-record conversation with Brenda Cannon Gregory (aka: the Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda), the woman whose write-in candidacy for President is sweeping the nation like a cool breeze soothing a slumbering electorate in the midst of a hellish election nightmare.  What follows is the verbatim transcript of what one hopes will be the first of many such candid and illuminating conversations over the course of the next eight and one half years.

TCC:  "Mrs. Gregory, thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to answer a few questions."

BCG: "My pleasure, Colonel.  And, call me 'Miss Brenda.'  I know we'll have to retrain you to call me 'Madam President' after the election, but for the time-being it will be less taxing on your pea-sized brain to keep it simple."

TCC:  "Uh, okay...  So, Miss Brenda, let's dispense with the pleasantries and get right to the subject.  How would you describe your philosophy for governance as President of the United States?"

BCG: "The Constitution; the whole Constitution; and nothing but the Constitution."

TCC:  "Would you care to elaborate on that?

BCG:  "Not particularly.  Besides, what part of those simple ten words is so hard to understand?"

TCC:  "Well..., I, uh...  Okay, um, well.., how, then, would you say that your governing philosophy differs from Barack Obama's?"

BCG:  "Who?  Oh, you mean Valerie Jarret's spokesperson.  Look, I'm not basing my campaign on the failures of the current administration.  I will say this for Mr. Obama, he reads out loud extremely well."

TCC:  "Will you be using a teleprompter in your speeches?"

BCG:  "Why?  None of my speeches will ever be longer than a minute or two.  If you can't make your point quicker than that, you don't have a 'point.'"

TCC:  "Makes sense."

BCG:  "Look, forty years living with the Colonel has trained me to keep it short and simple."

TCC:  "Heh, heh..., wait, what?"

BCG:  "Next question!"

TCC:  "Yes, ma'am!  Um...[the Colonel shuffles through his stack of notecards], okay, let's talk about what you see as your priorities as President."

BCG:  "The first constitutionally-mandated responsibility of the President, as chief executive, is faithful execution of the law as found specifically expressed in the Constitution, and as enacted by legislation passed by Congress and signed into law by the President."  

TCC:  "Do you believe in the use of Executive Orders."

BCG:  "Only as a means to enforce a specifically expressed Constitutional requirement, or to enforce an Act of Congress.  Not to create law.  Any other use of Executive Orders is an expression of dictatorial powers not expressly given the President by the Constitution, regardless the well-meaning intent or efficacy of the order.  If I see something that I think needs to be done, that is not currently expressly authorized by legislation, I will work with the the Speaker of the House and the Senate Majority Leader to have legislation passed to address the need."

TCC:  "Miss Brenda, executive orders and bureaucratic regulations over the last three decades have resulted in trillions of dollars of cost to the American taxpayer..."

BCG:  "And that's what I'm talking about.  Look, I'm sure that the originator of every executive order and non-legislated regulation believes that they are doing good.  Some may even be able to prove that their idea, in the form of an order or regulation, satisfies a critical requirement or provides a solution to a pressing problem.   But, good intentions, or even proven effectiveness and efficiency is not an excuse for extra-constitutional activity by our Federal government.  That's what I mean when I say "...and nothing but the Constitution."

TCC:  "Are you saying that Congress would do a better job at regulation than a professional bureaucracy?"

BCG:  "No! Not at all.  But, that's not the point.  The point is, as our nation's founders meant when they went to war for, among others, the principle of "no taxation without representation," that there should be no federal regulation without representation.  In other words, the Constitution gives the power of regulation expressly to the Congress.  There is no Article in the Constitution establishing an unelected bureaucracy with the power to indirectly tax the citizens of the Republic."

TCC:  " 'No regulation without representation'.  Catchy.  Mind if I make some money putting that phrase on bumper stickers?"

BCG:  "Be my guest.  The best economic stimulus is unfettered entrepreneurialism."

TCC:  "Can I put that one on a bumper sticker, too?"

BCG:  "You're a businessman?  Thought you were a free-loading journalist..."

TCC:  "Who are you calling a 'journalist?"

BCG:  "Next question!"

TCC:  "Yes, Ma'am.  What is your policy on National Defense?"

BCG:  "National Defense is best considered as a series of concentric rings, beginning first with the national security decision-making and policy apparatus and then second with the interior of our national territory and working outward.  Electing me will take care of the first ring.  Secondly, an effective American national defense for the 21st Century requires development of 21st Century internal infrastructure.  To begin with, our critically vulnerable power grid must be immediately shielded to protect against catastrophic failure, whether as a result of a man-made or solar attack.  Our highways, bridges, railways, and air traffic system, once the envy of the world, are now woefully behind and crumbling.  I will work with Congress, and the states, to fix our infrastructure and push it into the next century.

TCC: "But, won't the cost of such programs be prohibitively expensive, given the fact that our nation already has a 20 trillion dollar debt?"

BCG:  "Thought we were talking about national defense?  You want to talk about economic policy, now?

TCC:  "Uh, no..."

BCG:  "The next concentric ring out from infrastructure is borders.  The most compelling case for a 'clear and present danger' facing citizens of the United States is uncontrolled migration across not just our land borders, but via our ports and airports.  I believe that that vast majority of the people coming into our country illegally are otherwise law-abiding and can be productive members of our society if integrated and assimilated properly.  But, if only 1% of the nearly 1 million coming to our shores each year are coming with criminal malice aforethought that represents a light infantry invasion each year the size of the operating forces of the entire United States Marine Corps."

TCC:  "Ooorah!"

BCG:  "You really should do something about that cough, Colonel.  Sounds terrible.  As I was saying, and I'm keeping this as simple as I can for you, the first component of national defense is decision-making, the second is internal infrastructure, and the third component then is border security..."

TCC:  "How would you handle immigration, then?"

BCG:  "Are we talking about immigration policy, now?  Thought we were discussing defense policy?"

TCC:  "Um, okay.  Please continue."

BCG:  "The fourth component in our national defense, the fourth concentric ring outward, if you will,  is our military.  We must continue to invest in the highest quality people and the best equipment.  And, we must ensure that our military is trained and equipped to do one thing -- win on the battlefield.  Any proposed changes to the time-tested fabric of the force should only be made if it can be proven without a doubt that the change will increase effectiveness on the battlefield.  Just maintaining the current level of effectiveness is not enough -- our potential adversaries are not standing still; they continue to grow in capabilities and effectiveness."

TCC:  "Are you concerned about ISIS?"

BCG:  "Of course.  And, we'll deal quickly and effectively with that threat.  I'll ask for a formal declaration of war from the Congress and..."  

TCC:  "A declaration of war!?!"

BCG:  "What part of 'the Constitution, the whole Constitution, and nothing but the Constitution' did you not understand, Colonel?  Look, I know that you are hamstrung by a lack of education -- Ole Miss, Troy, and the Navy War College aren't exactly noted for producing great political thinkers -- but you've got to concentrate on the bottom line of my governing philosophy.  If it isn't expressly covered in the Constitution, the President isn't allowed to do it. 

