Dissin' Dat

Watched the media's coverage of the reception given Senator McCain at the New School in NY and Secretary Rice at Boston College. They were invited to deliver commencement addresses to the newest crop of northeastern elitist bedwetters and were heckled and disrespected by mindless children. I use the term children loosely--some of the graduates acted more like infants than children. While they have every right as American citizens to disagree with the political positions of their commencement speakers, I think these draft-dodger progeny abused their freedom of speech when they heckled them and attempted to disrupt their addresses. Seems to me that there ought to be a few yankee families ashamed of the disrepectful conduct of their kids. But then again, their tye-dyed-jeans-in-the-trunk parents probably approve.

This sort of stuff went on to a much greater degree during the Vietnam War. I heard one commentator lament that there was not more anti-war sentiment on campus, like that in which he, no doubt, participated during his hippy dippy youth. There is one huge reason why there has been little or no anti-war protest on campus this time around--NO DRAFT. And therein lies the truth about the real reason for liberal anti-war sentiment. The kids demonstrating on campus in 1968 weren't really upset that babies were dying in Vietnam (as a result, they claimed, of our indiscriminate attacks). They were upset that they might get drafted and have to go fight themselves. If the liberal kids of '68 were so worried about a few hundred babies dying as a result of fighting in Vietnam, where are they now when millions of babies are dying every year in US abortion clinics. I respect a person who stands for principle. I detest a hypocrite.

Contrast the reception of Republican speakers on yankee campuses then and now with the reception Senator Edward Kennedy received on the campus of Ole Miss when he gave the commencement address at my graduation in 1978. Only 16 years previous, his big brothers had sent federal troops to Mississippi to put down a rebellion by idiots who thought they could start a second civil war over the issue of desegregation. In 1978 (and even today) the Kennedys were about as popular in Mississippi as a riled-up skunk at a church barbecue. And there were many of us in that graduating class who considered ourselves the vanguard of a conservative movement that we saw come miraculously to fruition many years earlier than we dared dream, with the election of Ronald the Great. Yet, I do not recall even one hint of disrespectful dissent from the graduates. Indeed, we sat politely and behaved because our mommas were there and we dared not embarrass them with a show of childishness, no matter how fervently we detested Mary Jo Kopechne's killer and his liberal yankee haughty disregard for Southern culture and states' rights. Now, I believe that my parents may have quietly excused themselves, along with many others, prior to Senator Kennedy's introduction, and made it back to their seats in time to see me stand for my diploma; but we graduates twitched nary a muscle.

The good liberal folks from Ted Kennedy's Boston and the rest of the North made great show of forcing their brand of desegregation on us southerners; and they were right to do so. But, more people died in anti-bussing riots in Boston a few years later than even got injured as a result of such dissent in the South. I absolutely detest a hypocrite.

Back to the subject of dissent on campus, as I wrap up this rant. To those spoiled children of idiot baby-boomers who turned their backs on and heckled Senator McCain and Secretary Rice: If you are graduates, particularly of an (ahem) esteemed ivy league school, I would think that you would have been taught how to write and express your ideas and positions in a forum more appropriate for intelligent discourse. That you chose the method of uneducated street rabble to convey your thoughts, betrays the bankruptcy of your ideas.

Grow up, open your eyes, and get a job. Good luck with that.

Crawl, walk, run amok.

It is with the bucket-load of pride that only the heart of a granddad can produce that I hereby announce the earth shaking news that my grandson, Caleb Thomas ("Mr. C") Gregory, has joined the ranks of those whose position is not stationary. His locomotion resembles more of an infantry low-crawl than a hands and knees movement, but he is moving forward nonetheless. I expect that he will shortly determine that he can get places on his own and that riding on the hip of one of the "big people," though not as tiring, doesn't always get you where you want to be. When that happens, we (I mean, "his parents") are in big trouble. If the kid is half the adventurer that his dad was as a kid..., well, let's just say that if Josh had been born 200 years earlier, we would be reading books about Gregory and Clark. Caleb shows all the signs of his dad's inquisitive nature. He also seems to have his dad's stubborn independent streak. That combination was flammable in his dad. I hope Caleb can be kept from spontaneously combusting--it will require great parental patience from the time he turns fifteen until he is twenty-five or so.

I am convinced, both from raising two boys of my own and from raising several thousand boys entrusted to the uniformed care of Uncle Sam, that males lose their minds about the time they turn fifteen, and do not begin to regain control of themselves until their mid-twenties. In some cases, mine for example, majority ownership of a man's mind does not convey until somewhere in his mid-forties. That is actually a good thing--since the majority of my life from fifteen to forty-five was Marine environment induced testosterone turmoil, my midlife crisis consisted of relaxing and breathing deeply and slowly from the flowers of civilian life. (Okay, that "flowers of civilian life" part is a load of Barbara Streisand, but you get the picture.)

It has really been a pleasure to regain sanity at roughly the same time as my sons. There was a time when #1 and I couldn't be in the same room with each other for 3/4 of a short second without someone having to throw cold water on us. Number 2 shared my inability to suffer fools lightly, and as he enters his late twenties and I learn to speak in polysyllabic utterances heretofore not required in Marine to Marine communication, we have mellowed appreciably into caring, sharing, gentle souls who...(Okay, that's Barbara Streisand, too). Suffice it to say that my two sons and I can now be in the same room together for extended periods of time without a heated argument interrupting a fist-fight...and most people can stand to be in the same room with all three of us for at least the entirety of the aforementioned short second.

I guess there are worse things than the purgatory of raising sons. I once confided to my brother that I envied the fact that he only had daughters. The look of utter disbelief that crossed his face was one that I did not fully comprehend until my two sons went off to college and left me alone with their mother and sister. The lack of my sons' presence tilted my homeworld on its axis and spun it backward. The hormonal balance in my house shifted so cruelly in my wife and daughter's favor that this Marine literally broke down and cried at the airport when my sons went back to school at the end of Christmas break. At that broken point I instantly thought of my brother and wondered aloud at his amazing strength of character.