TCC:  "Okay, let's say the Congress gives you a formal declaration of war against the so-called Islamic State.  How do you attack and defeat 'em?"

BCG:  "Well, that's where all of you military professionals, on whom the nation has spent a fortune educating and training, come in.  I'll turn to the Secretary of Defense, give her the mission, and tell her to let me know when she is done.  She, utilizing the brains for which I selected her to be my Defense Secretary, will turn to the military combatant commanders and give them a mission.  Look, this ain't brain surgery.  There might be some rocket science involved, though..."   

"But, look.  ISIS is not an existential crisis..., yet.  At most, at present, it is a nuisance.  A big nuisance, mind you, what with all of the humanitarian crises fallout.  But, if we continue to attack ISIS incrementally instead of all out, we do run the risk of them getting their hands on WMD.  Then they become an existential threat.  I won't let them get to that point.  Look for a victory parade down Pennsylvania avenue some time before my first State of the Union Address.   

TCC:  "What about China and Russia?" 

BCG:  "What about 'em?  You want me to get Congress to declare war on them, too?  Now we're really talking about rocket science; not to mention splitting an atom or two.  And, that's what will keep Jinping and Vladimir in check.

TCC:  "Okay, let's switch gears and talk about the economy..."

BCG:  "It's all in the same gear, Colonel."

TCC:  "Huh?  Well, um..., What is your tax philosophy?

BCG:  "If I had my way, there would be a simple flat federal consumption tax, somewhere around 10%.  And, I would reduce taxes on corporations, which are always passed on to the consumer in the form of increased prices for goods and services, to zero.  With a zero corporate tax rate, and no corporate subsidies, the United States would become the world's business capital. Period.  Imagine the wealth flowing to the United States under that situation! 

TCC:  "I don't think that would pay for all of the current federal programs..."

BCG:  "Exactly!  I will work with Congress to phase out all federal social programs and return that responsibility to the states where it rightfully belongs per the Constitution."

TCC:  "But, the states can't afford to fund all the welfare programs."

BCG:  "Look, I know this is taxing (get it?) your mental capacity somewhat.  But, the Constitution established a governmental system known as 'federalism.'  Contrary to popular belief, the concept of 'federalism' that is the basis for our Constitution does not give the Federal government responsibility, nor even authority, for social programs.  Federalism envisions the individual states bearing that responsibility and authority.  Don't take my word for it, go read the Federalist Papers for yourself."

TCC:  "So you would have the states take over and pay for social programs in their own states.  Won't that lead to different outcomes?  Won't some states do a far better job of taking care of their resident citizens than other states?

BCG:  "Yes, yes, and yes!  Emphatically yes!  That is the whole point of States' rights under federalism and as guaranteed in the 10th Amendment to the Constitution:  'The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people.'"  The states that do the most effective and economically efficient job of taking care of their resident citizens will reap the rewards of increasing vitality and economic growth.  This competition between states will actually spur greater and greater good to the welfare of the citizens."

TCC:  Thank you so much for your time, Miss Brenda.  Can we finish by quickly addressing your immigration policy? 

BCG:  I fervently believe in the motto: e pluribus unum.   Out of many, one.  The reason the American Republic stands as the greatest nation the world has ever known is attributable to three facts.  One, our republic was founded on the greatest social compact ever devised by man -- the U.S. Constitution.  Two, that Constitution provided the umbrella of personal freedom and limited government under which a continent brimming with world-class resources was conquered.  And, three, that continent was peopled by representatives of humanity from around the globe who found unprecedented freedom of expression, and who were drawn together as one people yearning for the exact same thing for themselves and their progeny -- Freedom.  We still stand as the globe's greatest expression of that most shared of human traits -- the desire to live in freedom.  Our constitution still stands as the world's greatest guarantor of freedom.  We should celebrate that, and we should share it.  My immigration policy, indeed, my entire foreign policy, constitutionally in concert with Congressional action, will seek to share the unmatched level of God-given human rights guaranteed under the Constitution of the United States to all people, on our territory and on theirs.     

#TCAK-HMBforPresident

Sawa, sawa! Maape!

 

The man behind the Immigrations and Customs counter at Chicago O'Hare asked the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, "Who is this gentleman with you?"

"Who? Him? That's my husband, Knucklehead."

"I'm sorry ma'am," the 'Denied Entry' stamp grasped menacingly in his bureaucratic fist.  "What did you just call me?"

"Oh, no! Not you! That's my husband.  I call him 'Knucklehead' because, well..."  Miss Brenda rolled her eyes in the Colonel's direction.

A quick glance at the Colonel standing slack jawed and bleary eyed behind her in line explained the appellation.

"I see. And where did you take your husband?"

"We've been on safari in Kenya for two weeks."

"Okay. Anything to declare?"

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda channeled Scarlet O'Hare, "I do declare that we had the most wonderful time!"

The man behind the counter blinked twice and looked at the Colonel, who, stupefied by 16 hours of air travel in the cheap seats, could only muster a shoulder shrug. 

"Ma'am, I mean any goods purchased. Any trophies?"

"Oh. No, just lots of pictures."

Counter Man stamped the passports, "Welcome, home."

The Colonel and Miss Brenda weren't exactly "home" yet.  But before she could launch into an explanation of where home really was, the Colonel grasped Miss Brenda's elbow and guide her away with a "Thank you, sir." to Counter Man.

Home was still a three-hour flight and a one-hour drive away.  But it was good to be back in the good ole U.S. of A. 

The previous two weeks had been a whirlwind of bucket list checking for the Colonel, Miss Brenda, her twin sister Linda, and the Colonel's brother-in-law Bruce (not to be confused with his other brother, Bruce). After flights from Memphis to Dallas to London to Nairobi, the stay in Kenya began with an 18-hour jet-lag recovery in the Eka Hotel.  The next morning a guide picked up the Mississippi Four (as they later became known) and drove them to the regional airport that services domestic flights. They boarded a 12-passenger Cessna 208 and were quickly airborne over the wilds of Kenya, headed for Porini Maji, the first of four Porini Camps sited on Nature Conservancies. 

After an hour flight, the Cessna landed on a dirt strip in the absolute middle of nowhere and the pilot announced, "Welcome to Selenkay International Airport."

The Selenkay Conservancy was the first unfenced private property established in Kenya as a not-for-profit organization to both preserve wildlife and benefit local tribes.  In Kenya, the conservancy model provides land on the periphery for indigenous tribes.  The conservancy is managed by a board in cooperation with the local village elders, with the agreement that a portion of the conservancy is allocated for grazing of the village's cattle and goat herds, the remaining majority set aside and protected for wildlife.  Partnerships with private companies hosting limited tent camp non-hunting safaris provide employment for the local villagers -- a ten-tent camp hosting a maximum of 20 guests at any one time employs nearly three dozen staff (hospitality and game-drive guides).  Selenkay became the model for several more like conservancies with safari company partnerships.  The Mississippi Four stayed at four of them over the course of 12 days, with flights between adjacent dirt strips.