I better get back in shape. Caleb is going to need his granddaddy around to pull him out of the quicksand.

Copy this, if you dare!

An old proverb says that "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery." This Marine, however, wishes the other US armed services would stop "flattering" my beloved Corps and do their own thing. Didn't used to be that the Marine Corps was the one being copied by the other services. In fact, for most of the Corps' illustrious history, it copied, and received hand-me-down uniforms and equipment from, the US Army. It is a little known fact that our cherished red-striped blue trousers are not a Marine original creation. Our "tradition" is that the red-stripe is worn by officers and NCOs to commemorate the 100% casualty rate in those ranks at the Battle of Chapaltepec during the War with Mexico. We don't mention the fact that we have the blue trousers with a red stripe because some time in the last half of the 19th Century the quartermaster of the impoverished Marine Corps clothed Marines in US Army artilleryman's trousers (blue with a red stripe) that he "procured" from a ill-secured Army warehouse (a lot of the "hand-me-down" equipment we have gotten from the Army over the years was, shall we say, of the "five-finger discount" variety).

On the subject of Marine procurement at the Army's expense, I am reminded of something my first battalion commander once told a group of his second lieutenants. We were gathered at some social function and, like most lieutenants, didn't know better than to talk shop. At the time, the Marine Corps was going through a paroxysm of uniform flux, and one of the issues was whether to wear our bright shiny officer rank insignia on our combat uniforms or adopt the Army's practice of wearing subdued olive drab rank insignia. LtCol Summerlin overheard our discussion and put it to an end with the following observation: "Lieutenants," he intoned in his soft North Carolina drawl, "I was a rifle company commander in Vietnam for 13 months, and the only time I took the shiny rank insignia off my uniform was when I went to the rear to steal from the Army."

During the late '70s the Marine Corps developed and adopted the woodland camouflage pattern for our combat fatigues (we call them "utilities" -- Marines don't recognize fatigue). After a couple of years, in the first ever such occurrence that I can verify, the Army copied the Marine Corps and adopted the woodland camouflage pattern for their fatigues. Soon, the Air Force was wearing woodland camouflage. The Air Force! Why in the world would an F-16 mechanic need to be camouflaged?!?

For the past 20 years or more, the woodland camouflage patterned up-dated jungle fatigues has been the identifying uniform for American servicemen. We Marines wanted to be sure not to be confused with the Army, or the other para-military branches, so we used some subtle ways to keep ourselves separated. At first, we didn't put any organizational patches or other do-dads on our combat uniforms, other than rank insignia. Then the air wing Marines started wearing their flight wings. Then the jump and scuba club (recon) Marines started wearing their jump and scuba badges. Then, after the 1991 desert drive-by reality show (Desert Storm), we adopted the Army practice of name and service tapes over our pockets. The only way to distinguish a Marine in woodland camouflage was by the way we rolled our sleeves up in a non-tactical inside-out fashion, as opposed to the Army and their "NBC" roll.

But, in full combat uniform it was very hard to distinguish US Marines from US soldiers, and we desperately wanted to make sure that our enemies knew they were up against US Marines--for reasons that are patently obvious and need not be discussed in this forum! So, a few years ago, the Marine Corps began redesigning our field utility uniform. We upgraded the old jungle fatigue standard, making pockets and such more accessible, and, in a stroke designed to make us stand out separate from all of the other US forces, we developed a digital camouflage pattern complete with tiny Marine Corps emblems in the pattern. We stood out again, for the first time in nearly 30 years. Our unique look was short-lived. The Army quickly copied our uniform design and digital camouflage pattern.

And, if that isn't bad enough, the US Air Force is dangerously close to copying the Marine Corps' most cherished and easily distinguishable dress uniform--the high-collared Dress Blues. They are calling it the "Billy Mitchell" or some such nonsense. At first glance, you would swear you were looking at a Marine in bad need of a haircut!

I have an idea for a new stand-out Marine "uniform", and the current crop of youngsters would love it. I say we dispense with all of the costly articles of clothing and go with total body tattoo camouflage.

First Salute

Three days ago marked one of the more important anniversaries in my life. There was a time in my life when celebration of the date meant adding another year to the proud count of my time in the Marine Corps. Since my retirement from active duty, the date doesn't hold the same accountant interest. On the 14th of May, 1978, I received my diploma from the Harvard of the South and by virtue of that milestone achieved the last requirement the President of these re-United States had for my commissioning as a regular officer in the United States Marine Corps. With shiney gold bars on my shoulders, I marched out of Fulton Chapel on the campus of Ole Miss and was stopped short by a chief petty officer who blocked my path and gave me the first salute of my career. I returned his salute and, by custom probably dating back to a time when enlisted men could have a whale of a weekend on a dollar, placed a silver dollar in his outstretched palm in recognition of my first honors as an officer.

I miss being in uniform the most I think because I no longer have the opportunity to recognize fellow warriors with a salute. Returning salutes never became a chore for me as it seemed to become for some of my fellow officers. One of the reasons for this perhaps was that I never looked on receiving the honor of a junior's salute as anything but that--an honor. Correctly returning a salute with as crisp a snap as I could manage was the least I could do for the men who followed my all too often errant lead without hesitation and accomplished remarkable feats for which I all too often received the full credit.

Returning the wave of the rent-a-cop on guard at the local Air Force base gate just doesn't cut it.

The Munchkin Candidate

There are not many things the Colonel loves better than an audience.  Despite his social introversion, one of the Colonel's gifts is public speaking.  

Gifts and talents are two different things and it took a lot of practice to develop this particular gift into a talent.

The first public speech the Colonel ever gave was part of his long-shot campaign for junior high student body president.  It was a horrendous flop, as was his entire campaign. 