The company with which the Colonel's group stayed for ten total nights is Porini, which means "in the wild" in Swahili.  Accommodations can best be described as luxury camping.  Some might argue with the "luxury" tag, but the Colonel has slept in a lot of tent camps over the years that didn't have floored tents with flush toilets, showers (albeit by bucket), and electricity; not to mention turn down service including a hot water bottle that perfectly warmed the bed for the rather cool nights.  Game drives started early each morning, preceded by a wake-up call by an attendant with a tray of coffee, tea, and biscuits, as well as a pitcher of hot water for shaving.  Most breakfasts were picnics on the plains after a couple of hours of viewing wildlife from specially modified vehicles.

Each vehicle sat no more than six guests and included a driver and guide who expertly located the animals the guest particularly wanted to photograph, as well as pointing out all manner of flora and fauna along the way.  As the vehicle slowly traversed the terrain, mammal and bird life was often not much further than a stone's throw away, and sometimes even disconcertingly closer, as was the case with lion prides at fresh kills, bull cape buffalo fights, and long-tusked bull elephants in musth.  The guides taught guests the Swahili words for "okay; let's go" -- "sawa, sawa; maape," which indicated that the photographers in the group had their shots, and it was time to go find something else at which to marvel.

   

After a six-hour morning game drive guests were returned to camp to freshen up before lunch.  When not picnicking, meals were served in a luxury mess tent.  Again, one might argue with the term "luxury", but the Colonel has eaten many meals in camp over the years that didn't include tablecloths, three courses, and drinks of choice. Lunch was always followed by a three-hour afternoon rest.  

At around four each afternoon a short "time of tea" prepared guests for the evening game drive.  And, as the sun began to dip toward the horizon, the guides would find a spot to watch the sun set.  This "sundowner" was complete with a table set for snacks and drinks.  And nearly always the atmosphere provided the ingredients for spectacular animal-silhouetting sunsets.  At dark, guests were returned to camp to freshen up for dinner.

Chairs around a campfire provided perfect perches for performing after action reviews of the day, and then dinner was served sharply at eight. Meals included fare familiar to western palates, but also included samplings of local foods.  The Colonel found the goat preparations particularly interesting, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda not so much.

Nights in camp were not quiet. Wildebeest males guarded their mating sites with incessant grunting, the occasional lion roared in much too close proximity, and, in one camp, hippos left a nearby river pool to snort complaints and munch grass surrounding the tents. Hippos kill more people in Africa than any other animal, so the Colonel will admit that having nothing but canvass separating bed and tusks was a bit disconcerting. The Colonel is happy to report that no tourists were eaten, trampled, or otherwise harmed in the making of this trip.

Following introductions with the other guest parties, the Colonel's party quickly became known to the other guests as the "Mississippi Four."  One lady originally from Switzerland would greet us accordingly and the Colonel would respond with "Swiss Family Robinson!"  High hilarity, that.

Escape from Nairobi 

Of course, no long-distance, long-endurance trip by the Colonel and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is complete without some drama entailing sickness, missed or delayed flights, or a combination of the two.  Miss Brenda's silent migraine (no pain, just dizziness) decided that the last two days of the trip would be a boffo time to present itself.  She was a trooper, though, and kept to the rigorous game drive schedule with the help of the Colonel's arm.

By the time we arrived at the airport in Nairobi to catch the first of three flight legs home to the Sip, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was flat wore out.  Seeing the very long lines at check in and security, and seeing Miss Brenda eyeing the situation warily, a wheelchair was requested.

What ensued was the makings of a potential travel nightmare.

The supervisor at the check-in counter wanted to know why Miss Brenda was in a wheelchair.  When told she was experiencing migraine symptoms, he determined that she was not well enough to make the nine-hour flight to London.  A call in to the medical bureaucracy resulted in the recommendation that Miss Brenda spend a few more days in Nairobi, rest and hydrate, and get a doctor's clearance to fly.

As much as we had enjoyed the previous two weeks in Kenya, spending a few more days at the whim of faceless bureaucrats was, in the Colonel's not-so-humble opinion, unacceptable, and he made that forcefully (but just under the threshold requiring the intervention of security) known.  We were given the option of appealing the bureaucrat's decision to the captain of the flight when he arrived to board. Turns out British Airways captains -- at least this particular one -- are possessed with extraordinary common sense as well as command skill, and the Mississippi Four were soon aboard the flight.

Most every trip the Colonel has ever been on has provided a lasting lesson learned on which to reflect and rely on future trips.  

This one?

If someone in an airport asked you if you need a wheelchair..., SAY: NO!

For those of you wondering about the health and welfare of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, fear not.  She was home executing her farm chore responsibilities within 36 hours. 

Independence Morning

Forty-six years ago this morning, the Colonel was standing in formation on the physical training field at the Marine Corps' Officer Candidate School.  

It was a surreal moment.  

It was Independence Day, the 4th of July 1977.  But, for the 250 officer candidates (and their trainers) it would be no holiday.  It was business as usual.

"Business" that day meant 0500 reveille, a rushed breakfast, an hour and a half of calisthenics and a run, a rushed shower, a few hours of classroom instruction, a rushed lunch, a couple of hours of close order drill, more classroom instruction, a rushed supper, and several hours of gear and barracks cleaning -- all the while closely supervised by very vocal and highly demanding drill instructors. 

The candidates knew it was the 4th of July.  They knew that under any other circumstances they would be observing this day in a far different fashion.  And, yet...  there was not the slightest hint in the demeanor of their trainers that morning that suggested they had a clue that the day was the most significant of American holidays. The battle-hardened Marine senior NCOs with urgent, gravelly voices, and company grade officers with stern reinforcing looks, were doing their duty in the same superbly professional way; as if the day was the last day they would ever have to impart discipline.

The candidates had formed into 50-man platoon blocks surrounding a waist high platform on which a drill instructor stood, square- shouldered and square-jawed, crisply barking out the directions of the exercise routine.  With a couple of weeks' reinforcement, the words had already ingrained themselves in the candidates' psyche.  The Colonel's memory of them is as sharp as the way they fell upon his young, non-tinnitus-ravaged ears those long, dewy Virginia mornings years ago.

The drill instructor sang out, "The next exercise will be the Marine Corps Pushup!"

The candidates responded with a lusty "Ooorah!"

It wasn't lusty enough. "I said," the drill instructor's voice climbed an octave and ten decibels higher, "the next exercise will be the Marine Corps Pushup!" 

"Ooorah!"