The Colonel had rehearsed for days, and, like a true politician, had inserted positions and promises aimed at pleasing the greatest number of voters. He had worked out each pause and hand gesture, and, in front of his mirror, was the most polished and Kennedyesque (right down to the Bobby Kennedy hand-through-the-hair move) candidate in the race.

In front of an assembly of his classmates, the Colonel mounted the stage in bell-bottoms and hang-ten shirt, flipped his hair out of his eyes, and looked out over a sea of pimpled faces and braced teeth. 

It was the most frightening sight he had ever seen. 

It was so quiet by the time the Colonel got to the podium, that the squeal of sweat squeaking out of his pores was audible to the bee-hive coiffed teachers in the back row of the auditorium. 

The Colonel's heart was pounding so loud, the band teacher was looking around the room to find the percussion prodigy. 

The Colonel's speech notes called for a grand sweeping wave gesture, a pause for the applause to die down, and a smile and finger-point to friends in the audience. 

From behind the podium, the Colonel shot his hand in the air and then retracted it like an over-eager student who realizes too late that he doesn't know the answer. 

A titter of giggles broke the silence, but the Colonel couldn't see who was laughing because he couldn't see over the podium.  

"Step up onto the booster step, Mr. Gregory," a teacher commanded loudly -- evoking a round of tittering. 

When the Colonel stepped up on the booster and poked his head into audience view the giggling increased and then subsided at the collective "SHHHHH" from the teachers in the back row.

Grateful for the end of the giggling, the Colonel suddenly realized that he was going to have to delete the issue portion of his speech dealing with banning teachers' "SHHHHH." 

The Colonel began frantically sorting his 3 x 5 note cards to cull the one dealing with the dreaded "SHHHHH" issue and in the process so jumbled his speech that he actually began with: "So, in conclusion..."

Out of several hundred votes cast the next day, the Colonel got several. The worst part was when the Colonel compared his paltry vote tally to his paltry number of friends. 

You guessed it, less votes than friends. 

Just as well the Colonel didn't win -- his dad got orders later that spring and the Colonel was in another school the next fall. 

Salute to "Sonny"

A true American hero passed away this week. G.V. "Sonny" Montgomery served his nation in uniform and in the United States Congress with the kind of distinction and patriotism that seems sadly lacking today. A veteran of the Second World War and the Korean War, Montgomery retired from the Mississippi National Guard in 1980 as a Major General. A conservative Democratic, he ably represented not only his Mississippi congressional district, but all men and women in uniform as well. He was a champion of the troops and many important pieces of legislation benefiting veterans bear his mark and in some cases his name.

He attended Mississippi State, was president of the student body, and was well on his way to certain success and prosperity as one of Mississippi's rising stars. But, in January of 1943, just a few months shy of graduation, he voluntarily left school and went to war. He had every reason in the world not to volunteer for combat in Europe, and two reasons to go: his love of his country and his sense of duty to his nation. This man was a hero in every sense of the word.

His voting record in the House of Representatives would make Nancy Pelosi look down her partisan probiscus in demagogic disdain. He and fellow "Boll Wevil" conservative Democrats teamed with Ronald Reagan and helped restore America to greatness. Would that we had some like him in the House today; men and women who would put the good of the nation ahead of what is good for their party.

General, Congressman, Mississippian; this Marine salutes you and laments your passing.

Cinco de Franco

The French are always involved in momentous occasions in US history. Fighting the French and Indians gave George Washington all the military experience he needed to lead a revolution against Great Britain. A French army and a French fleet at Yorktown secured Cornwallis' surrender and the subsequent independence of the thirteen American colonies from Britain. Thomas Jefferson doubled the land area of the United States in 1803 when he bought the Louisiana Territory from Napoleon (the state of Louisiana's current government is still influenced by the Napoleonic Code, but that's another story). American soldiers and Marines saved Paris from the Germans in 1918, and the American Army and Marine Corps became a modern fighting force in the process. American soldiers landed at Normandy in 1944 and subsequently liberated France from Hitler. The French repaid us by refusing to participate in NATO against the Soviet Union, by leaving a mess in Indo-China that American forces fought for 10,000 days trying to clean up, and by attempting to thwart our current campaign to save the Middle East for democracy.

Today marks another significant day in American-French relations. In the spring of 1862, the American War Between the States was barely a year old and just beginning to get serious. While Union naval forces had scored significant victories, seizing the important port cities of New Orleans and Port Royal, the armies of the Confederate States of America had fought Union land forces to a draw. In March of 1862, Stonewall Jackson executed his brilliant campaign in the Shenandoah Valley, defeating far larger Union forces, and European sympathies began to swing in favor of the Confederacy.

One European power in particular, Napoleon III of France, was openly hostile to the United States. With the US preoccupied with its life and death struggle with the Confederacy, Napoleon III invaded Mexico with the intent of placing a vassal on a Mexican throne and thereby placing himself in position to provide direct aid to the Confederacy. With Mexico's resources, and perhaps Mexican forces, the balance might swing significantly in the Confederacy's favor. The French army landed at Vera Cruz and marched on Mexico City, mimicking Winfield Scott's landing and campaign against the Mexican capital 15 years previous. On May 5, 1862, the French army was annihilated by Mexican forces at the Battle of Puebla. A year later, the Confederacy was weak and the US Army was strong enough to handily defeat Robert E. Lee at Gettysburg. The British were still wavering on the issue of recognizing the Confederacy. The US ambassador to Great Britain warned the British something to the effect of "See that huge modern army and navy we have built to fight our Civil War? If you recognize the Confederacy, we will defeat the rebels and then come get you next."

Interesting, given the current tension with Mexico, that these re-United States owe our existence as an undivided powerhouse to a French defeat at the hands of a Mexican army.

Fight or Fry Tortillas

I am a very frustrated retired centurion. I understand it is hard to stay on top as an empire, but our precipitous slide toward irrelevancy is alarming, galling, and scary.

I have watched with utter amazement as the greatest superpower in the history of the world has impotently allowed third world neighbors overwhelm its borders and flood its cities with millions of illegal immigrants who now have the gall to demand recognition as a separate culture within our borders. Some Mexican voices have even proclaimed that they are reclaiming lost territory. Let's pause for a second (okay, several minutes) and review some American history...

One hundred and seventy years ago we helped Americans and Mexicans in a land called Texas in their revolt against a tyrannical dictatorship in Mexico City. A former US congressman, Davy Crockett, and a small band of American adventurers died at the Alamo fighting alongside "Texians" (many of whom were latino). A ragtag Texas army later defeated the Mexican army at San Jacinto, and the Republic of Texas was born. Mexico continued to dispute the fact that Texas territory was no longer theirs for the next 9 years. In 1845, the United States annexed the Republic of Texas, at their request, and in response to untoward British attention in the region. This precipitated the American war with Mexico--the Mexican government actually declared war on the United States, to which President Polk and the US Congress responded with their own declaration of war. We invaded Mexico. Mexico lost the war, gave up their claim to Texas, and ceded California and New Mexico (including territory in what is now Arizona, Colorada and Nevada) to the United States. Mexicans have groused about this loss ever since. Tough. They can commiserate with the Cherokee, Mohican, Souix, Navaho, Chickasaw, et al.

In fact, there was a fairly strong faction in the US Congress that pushed for annexation of the entirety of Mexico at the conclusion of the war. That we did not, established a precedent for our American Imperialism--we would defeat you in war, but not take ALL of your land and assimilate you. Mores the pity--think how pre-eminent we would be now if not for that precedent. Had our empire building followed more ample historical precedent these re-United States of America might well today include western hemispheric states stretching from the north pole to the equator, perhaps even extending below the Tropic of Capricorn (go look at a globe)--it was an American adventurer, Simon Bolivar, who led most of South America in revolt against their European colonizers--as well as states ringing the western edge of the Pacific Basin. Today, the Spanish language would be spoken only in Spain. Does this sound far-fetched? Imagine how far-fetched the existence of a State of California would have seemed to George Washington.

But I digress. My point is, we took most of the North American continent by wars of conquest--we had better be willing to keep it by means just as ruthless.

Or, we can all learn to sing in Spanish.

From Grey to Black

One hundred and forty-five years ago this date, a company of students and faculty members marched off Ole Miss' campus in Confederate butternut and headed East to join the Army of Northern Virginia in the War Against Northern Aggression. They were organized as Company A, 11th Mississippi Infantry Regiment and numbered 136 at first muster. Nicknamed the University Greys, they fought in nearly every major engagement in the first two years of the war in the East. By the time Robert E. Lee decided to take the war to the North and marched into Pennsylvania in the summer of '63, the University Greys numbered only 36. Somewhere in the wheat field short of Cemetary Ridge, they ceased to exist as a fighting force.

When classes resumed at Ole Miss at war's end, none of the former students returned, save one, who visited only to address the student body.

Today, a tall monument stands at the entrance of the Campus. Atop the monument, the figure of a Confederate soldier faces East up University Avenue. His hand is held to the brim of his cap, not in salute, but shading his eyes against the rising sun. He will likely stand for hundreds more years, waiting for the return of comrades who put down books and took up rifles.

Ramadi Report

Hard morning for my ego and my heart. Quoted e-mail below is from one of our nation's most unsung heroes. He enlisted in 1968, volunteered for duty in Vietnam, was commissioned in 1977, "retired" with 35 years active service in 2003, volunteered to return to duty last year, and is in Iraq. You do the math, but he has got to be one of the oldest men in uniform in Iraq--certainly the oldest US warrior hunkered down in a bunker on a daily basis. I am proud to call him my friend, brother Christian, and best fishing buddy--LtCol Scott Westervelt, USMC.

"Ed, Thanks for confirming your email network is functional. Appreciate your
watch on us - we all covet you and your friends prayers. Even in the midst
of this forlorne place, we had Easter Sunrise service on the bunkered roof
top of our Provincial Civil Military Operations Center (PCMOC) building on
Easter monring - four of us. Had to keep our heads down below sand bag
level as snipers are very active. Had a Marine shot in the helmet recently
- grazed the top of his head - cut his girl friends photo in half - gave him
whip lash - better than the alternative I recon. Had a bunker hit with RPG
a few days ago - some of Steve Neary's Marines - for wia none serious - sand
bags saved their lives. We've had a mortar round through our roof, no
injuries. By far 17 April was the most active day - seemed like a minor Tet
Offense in Iraq as they struck a number of objectives in and around Ramadi.
It is amazing the false news reports filed. Some read that we were over
run, and others similar. No one got within a 100 yards of the Government
Center (GC). Certanly no one got inside. We did get the Hell shelled out
of us, but no injuries. Had about 50-60 Iraqi officials meeting at the time
of the attack - in fact I was sitting next tothe Governor of Al Anbar in his
weekly reconstruction meetng with my interpreter when the mortatr attack
began. We ushered evereyone to a safe location and took up defensive
positiotnsinside the GC. I went to K Co 3/8s COC in the building next door
to keep SA for my boss who stayed with the governor. I was so sproud of
these young Marines of Steve's. A Lt was on two radios directing the fight,
the co Gy was on a Motorola barking directions mixed with profanity.
Marines were calm and collected moving quickly to reinforce and resupply
posts. When they would get back to the COC they would wait outside the
hatch for futher directions - adrenaline was running high - spirits were
high - they were laughing at the stupid stuff that someone did or said -
smaking and cussing and laughing. Ed, it was one of Marine Corps moments I
will not forget for a long time. They were magnificient - everything we as
Marines would have expected of out newest generation of warriors - evrything
the nation must have in its defenders of freedom. We get some good MG and
AT-4 chatter evey day - rare for it to be quiet. But most of the chatter is
one way. Anything that moves in the zone that looks like it has any hostile
intent gets fired up. I bet I've heard over a hundred At-4s go down range.
Didn't mean to write a book, but every one that I have sent emails to on
what is really ground zero are astonished at what isn't being said in the
news. CNN has practically had squatters rights in Neary's AO. CBS, Ap
Press, Iraqi and Arab news make their presence known. I am glad that
Theresa is not much of a news buff - she hsan't seemed tohave had too much
worries or she covers it well. I think it is the former. I tell you
though, I am looking forward to a few simple pleasures when I get back -
that photo of you and the redfish really brightened my day and reminded me
of more fonder days recently passed. I am definitely going to our old haunt
at PI when I get back - if you are free, you'll have to join me for a few
days. I'll try to hook you up with a few photos on my next email. Please
give my favorite girl a hug and a hello - take care -
Semper Fi , Scott (so I hacked up the spellin - ain't got time to go back)"