"The Marine Corps Pushup is a four count exercise!  I will count the exercise and you will count the repetitions!  Front leaning rest position.., move!  

On the command "move," the candidates dropped quickly from the rigid position of attention to the pushup position, in the "up" position, bodies stiffly planked with heads inclined up and eyes locked on the Marine on the platform.

The move was not quick enough.  "Not fast enough, candidates! Position of attention, move." 

The candidates scrambled back to the position of attention.

"Front leaning rest position, move!"

The company of candidates dropped as one, as if hit by the same stun gun.

"Ready..., exercise!  One, two, three..."

On the completion of the first two pushups, which counted only as one complete exercise in the Marine Corps world of never too much of a hard thing, the candidates shouted, "One!" 

"One, two, three..."

"Two!"

"One, two, three..."

"Three!"  

There is something deliciously motivating about the Marine Corps Pushup...

...for the one leading the exercise.

That morning, it began to dawn on the candidates, as they pushed the planet away en mas, that something was amiss.  

The drill instructor had not announced, in the pre-exercise directions, how many Marine Corps Pushups the candidates would be doing.  

At the "ten" count, wheretofore the exercise had been complete, the drill instructor continued, "one, two, three..."

"Eleven!"  

"One, two, three..."

"Twelve!" 

"One, two, three..."

"Thirteen!"

The counting and the pushing continued.  The planet began to move ever so slightly away from the sun...

Yeah, maybe not...  But, it seemed that the exercise would not end until the problem of global warming was solved.

Sometime later, the exercise concluded.  The Colonel retaineth not the ability to recall the specific memory of exactly how many Marine Corps Pushups were executed that morning.  

As the candidates stood panting and "shaking out" abused arms and shoulders, rebellion brewed.

Suddenly, a candidate, possessed of a fairly good singing voice, if little sense of self-preservation, began to sing,

"Oh, say can you see?  By the dawn's early light..."

A few more brave souls joined in, "What so proudly we hailed, at the twilight's last gleaming."

Five hundred eyes turned to the Marine on the platform.

He was at the rigid, disciplined position of attention.  

So were the rest of the Marines and officers in charge of the company.

The rest of the company snapped to attention and the candidate choir filled the air with the best rendition of the "Star Spangled Banner" the Colonel had ever heard, or has ever heard since. 

It was glorious!

As the anthem concluded, the Marine on the platform filled his lungs to announce the next exercise.  Before he could expel that air past raspy vocal chords, another candidate began to sing,

"From the Halls of Montezuma..."

Discipline reigned.  Marines stand at attention for the Marines' Hymn.

Marines and Marine officer candidates sang the song of their people.  All three verses.

It was glorious!

As the Marines' Hymn concluded and loud cheers echoed across Quantico's hallowed hollows, another candidate, hoping to forestall the continuance of physical exercise, began to sing,

" O beautiful for spacious skies, For amber waves of grain..."

Alas, there is no proscription for standing at the position of attention for "America the Beautiful."   

"No, no, NO!  Shut your mouths!  Position of attention!"

"The next exercise will be Mountain Climbers..."

It was a tall mountain.  The candidates smiled as they climbed.

Corps Novembers

On Wednesday, next week, the Colonel's beloved Marine Corps celebrates it's 246th birthday, and a day later our nation sets aside the day to honor all those who have served the nation in its armed forces. In honor of the occasion, the Colonel republishes the following, one of the first posts on the Colonel's Corner:

November is an important month for Marines, and is particularly a month tied to memories for this Marine. The obvious reason for its importance to Marines is that the Corps celebrates its establishment on 10 November. On that date in 1775, nearly 9 months BEFORE the signing of the Declaration of Independence, a rebellious outlaw group of landed gentry and merchants, ostensibly acting in representation of the will of the people of the 13 British colonies in North America, and calling themselves the Continental Congress, resolved that two battalions of Marines be raised for service with an all but non-existent rebel fleet (a resolution for establishing a navy had only been passed less than 4 weeks previous). Marines attach great celebratory import to the date 10 November, but few realize that the two battalions initially authorized by Congress were actually never raised.

You see, Congress had this great idea. They wanted to invade Canada. Mind you, we had just initiated open conflict with the greatest nation on the planet by skirmishing with its small occupation/constabulary force in America, and needed to be thinking about protecting the territorial integrity of the 13 Colonies against the sure to come full-scale British military operation to quell the rebellion. But, Congress wasn't thinking about border security (sound familiar?) and fancied themselves strategists of the first order. Part of their great invasion plan was an attack on the British naval base at Halifax, Nova Scotia. The two battalions of Marines the Continental Congress resolved to raise were to be the assault force of that naval raid. George Washington, in command of the Continental Army, objected to the diversion of resources, and the plan (along with the two battalions of Marines) never got past the drawing board.

But, an American navy of sorts was growing (converted merchant ships mostly) and the British naval model called for Marines on board to act as the captain's security force (18th Century sailors were an undisciplined lot), as sharpshooters during engagements at sea, and as a landing force for small-scale expeditions ashore. The American colonists were British after all, and they copied the Royal Navy right down to the printed regulations. There was an abundance of out-of-work able seamen in colonial seaports, and some of the more trustworthy were enlisted to serve as Marines. A tavern-keeper with scant martial or maritime experience was the first Marine officer commissioned by the Continental Congress. Samuel Nicholas was evidently prized for his recruiting skills and for the fact that he owned Tun Tavern in Philadelphia -- a local watering hole frequented by the aforementioned idle able seamen. To this day, Marines celebrate their birthday with a toast of rum-punch, supposedly the drink supplied by Nicholas to seal the deal on each enlistment. One has to wonder how many toasts were drunk BEFORE the aforementioned idle able seamen scrawled their X on the enlistment contract.

November is an important month for Marines for other reasons as well. On 10 November 1918, one hundred and forty-three years to the day after the Continental Congress had resolved to raise two battalions of Marines, two brigades (or the remnants thereof) of Marines prepared for the final assault of the First World War (that operation -- the crossing of the Meuse River -- occurred the night before the war ended with an armistice on 11 November 1918). That a United States Marine Corps even existed at that point is an amazing and twisted story of near-extinction, evolution of missions, and fighting spirit of Marine leaders who tenaciously fought to save their jobs. But, a Corps of Marines did exist when the US entered the War in France in 1917, and Marines quickly established a name for themselves (thanks in great part to Army censorship of their own exploits) at the bitter battles of Belleau Wood, Soisson, Chateau Thiery, and Mont Blanc. Not much of the original two Marine brigades survived the war. What did survive was a reputation for battlefield ferocity, and perhaps more importantly, experience by senior Marine leaders in large scale military operations and staff planning.

The month of November has another Marine Corps red-letter date -- 20 November 1943. On that date, at the conclusion of the first year of our war with Japan, the Second Marine Division conducted the first full-scale test of amphibious assault doctrine developed by Marines during the interwar years. While amphibious landing operations had been conducted earlier in the war, most notably at Guadalcanal, the 20 November D-Day on Betio in the Southwest Pacific Tarawa Atoll, was the Corps' first truly opposed amphibious assault. It was a near disaster, plagued by poor intelligence regarding the tides and reefs surrounding the island, poor application of naval gunfire support, and horrible ship-to-shore communications. The Japanese commander of the island had boasted that his defenses were so formidable that it would take "a million men, a thousand years" to overcome. Five thousand Marines of the Second Marine Division took Tarawa in less than 4 days. The cost was horrific -- 1085 Americans gave their lives for that speck of coral -- but the payoff was a treasure trove of lessons-learned that helped to perfect the conduct of amphibious operations and made possible successful Allied amphibious assault landings around the globe -- across the Pacific to bring Japan to its knees, and across the English Channel to force Hitler into his death bunker in Berlin.

From a force of 6 Divisions and a like number of Air Wings, the Marine Corps, following cessation of hostilities in 1945, dropped to less than a third of that size and was scattered in reserve when Kim Il Sung (the current North Korean Commie's granddaddy) sent his forces into South Korea in June of 1950. Scraped together quickly from mostly WWII veteran reservists, the understrength First Marine Division spearheaded MacArthur's bold 15 September 1950 Inchon landing that turned the flank of communist forces pinning the remnants of US and South Korean defenders holding the Pusan Perimeter at the southern tip of the peninsula. Two and a half months later, the First Marine Division had retaken Seoul, re-embarked on amphibious shipping, sailed around the peninsula to Wonson, and advanced to the North Korean border with China. In the bitter cold of one of the worst winters in a region known for bad winters (history is replete with battles fought in record-breaking winters, as if God tries to cool off warring mankind's ardor), the First Marine Division was attacked, on 27 November 1950, by the ten divisions of the Chinese Peoples Liberation Army Ninth Army Group. Battling sub-zero cold and 100,000 Chinese, the Marines conducted a fighting withdrawal back to the coast and survived, barely, as a fighting force.

More recently, the month of November achieved further acclaim in the Corps' battle history with some of the most ferocious house-to-house fighting Marines had seen since the battle to retake Hue City during the 1968 Tet Offensive. Required to eradicate Al Queda and insurgent forces in the key Sunni Triangle city of Fallujah, ten days of bitter fighting began on the 7th of November, 2004.

November is a personal red-letter month for the Colonel as well. The first of November 2003 marked the official end of nearly three decades of his uniformed service to the United States of America.

Semper Fidelis, Marines!  Here's health to you and to our Corps!  

Best Kept Secrets of an SLJO

Thirty-eight years ago -- give or take a couple of weeks -- the Colonel, then a first lieutenant, was aboard a ship anchored in the protected waters of an Indian Ocean atoll called Diego Garcia.

The Colonel was then the junior officer on the staff of a Marine Air-Ground Task Force (today called a Marine Expeditionary Unit) embarked on one of the U.S. Navy's BUGS (Big Ugly Gray Ships).  As the junior officer on that staff, the Colonel had a long list of written primary and collateral duties; none of which superseded his unwritten duties as SLJO --[descriptive expletive deleted] Little Jobs Officer.  [descriptive expletive deleted] little jobs were often menial tasks that senior officers considered beneath the dignity of an enlisted man, but requiring the industry of a junior officer shamelessly protective of his career and willing to do anything to stay in the good graces of his superiors.

[descriptive expletive deleted] little jobs often popped up as events or requirements for which the aforesaid senior officers had failed to plan, and for which the time of the most junior and least experienced officer would not be considered a waste.

Assignment to these pop up [descriptive expletive deleted] little jobs often started the same way, but rarely ended like this one:

"Lieutenant George, come here!"

"Sir! It's Lieutenant Gregory."

"What?"

"My name is Lieutenant Gregory, sir."

"Wha... who?  Where is Lieutenant George?" 

"Sir, there is no Lieutenant George."

"Sure there is!  Short, skinny, balding, smart-[descriptive expletive deleted] with a budding Napoleon complex."

"Uh..., that's me, sir.  Lieutenant Gregory."         

 "Whatever, lieutenant...  What are you doing right now?"

"Well, sir, I was writing the operations report that you told me had to be on your desk by noon, and...

"That's not important right now.  Got another job for you.  There's a C-141 leaving from the airfield ashore in three hours.  Be on it."

"Aye, aye, sir!"  The Colonel (then still a lieutenant) spun on his heel and headed for the door.

"Wait a minute, George!  Where are you going?"

"It's Gregory, sir... I was headed ashore as directed." 

"Gregory?  What happened to Lieutenant George?"

The Colonel (then a lieutenant beginning to believe his anonymity meant he'd achieved his terminal rank) stood quietly at the position of attention and waited for further instructions.

"Take this binder, lieutenant.  The C-141 is going to Perth.  When you get there, go to the Parmelia Hilton and set up everything for our Birthday Ball.  The binder has everything you need to do -- follow it to the letter.  We'll be there in a couple of weeks, and..."      
"Perth, Australia, sir?" 

"Don't interrupt me, lieutenant!  Yes, Perth, Australia.  Do I need to send a lance corporal along to supervise you?"

"No, sir."

"Fine.  Listen carefully.  This is the most important job you'll ever have while assigned to this staff, and..."

"Sir, I thought you said that being assigned as the liaison to the Sultan of Oman's Land Forces for last month's exercise was the most important job I'd ever have..."

"Stop interrupting!  You didn't get that assignment -- I gave that mission to Lieutenant George.  Where is he by the way?  He would do a better job with this."     

"Sir... I'm Lieutenant George."

"Thought so!  You're not going very far in this man's Marine Corps if you can't remember your own name.  Now, when you get to the Parmelia Hilton, follow the checklist in this binder to the letter.  Do not deviate.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"We've already made reservations for you.  Get going."

"Aye, aye, sir!"

Twelve hours later...at the front desk of the Parmelia Hilton in Perth, Australia:

"G'day, sah!"

"Huh..., yeah, I'm Lieutenant Gregory, U.S. Marines.  I believe I have a reservation..."

"Hmmm, we have a reservation for a Lieutenant George..."

"I'm Lieutenant George..."

"Right, mate.  No worries.  Could'a sworn you said 'Gregory'.  We've been expectin' you!  Here's your room pass.  Our Events Coordinator will ring you up in the morning."  

A bell rung, a porter grabbed the Colonel's bag, and a long elevator ride and a short walk later they were opening the door to his room.

Only it wasn't a "room."  The Colonel has paid onerous mortgages on spaces far smaller.  He followed the porter back down to the front desk.

"Excuse me.  About my room..."

"Sorry, sah.  Is there a problem with it?"

"No... I mean... yes..., I mean..., I'm afraid you've given me the key to the wrong room."