Later on this morning, I am going to mow my yard and trim some bushes. But right now, I'm going to have a good cry.

Cold Starts

One of the most challenging moments in my life occurs each morning that I open a new page on which to post another entry in this blog. I have always loved to write; I have always had a hard time starting. Even when I have a an issue, idea, or incident, about which the few remaining synapses in my feeble brain are firing madly, I always find the first words difficult to form. Sometimes, even when I have something really interesting (to me, not necessarily to anyone else) about which to opine or describe, I stare at the blankness of the screen like a cold-numbed steer in a blizzard, painfully immobilized by the cold surroundings and too frightened to take steps forward into what might be an even more painfully cold region.

Some mornings there is not enough coffee in the world, let alone in my house, to jump start the connection between mind and fingers poised like frozen claws above the keyboard. On those days, I finally relent to the voice in my head that constantly chants "you can't do it" anytime I face a challenge (admit it, you have the same voice in your head), and I reach for the mouse, click on Favorites, and check out what real writers are penning (keyboarding?).

This morning I found a gap in the defenses of the naysaying voice in my head. Instead of putting rounds on some distant target, I slid off of his block, swung out to the flank, and placed enfilading fire on HIM. Even now he is counterattacking in the most cruel way, reminding me that even when I write through the block, I am really only writing to avoid working.

It's bad enough to have a voice in your head; when it's right, that hurts.

"I am too weak to defend, therefore I must attack."

I'm not a big believer in polls. Having conducting polling myself as part of my, ahem, education at Ole Miss, I know how easy it is to transparently manipulate the results of a poll by sampling and questioning means. As a military professional, my leadership training and experience taught me that the initial popularity, or unpopularity, of a course of action was no indicator of the efficacy of that course of action. Leadership decisions based on popularity are almost always wrong. However, I think our President's present low job approval poll numbers indicate a problem that he needs to address.

If you listen to, and accept, the pundits' spin on the President's job approval numbers you come away with the impression that a majority of the American people are united on the same side of the issues that are at the core of the American peoples' disapproval. Tain't necessarily so. I believe that the President, with no help from his party, has climbed onto the centrist fence that crosses the political battlefield and is taking destructive fire from both sides. Most people I associate with are not happy with W because he is not perceived as leading the attack. They aren't liberals and they aren't John Birchers; they are just common-sense folks who don't think the president is leading.

While the two are not mutually exclusive, leadership and taking a self-confident, principled stand are not the same thing. President Bush has proven leadership skill; it wasn't just the family name (although that didn't hurt) that got him to this point. He also has supreme confidence in his own judgement, and for the most part that is justified. What I think he is failing to do at this point is to provide the vocal rallying of the troops around his cause. Look at the great battlefield leaders of history on the eve of their greatest victories. In nearly every case you will see them addressing their troops, reminding them of the reason for the fight, asking them for their self-sacrifice in the cause of the greater good, and reassuring them that they are up to the test. And, in nearly every great battlefield victory you will find the leader in the right position at the point of decision, leading by example.

Yes, sir, Mr. President, you are the "decider." You are also the "leader." Lead us.

The Chinese Century

We are a seriously distracted superpower and our future enemy is happy to see it. While the American Empire has been busy making the Arab world safe for democracy and absorbing yet another wave of demographic-shifting immigration, a natural and inevitable enemy of these re-United States is rising across the Pacific. The current leader of the world's most populous nation is visiting the US this week. President Hu of the Peoples' Republic of China had dinner with Bill Gates earlier this week and will have lunch with the second most powerful man in America today. During his visit, Hu will smile disarmingly and utter platitudes of friendship and cooperation. He will then go back to China and tell his comrades that following Sun Tsu's maxim that "all war is deception" is working well.

If the 20th Century is known to historians as the American Century, the 21st will most likely be known as the Chinese Century. By 2045, at its present growth rate, China's GDP will eclipse that of the US. It's military, once a ponderous third rate behemoth incapable of much more than human wave tactics, is quickly modernizing and will soon possess global power projection capabilities rivaling ours. The Chinese are challenging us in a little-publicized space race, the technologies springing from which will give the winner technological dominance on the globe (See the result of the US--USSR space race, circa 1957-1971). But, most of this ominous Chinese growth has been cloaked behind images of cuddly pandas and inexpensive shoes. And that has been on purpose. Sun Tsu taught that "the acme of skill is to defeat the enemy without fighting" and to deceive your enemy of your intentions by appearing weak where he is strong. We should not be deluded by smiles and empty assurances. But we will be.

Empires never last indefinitely. They inevitably become weighted down under the load of their excesses, both internally and externally. We can expect nothing different. What we can do, however, is delay the inevitable and not go quietly. History will judge us not for the brilliance of our flash, but for the endurance of our light. If China were another freedom-loving democracy, giving way to them would be one thing. But China is a horribly insensitive user of its people--you can be that way when you have 1.4 BILLION people. The future peoples of this planet will judge America for how well we delayed and shaped China's ascendancy.

I figure my grandson will be commanding a Marine infantry regiment about the time we go to war with China. The first book I'll give him to read will be Sun Tsu's "The Art of War."