"So very sorry, sah!  Let me check that...  No, sah.  That's the right room."

"But, it's not a "room..."

"Well..., no, sah!  It's our best suite..."

"Hold on there, now, partner!  There ain't no way my per diem is gonna pay for two weeks in that suite!"

"Oh, no, sah!  It's complimentary!"

"Yeah, I know it's nice.  But, I can't afford it."

"It's complimentary, sah.  On the house.  Y'know, mate... free."  

"Even the fruit basket and bottle of wine?"

"Compliments of the house, mate."

Twelve hours, a fruit basket, a bottle of Western Australia's finest, and a long nap on a very long bed later, the Colonel's phone rang.  It was the Events Coordinator.  The Colonel showered and shaved, and lugged his thick binder down to her office.

Before the Colonel could start wading through the hundred or so pages of checklists, the Events Coordinator opened her own binder, "We've taken the liberty of organizing your event along the lines of the events your organization has held here for the past twenty years or so.  Everything is arranged.  Unless you have any additional requirements, all that is required from you is your signature on the contract."  

The Colonel quickly leafed through the Event Coordinator's binder.  It was identical to his.  

The Colonel signed the contract,

Thomas E. George 

Lieutenant George had a very nice, all-expense-paid, two-week stay in Perth, Australia.  And, that's all Lieutenant George has ever had to say about that...

Hanging by a Chad

The coming national election has the Colonel feeling a bit nostalgic.

Oh, for the halcyon days of peaceful and orderly transition of presidential power.

You know, like Bush v. Gore.  

Twenty years ago the Colonel was serving as the Chief of Current Operations on the staff of United States Forces Korea (USFK).  The staff was primarily Army with an eclectic assortment of token representation from the Air Force, Navy, and Marines -- just enough to satisfy the designation: Joint. Parallel to the US staff was a mirror staff composed of Republic of Korea (ROK) military.  The two staffs together formed Combined Forces Command (CFC).  And..., all of this was nominally under the command of United Nations Command (UNC) -- a U.S. Army four star wore all three hats.  As you can well imagine, the organization chart and chain of command was more than just a little convoluted.

The staff didn't let the organizational mishmash get in the way of planning and operational progress, however.  Their own squabbling over rice bowls (military slang for areas of responsibility) was enough of a roadblock. 

The Colonel's counterpart on the ROK half of the combined staff was a ROK Army one-star by the name of Bang (pronounced "bong"). General Bang was (is) a great man who navigated the shoals and undercurrents of, often, competing US and ROK goals with aplomb.  That he had a great sense of humor helped immensely in the herculean task of keeping two armies focused on the threat to the north; not to mention easing a knuckle-dragging Marine's attempt to operate in a completely foreign environment -- the Army way of doing things as much as the Korean.

Early every morning, the combined US - ROK staffs provided BG Bang and the Colonel a half-hour PowerPoint presentation that covered peninsular events over the past 24 hours and progress on planning for upcoming exercises and high-level visits, etc. Afterwards, the principles of the two Current Operations staffs -- representing air, land, naval, and command post -- met in a smaller executive setting. Since most of the stuff of any import had already been covered in the larger audience brief, this smaller session was more about team-building than anything else.

BG Bang and the Colonel had agreed early on that instead of the more comfortable and default seating arrangement around the large  conference table -- US on one side and ROK on the other -- staff counterparts would sit together.  Furthermore, each pair was responsible for teaching each other a slang word or colloquialism that would be shared daily.  The looks around the table were priceless when a South Korean general, whose culture is steeped in polite and deferential speech, answered a subordinate's unbelievable claim regarding an issue with: "I didn't just fall off the turnip truck." 

As you can well imagine, some... okay..., a lot of the slang the American officers taught their Korean counterparts was not appropriate for polite company.  The prim Korean officers tittered like schoolgirls when one would use a blue phrase that would ordinarily not be accepted in their society.  For their part, the American officers, the Colonel included, continuously butchered the Korean language, shocking the deferential Koreans when the wrong tense was used when addressing a senior.

One morning in the second week of November of 2000, BG Bang summarily cut off the culture klatch and asked the Colonel, "What is a chad?" 

What followed -- as will be no surprise to any of you unfortunate enough to have been present when the Colonel has been asked a simple political or history question for which the Colonel believes a very detailed answer is required -- was a narrative tour de force of the Constitution, the States' responsibilities in national elections, and the role of the Electoral College.  

The greatest looks of interest around the table were the Colonel's American subordinates -- they were clearly hearing some of this for the first time.  And, that a knuckle-dragging Marine who didn't go to college (the Colonel went to Ole Miss, instead) could expound on the subject so, was even more amazing to them.

At length, when the Colonel finally paused to take a deep breath, the very prim and polite Korean brigadier general sitting next to him, grasped his forearm and exclaimed, 

"I asked you what time it was; not how to build a [expletive deleted] clock!"                             

The Call of Citizenship

"History is the version of past events that people have decided to agree upon." -- Napoleon

The Colonel has increasingly moved toward entrance into the camp of those whose version of past events is decidedly different than the majority opinion.  It happens to people who really study history objectively and comprehensively.  Most don't, and remain blissfully ignorant.

The Colonel is looking at you, Americans.

  

In the decades leading up to America's third major civil war (See King Philip's War of 1675 - 1678, and the misnamed American Revolutionary War of 1775 - 1783, for the first and second major civil wars), American politicians sought to preserve the union of states by compromising over the heinous practice of chattel slavery.

With the change of presidential administrations in 1861, under a new political party (the Republican Party) specifically organized to end the practice of chattel slavery throughout the entire union of states, American politicians effectively discarded the canard of compromise.  Southern politicians led their states in a revolt against the central government (a move they claimed, not altogether erroneously, echoed the revolt against the central government in 1775), and Northern politicians rallied their states in an effort to "preserve the union."      

Neither position was particularly popular to a majority of citizens in either region.  But, as is nearly always the case throughout history, and is certainly true today, the views of a malcontent minority  receive the most attention.  

Let's be clear -- the base cause of Southern secession was indeed the desire to preserve the institution of slavery.  Full stop.  Historians sympathetic to the antebellum south have cloaked that root cause in the threadbare cloth of "states rights," but the overarching "right" the southern states sought to preserve was the right to maintain the institution of slavery.  Period.

And..., let's be likewise clear-eyed regarding the real reason Northern politicians were so intent on preventing Southern secession.  Southern politicians weren't nearly so interested in whether western states would enter the union as "slave" or "free" as they were in the prospect of "tropical" lands to the south (much more conducive to agriculture based on slave labor) joining the union.  Northern politicians feared dilution of their power in that possibility -- they had prevented President James K. Polk from annexing all of Mexico (as he easily could have) at the conclusion of the War with Mexico in 1849.  Annexation of just the northern half of Mexican territory (the half least suited to agriculture based on slave labor) added enormously rich lands to the Union without the prospect of diminishing Northern politicians' power.  An independent Southern nation's manifest destiny would not be westward.  Had the Confederacy succeeded in establishing its independence, the Southern nation might very well have rather quickly extended itself to include at least the Caribbean and Central America.  Such a nation would have become an economic power-house with which the remaining states in the diminished United States would have had a difficult time competing. 

    

The vast majority of citizens on either side of the Mason-Dixon Line were not overly enthusiastic about the prospect of war in 1861 (just as the vast majority of colonists were not enthusiastic about the prospect of war in 1775).  Their politicians were, and they generated enthusiasm (as politicians always do) by rationalizing war as a means of projecting ideals (North) or protecting property (South).

And, so we find ourselves today -- politicians on one side of the aisle (the ideological Mason-Dixon Line, if you will) generating enthusiasm for projecting ideals (socialism) and politicians on the other side provoking an opposing reaction for the protection of property (capitalism).  But, in reality, as it has nearly always been, the politicians on either side care far less for their side's ideology than they do for the personal power that accrues to the leaders of the ascendant movement.  

Politicians are able to accrue personal power, at the expense of those they purport to serve, because the vast majority of the people are unwilling to do the hard work of citizenship in our Republic.  True citizenship is not a label; it is a calling. 

The call of citizenship requires education.  

A worthy citizen of our Republic should have an appreciation of the objective, unvarnished version of the Republic's history.  Public education textbooks do not provide this.  If a citizen's study of his republic's history ends with public school education, he or she is not answering the call of citizenship. 

A worthy citizen of our Republic should have ready access to our Constitution, through even the most casual study of which the least educated of us can determine for ourselves whether a politician's proposal passes the Constitutionality test.  If a citizen depends on the courts to tell him or her what is Constitutional, he or she is not answering the call of citizenship. 

The call of citizenship requires acceptance of responsibility.

A responsible citizen is one who leaves our Republic in better condition and in better hands than he or she inherited it.  Our Republic is indeed an incredibly valuable inheritance, and each generation of Americans should do all in their power to at least preserve the principal of that inheritance by observing and preserving the principles upon which that inheritance was initially bequeathed.

A responsible citizen ensures that his or her progeny are prepared to inherit the riches of our Republic.  Leaving this up to our public schools (love you, teachers, but you know the Colonel is right) is not a responsible action. 

The call of citizenship requires the sacrifice of service.  In some form or another, above and beyond just being a productive member of society, every citizen should seek a way to serve the other members of our Republic.  The older, if not necessarily wiser, the Colonel gets, the more he doesn't view his service in uniform as particularly sacrificial -- he was adequately compensated for his service.  

So, he'll seek to serve by sacrificing his time and continuing to write.

    

The Great Shagginess

The Colonel hasn't been out in public much lately, but current photographic evidence perused on social media indicates that it has gotten a little shaggy out there.  

The Chicom Cold has shuttered our barber shops, and we've become so starved for any novel stimulation, intellectual or not, that head hygiene and grooming experimentation has become a widespread epidemic...

...too soon?

    

And..., the Colonel has to admit... he's become part of The Great Shagginess.  

There once was a time that the Colonel's haircut motto was "once a week, whether needed or not."  In fact, early in his career as a ruggedly handsome soldier of the sea, he bought a set of electric hair clippers and began cutting his own hair (or, at least what was left of it due to early onset follicle failure) every Monday morning shortly after reveille.  Set on the lowest level, the Colonel's clippers cropped his blond mane so tightly against his shiny grape that on sunny days he was occasionally buzzed by search and rescue helicopters.   

That $20 investment paid for itself in the first month.  The Colonel has been plowing the savings on barber shop visits (and comb purchases) back into his gunpowder addiction ever since.  He hasn't counted either recently, but the Colonel is relatively certain that the number of hairs left on the top of his brain housing group are greatly outnumbered by the lead launchers in his gun safe.

It occurred to the Colonel the other day that he had the wherewithal to be of service to his fellow man and do his part to fight back against the scourge of The Great Shagginess.

The Colonel's best friend -- the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda -- came looking for the Colonel the other day,

"There you are, knucklehead," she cooed, finally finding the Colonel sitting in a chair at the end of the long drive winding from the Big House down to the county road.

(Some may think her tone was more condescending that coo, but most don't know the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda like the Colonel does.  One man's condescension is another man's coo.)

"What are you doing?  And, why do you have your generator down here."

"Silly dear," the Colonel cooed (the Colonel doesn't dare condescend to the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda), "they won't run without electricity."

"What won't run?"

"These," the Colonel answered, holding his hair clippers aloft in his palms as if presenting an offering to the gods of shorndom.  

"Your hair clippers?  You haven't touched those in over two months?  Why are you cutting your hair down here at the road?"

"The Colonel is not cutting his own hair, dear."

"Well, why not?  You're starting to look like you just staggered down out of the mountains at the end of a long winter."

The Colonel ignored the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's lack of geographic knowledge -- there's not a mountain anywhere near staggering distance from his vast land holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.  Instead, he addressed her query regarding his operational pause in the grooming standards attack, 

"Haven't had a reason to get a haircut or shave, lately.  You know the Colonel only shaves when he goes to church, and we haven't been allowed to meet in person for the past two months, so..."

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda stood in front of her man with her arms crossed in that endearing way that the Colonel knows means that she's trying very hard to fathom the depths to which her love for him dives.

"I'm trying very hard to remember why I love you," she stated in the matter of fact way she reserves for the moments when she attempts to control her emotions.

The Colonel was beginning to grow uncomfortable with his bride's struggle to find the right words to express her love and admiration for her man, "That's okay, dear.  The Colonel knows you love him.  But, as important as that is to you at this moment, there is a much more important mission on tap."

The Colonel stood and gestured to the scrap of plywood propped up by a feed bucket at his feet.  In the Colonel's practiced military all-caps he had printed,

FREE HAIRCUTS

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda looked at the sign and then back at the Colonel.  The light in her eyes dimmed ever so slightly as if something in the very depths of her soul had just been placed on life support.  She uncrossed her arms and let them fall to her sides in the dainty way that the Colonel knows means she is surrendering to his superior logic and intellect.

"Knucklehead, you aren't a barber.  You can't give haircuts without a license."

The Colonel raised his right index finger in his time-worn signal that he is about to achieve and maintain argument superiority, "Don't need a license -- ain't chargin' nothin'.  Besides, it's a free country."    



       

The Other Shoe

The Colonel can't help but be a bit pessimistic even in the best of times.  He's a planner.  A military-trained planner.  

There is no such thing as "worst-case" planning in the military.  The going-in assumption is that something (a lot of somethings) will go wrong.  If you don't plan for the worst case as a matter of course, you will most often fail. 

Successful military planners never use the word "hope." 