Cruise Recap

Well, after a day of reflection (occasioned by a 12-hour drive from Houston to Panama City) I have a few observations to make about my first, and, if the decision is left to me, last cruise.

1. A ship is a ship. You can dress it up and take it to nice (I use that word liberally) places, but it is still a big floating prison, the inmates on which are blinded to their incarceration by copious amounts of alcohol and chocolate, and deluded into believing they are "having a great time" by innumerable insufferable obsequious twits (aka cruise directors). At least deploying for six months on an amphib provided the opportunity to get into some great fights with the swab jockeys running the ship. I didn't hear a cross word all week--what fun is that?

2. The "poor people" on this planet regard it to be their mission, no, make that "their right" to wheedle tips from the rest of us, who are not nearly as rich as they seem to think. In fact, I would dare say that most of the people, to whom I gave a tip, have more walking cash in their pockets than I do. Yeah, yeah, yeah... they have children at home who need shoes and a hot meal -- don't we all?

3. Chow is chow. A dry piece of cake isn't any more palatable because some French phony in a tall hat drizzled chocolate designs on the plate. Chef Jean Paul Lightintheloafers probably couldn't slap together a decent PBJ without making an artsy fartsy jelly design next to it.

Next year I'm going to Argentina and shoot a thousand doves in a day--now that will be a vacation.

Cruise Log 10:17 AM 15 April 2006

The Mayan ruins of Tulum reminded me of my visit to Herculaneum in Naples, Italy. Unfortunately, the Mexican government waited too long to protect the frescos in Tulum's ruins and they are mostly lost to vandals. Gripes me how some people have no respect for history or understanding of antiquity and think that it is the height of coolness to scratch their initials across a thousand year old work of art. The march of time waits for no man and Tulum, once the last citadel of the technologically advanced Mayan culture, is now overrun by tourists and iguanas.

I would like to live to be 2000 only to be able to see Brazilian tourists in the year 4006, wandering the crumbling streets of DC and scratching their initials across the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Wait, they already do that.

Cruise Log 4:50 PM 13 April 2006

Before the sun set yesterday we put Jamaica in the rearview mirror and as I write this we are putting Grand Cayman in our wake. We swam with stingrays, petted the future ingredients of turtle soup, and urged our bus driver to take shortcuts to avoid traffic and get us back to our ship on time. He jumped a curb (with a BUS, mind you) and sped past stopped traffic in the turn lane. He got arrested by a very irate Caymanian traffic cop, told to drop us off at the pier and report to the nearest police station. Most fun I’ve had on this cruise so far.

Tomorrow is Cozumel. I’m going to get a check in the box of one of my life goals—Visit Mayan ruins.

Cruise Log 8:35 PM 12 April 2006

We arrived in Montego Bay, Jamaica this morning shortly after sunrise. By 8:30 we were ashore and beginning a 2-hour ride on a mini-bus to see the sights. At 10:30 we reached our destination, Dunn’s River Falls, and I reached my endurance capacity for the term, “ya mon.” We joined literally hundreds of other tourists in a conga line climb of what was probably a very pretty series of waterfalls, but was hard to see for the literally hundreds of other tourists.

Jamaica would be desperately poor were it not for tourism. It is just poor. And with a majority of it’s population under 30, it is ripe for revolution. Even laid back folks like Jamaicans are suckers for the Castros, Guevarras, and Sandinos of this world lusting for power and using the vehicle of poverty-borne unrest to seize the reins.

Don't think this could happen? Find a history book and read about Earnest Hemingway's favorite vacation island (Not Key West) circa 1959.

Cruise Log 6:45 AM 11 April 06

First full day at sea yesterday. All of my worst fears and doubts about cruises realized. Crowds of people with low expectations milling about in an alcoholic haze. Obsequious cruise directors gushing about this shop or that shore excursion or this activity. If I heard the word “awesome” once yesterday, I heard it a quarter of a million times. The food is good, but nothing to write home about; certainly not the quality and quantity about which every cruiser I know raves. The coffee is hot and ready, even if I have to walk the entire length of the ship to find it.

Last night was formal night in the dining room. It was almost an elegant evening; until Obsequious Twit #13 (there’s at least twenty-five that I have cataloged so far) rallied all of us in a cheer and napkin wave (think Pittsburg Steelers and the Terrible Towel). Yep, get all dressed up and then act like I’m at a ball game—that’s fun.

The Vegas-style show after dinner was not bad. The amphitheater seating was. The drunk in the sleeveless sweatshirt who had to leave four times during an hour and a half-show, climbing over everyone and returning smelling like a smokestack, really capped the evening.

Went to the gym yesterday. Now, lest anyone think that I’m back on a fitness routine, I didn’t say I worked out. I was looking for the soft ice cream machine and found the gym by accident. But, I can now say that I went to the gym on my cruise. The gym was well equipped, as were the gymettes.

Might have to go looking for soft ice cream again after breakfast this morning.

Cruise Log 7:11 AM 10 April 06

Awake at 0430 this morning. Earlier than usual for me and I think maybe my body recognizes the underway rhythm. I showered and dressed and headed for the Lido Deck in search of a shot of joe. With the bitter elixir of life in hand, I stood in the dark on the fantail and watched the sea churn and foam away from the ship’s screws. Shortly before 0600 the sky began to lighten to port. A low cloud deck on the horizon hid the sun’s immediate appearance and the eastern sky yielded a sunrise rainbow. Reds and oranges just above a bumpy smudge of cloud blended subtly upward through blue-green to dark violet into the dark night sky and the brightest of stars stubbornly and futilely resisting the sun’s influence. Of nearly three thousand guests on this cruise, I shared what I consider the best thing about being at sea with only a half dozen others.

Our cabin is forward and low in the ship’s superstructure—about where officers’ country was on the last amphib on which I sailed. The bump and shudder of the bow plowing through a heavy sea is a familiar feeling. There is a slight roll, significant when you consider that these big cruise ships are designed to largely negate the sea’s effects. Wonder how many folks will be sick this morning.