So, the Colonel, without a glimmer of hope allowed to rest lightly on his faltering optic nerves, always thinks about what bad thing could happen next.

He doesn't worry.  He ain't afraid of nothin' or nobody...

...except the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda.

The Colonel's planning pessimism is not rooted in worry.  It comes of a life-time spent in the study of history.  Not the inanity of names and dates.  No, to study history is to dig deep into the cause and effect of events.  

To truly study history is to understand the major events that shaped the arc of humanity in the past, and to gain a healthy appreciation for probable major events that will challenge humanity in the near future.  

The current Chinese Communist Party abetted pandemic sweeping the globe is nothing new.  Pandemics have swept the globe dozens of times in recorded history.  They will sweep again.  Humanity will never be completely immune to the effects of viruses whose very existence is based on the natural drive to adapt to and overcome immunities.  

So, the Colonel is not at all surprised by the virility and spread of COVID-19.  In fact, he's been expecting something like it.  Not because he has any special prescience -- he just studies history.  And history tells him that these things happen fairly regularly. 

This morning, the Colonel has begun to wonder if and when the next shoe will drop.

Major events like pandemics, natural catastrophes, economic disturbances, wars, or social upheavals rarely happen in isolation.  They are often inter-connected -- causing, or exacerbating one another.  For microcosmic example, local epidemics often follow on the heels of natural disasters that compromise sanitation.

What the Colonel "what ifs" (he doesn't worry, remember) about is the effect a really huge (but certainly not unprecedented) natural catastrophe would have on modern civilization -- particularly at a time when (like the current pandemic) society is already under stress.

What if the New Madrid fault were to slip?  (For you Bama and LSU grads, the Colonel ain't talking about some Spanish wardrobe malfunction.)  A little over 200 years ago, a series of major earthquakes occurred along a mid-continent fault that runs through and near the town of New Madrid, Missouri.  Three of the temblors -- spaced about a month apart -- have been estimated to have been somewhere between 7.5 and 8.0 on the Richter Scale.

Those are big shakes.

Fortunately, the population of the region at the time was sparse.  The human death toll was minimal.  

The physical effects were, in a word, frightening.  

Were a similar earthquake to strike today, the metropolitan areas of Memphis and St. Louis (along with scores of smaller towns in the region) would cease to exist as viable places of habitation.  Very few multi-story buildings would be left standing.  Highway and railroad bridges across the Mississippi River would be compromised, at least; dropped, at worst.  Pipelines of all types -- feeding cities across the nation -- would be ruptured.  Electrical transmission grids would be destroyed.  Roadways would be impassable.  Ten million souls in the region would be instant refugees -- with no way to get away except on foot.

Oh..., and geologists, archaeologists, and seismologists who study the New Madrid Fault, say that earthquakes, like the ones 205 years ago, have occurred every 200 to 500 years in the past.         

But, hey, it might not happen again for another 300 years...

Okay, let's talk volcanoes, then.

Cataclysmic volcanic activity has been a geologic constant throughout history of our planet.  And, when the Colonel uses the word "cataclysmic," he ain't talking about your run of the mill Pompeii-burying Vesuvius, or the more recent Mount St. Helens or Mt. Pinatubo eruptions.  Those were small potatoes compared to what our planet is capable of.

Out west, in our great Republic's fly-over country, is a volcanic caldera the size of Rhode Island.  Millions of folks visit it yearly.  The geologic wonders of Yellowstone National Park are the result of a thin part of the Earth's crust under which bubbles a monstrous plume of molten rock.  The last truly cataclysmic eruption at Yellowstone was approximately 640,000 years ago.  

So, we're due, right?

The projections for the effects of another Yellowstone mega-eruption are awe-inspiring.  The ash fall, alone, will cover a majority of the continental United States in a layer of pulverized rock thick enough to collapse structures.  Actually, it won't be "ash" as in wood ash.  It will be microscopic bits of volcanic glass, which will lacerate lungs and kill..., unless you are protected by, get this, an N-95 mask.

A volcanic mega-eruption, anywhere on the globe, will truly alter the climate.  No tax in the world will fix it. 

Volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, tsunamis caused by earthquakes -- our planet constantly challenges life's foothold.  The terrestrial threat is great -- the extra-terrestrial threat even greater.

Chunks of rock and ice zipping around our solar system have a habit of running into things -- like each other, planets, moons, and our star.  Over the last few decades we have become painfully aware of the threat.  The Colonel won't belabor it.

The Colonel will, however, bring to your attention an even more likely extraterrestrial threat to humanity -- and it comes from our star.

From casual daily and seasonal observation, ol' Sol seems a constant.  Our sun is in fact a changeable and tempestuous star.  That it provides a predictable supply of light and warmth allows us the dangerous luxury of ignoring it's life-altering capabilities.   

The Colonel refers to what he believes is one of the single greatest threats to humanity's existence on this wet rock -- a coronal mass ejection (CME) from our sun.  

A CME is solar burp of magnetized plasma.  CMEs occur quite regularly -- three to five times a day, depending on the 11-year cycle of solar activity -- and vary greatly in intensity.  Really large CMEs -- fired off in our direction (or rather in the direction of where our planet will be when the CME arrives at our orbital distance from the sun) have very intense effects on our planet's magnetosphere and atmosphere.  When a very large CME's slug of matter and electromagnetic radiation strikes smashes into our magnetosphere, it compresses it, wraps around the planet, and snaps back in a burst of terawatts of electromagnetic energy -- creating a planet-wide electromagnetic pulse (EMP).  If the EMP is strong enough, it pulses through anything that conducts electricity and fries electronic equipment.

The largest EMP-causing CME on record occurred in 1859; named the "Carrington Event" after the British astronomer, Richard Carrington, who observed the immense solar flare and recorded its effects.  And, the effects were incredible.  The only "electronic" equipment at the time were telegraphs.  During the hours-long impact, the Carrington Event CME/EMP surged through telegraph wires, shocking operators and igniting the wooden blocks on which telegraph terminals were mounted.  

When a Carrington Event level CME occurs again (and it will) the EMP will render inoperable every un-shielded piece of electronic equipment, and equipment with electronic components, on the planet -- every car, every radio, every battery-operated watch, every TV, every aircraft (outside of gliders), every computer, every cell-phone, every ICU ventilator, every Keurig coffee machine, every... you get the picture.

Even if some piece of equipment happened to miraculously survive the EMP because it was shielded or wasn't plugged in, it still would be useless -- there will be no surviving electric grid available to power it.

A 2008 study, "Severe Space Weather Events—Understanding Societal and Economic Impacts: A Workshop Report, National Academy of Sciences, 2008," predicted that a Carrington Event level CME/EMP will cause "$2 trillion in damages with a recovery time of four to ten years." 

Oh, and scientists tell us that Carrington Event level CME occur roughly every 100 years.

Enjoy the rest of your fine day... waiting for the other shoe to drop.