Incommunicado

I believe I am on the cusp of discovering a new malady. More and more often nowadays the love of my life lapses into gibberish. Her speech comes out in phrases that make absolutely no sense in the context of the particular discussion or command she is giving me. Even more puzzling is the fact that she only seems to lapse into nonsensical speech during her communicative interactions with me. In my great concern for her health and social functioning I have canvassed all of the rest of our family and her close associates. None of them report observation of the phenomenon. This must indeed be a rare, perhaps never before seen, condition.

In the faint hope that one of the six readers of this blog has advanced medical training and can help me diagnose this condition, I will provide an example.

The other day she placed herself in the spousal interrupt position, front and center of the television, and asked, "Would you like some hash?" As we had just finished dinner and she was cleaning up the kitchen, this seemed a rather strange question. I assumed the spousal interrupt avoidance position (head craned to the side to look around her at the television), and reminded her ever so gently that we had just eaten, but that if she wanted to bring me some ice cream that would be nice.

Evidently this malady has two stages, the second stage being an involuntary placing of hands on hips accompanied by a scowl and punctuated with a foot stomp. It must be very frustrating when one starts to lose their ability to communicate.

Symptoms of this condition also seem to include denial and transference of blame. As I love my wife dearly, and believe absolutely in the wedding vow "in sickness and in health," I will humor her and try very hard not to miss the appointment she has made for me at the audiologist.

Gotta go. My bride is calling me to come "watch the fishes" and I like to encourage her any time she shows interest in my outdoor activities.

Mexican Manifest Destiny?

The current irrational and ignorant national debate regarding the issue of illegal immigration has spawned literally dozens of ideas for the long-past intractable situation. Since very few of the ideas bear any resemblance to ideas borne of realistic thought, I feel quite safe in offering a few options of my own, and feel quite confident that they will bear just as much scrutiny as most of those that will eventually make it into ineffectual and self-delusional law.

1. Invade Mexico. Take the good parts. Assimilate those who want to be Americans and put the rest on reservations on the bad parts. This plan has already been proved effective--see 19th Century US history.

2. Give California (back) to the Mexican squatters. Bet the red states would approve this in a national referendum, without much money spent on advertising.

3. Grant Texas a 10-year independence. They will figure out how to solve the problem without federal interference. It won't be pretty, but the rest of us can safely shrug and claim: "Texas. It's like a whole 'nother country."

4. Accept the inevitable. Learn to speak Spanish.


Tango un gato en mis pantalones.

The Price of Empire

We recently celebrated (not sure that is the word for it) the anniversary of the US-led invasion of the territory of a soveriegn nation. The United States led a coalition of allied nations whose common purpose was to effect regime change in a nation that posed a real and present threat to their national interests. The despotic and militaristic leadership of that nation and its allies had been a threat to their neighbors, and were, if not possessing, pursuing weapons of mass destruction. In the process of defeating that nation's army and occupying its territory, we endured suicide bombers intent on destroying our will to fight. Long after major military operations were declared over by our president, we maintain forces on that nation's territory. I'm not referring to the current American Empire police action in Iraq. The nation I'm referring to is Japan.

On the 1st of April, 1945, US Marines and soldiers; supported by over one thousand US and British warships, including thousands of aircraft from scores of aircraft carriers; landed on the beaches of the Japanese island of Okinawa. By the time the brutal fight for Okinawa was over, more than 15,000 American servicemen had given their lives to seize a resource poor, but strategically rich island, the loss of which actually did more to seal the fate of the Japanese Empire than did the use of two atomic weapons a few months later. The Japanese fought our advance with inhumane tactics at every step; and we dished out worse than we got. The US Navy actually suffered more casualties than either the Marines or Army, as suicide pilots flew their aircraft into our ships with relentless fury. Today, the Japanese are staunch and invaluable allies and trading partners. The same companies that built the planes that crashed into our ships, now build the cars with which we crash into each other on our interstates.

Sixty-one years later we still maintain a military presence in Japan. Presence, and all the pain that goes with it, is the price of empire. Make no mistake about it, these re-United States constitute an empire just as surely as did Britain, Spain, the Ottomans, Rome, and a dozen others before them. Don't want the United States to "rule the world?" Fine, name the other country that you would rather be the dominant force in the world.

If you said "Jamaica," someone is on the way to your house with a search warrant.

The Road Through Home

This vagabond's official highway is Highway 82--specifically a stretch of road between Greenville, Mississippi and Prattville, Alababma. Some of my earliest childhood memories are of traveling down that road and through towns the sight of whose names on signs still serves to evoke those memories. I have always wondered at the origination of some of the names--Winona, Kilmichael, Eupora, Mathiston, Ethelsville, Reform, Gordo.

The Mississippi portion of Highway 82 is very nearly all four-laned now, bypassing the towns along the route. The trip is faster now, but much less interesting. Passing through a small southern town on what often constituted its Main Street was always a treat. Every little town was different in the details, yet nearly identical in the concept of design. I can remember looking forward to the next town so that I would have new signs to read out loud, an activity that at first pleased my folks, but soon enough caused them to teach me to read silently.

There are still portions of Highway 82 in Alabama that remain two-lane, still passing through the heart of proud southern villages, and hemmed in on either side by towering kudzu-draped pines whose monster shapes scared me as a child. My trips along that highway these days would probably be quicker and safer if they went ahead and four-laned it all.

The little boy in me hopes they don't.

Splish, Splash

Sometimes the tiniest of details makes all the difference. Paying attention to detail is not natural for me. I'm more of a "big picture" guy. My knowledge can best be described as "a mile wide and an inch deep." Consequently I have a lot of useless data in my brain housing group, and just enough information stored in the grey matter to get me into trouble. I think I know enough about a certain issue or project, dive in, and then end up doing a lot of "discovery learning." It is the details that make up the predominance of the grey matter wrinkle-making in discovery learning. Case in point: my latest foray into the exciting world of plumbing.

I was visiting #2 son this weekend and saw a list of home projects on his fridge. Number three on the list was "Fix knobs in showers." "How hard can that be?" I said to self. Self answered with a comment that will go unprinted, but included reminders of disastrous attacks on previous "easy" objectives. I ignored self, and pressed ahead.

The hot water handles in both showers were broken off at the base. In the guest bath, I easily unscrewed most of the parts of the multi-part apparatus leading into the hot water pipe and turned to reach for needle nose pliers to extract the remaining parts. First learning opportunity: Did you know that most successful plumbers turn off the water before working on pipes? Water pressure accomplished the remaining part removal task for me. The remaining pieces shot out of the pipe and sprayed in a jumble at the other end of the tub. The water, hot water, sprayed out as well and continued to spray at a surprisingly high pressure. I was, ahem, mildly perplexed at this development and began to, ahem, calmly and quietly search for a solution. Okay, I was shocked speechless (quite rare for me) and went through several iterations of fruitless knob-turning and wet sock-dancing before hollering for help. My son was in another part of the house and later remarked on the long lag time between the report of hardware on porcelain accompanied by the sound of rushing water and my eventual calls for help. That there was not the immediate vocal response to minor calamities, to which my family has long grown accustomed to hearing from me, made him think that perhaps dear old dad had packed off to the happy hunting grounds. Don't start counting your meager inheritance so fast, #2.

Once I got the water turned off, I attempted to assemble the handle parts. There was a lot of them. I had no clue. So, I went to the other shower, carefully unscrewed its handle apparatus, and learned a little bit more about plumbing.

I thought I had it figured out, screwed everything back in place in the second shower, screwed everything back in place in the guest bath, and confidently sauntered out to turn the water back on. Upon my return to the guest bath, the water was no longer spraying out of the pipe in the wall of the shower, but was running out of the faucet. I went through several iterations of knob-turning--less frantic and not accompanied by wet sock-dancing, but no more fruitful than the previous knob-turning episode. I scampered (sauntering was not in order at this juncture) back out to turn the water off, and went back to the shower that was not misbehaving to try to figure out the difference. I took the handle apparatus apart again, and peering into the pipe, noticed that there was a tiny washer (that I didn't have in the misbehaving shower) covering the small spring (that I DID have in the misbehaving shower). "Surely that tiny washer isn't what prevents the water from running," I remarked to self. Self answered, "It's gotta be, you knucklehead. It's the only thing that's different. The one you're missing probably got washed down the drain during your idiotic wet-sock, knob-turning dance. And stop calling me Shirley."

A trip to a not-so local hardware store (Grenada is one of those small country towns that still roll up the sidewalks at 5 PM and over the weekends) was required to acquire the necessary replacement parts. I am proud to report that both broken handles have been replaced and the water behaves as it should in both of #2's bathrooms.

Next trip up, I'll tackle number 4 on his list: Re-wire outside lights. How hard can that be?

Timing is Everything

I served for the better part of three decades as an infantryman. With all of the combat the Marine Corps saw in those years, I never set foot in a combat zone. I had as many operational assignments as any one else. I volunteered for the infantry, and like most Marine infantry officers, fought to get back to infantry assignments whenever I was assigned elsewhere. At the end of my four years of obligated service I considered leaving the Marine Corps for the civilian sector. One of my buddies opined at the time that if I got out I would be sitting at home some day watching him and my other buddies on TV, running across the sand of a combat zone; and I would be sorry I wasn't with them. He was right, and I stayed in.

As my career progressed, my buddies began referring to me as "The Peacemaker." Anytime I checked into an operational unit, peace would reign world-wide. Nearly every time I left an operational unit, headed for a school or some other assignment, that unit would go to war, or some facsimile thereof. Those unfamiliar with the way of the warrior could remark that I led a charmed life. That's not how I viewed it at the time.

I spent four straight years in infantry battalions and expeditionary units when I was a lieutenant. The most combat I saw was the obligatory end-of-liberty call brawl in some port city whose gendarmerie looked forward to cracking the heads of a few unruly Americans. The month after I left for an instructor assignment in January of 1983, my previous unit left its liberty call station in the Pacific, steamed through the Suez Canal, and joined the fray in Lebanon.

Four years later I returned to Camp Lejeune and took command of an infantry company in a battalion that was in the Mediterranean deployment cycle. We trained hard, made two uneventful 6-month deployments and I left for recruiting duty after 3 of the fastest and most fun years of my career. Three weeks after I took command of a recruiting outfit in Georgia, Saddam did the stupid. My old unit, 1st Battalion, 8th Marines, was featured on a news special that December as they prepared to leave Camp Lejeune for Saudi Arabia. A few months later I watched a day-old C-Span tape of my battalion as it got ready for its assault of an objective on the outskirts of Kuwait City. I watched as the guy who had succeeded me as Operations Officer issued an attack order to the company commanders--all friends of mine. I had stayed in the Corps and my lieutenant buddy's prophecy had still come true.

I later commanded an infantry battalion through one of the most operationally quiet times in my Corps' history. I left 3rd Marines to go to the Naval War College and then got my follow-on assignment to serve as the Current Operations officer for US Forces Korea. I was in school there in Newport with several of my long-time buddies, and they reprised my "Peacemaker" moniker when, a scant three months before I was to leave for my assignment on the Powder Keg Peninsula, a smiling peace summit between the leaders of North and South Korea was broadcast. The most tense time I experienced during my subsequent tour in Seoul was a snowstorm. I even had a face to face experience with the enemy, but that is grist for another post.

In June of 2001, I assumed command of the Sixth Marine Corps District, essentially a recruiting regiment, responsible for officer and enlisted accessions in the Southeast. Not a full three months later, my nation was at war. I had tried to get out of my recruiting assignment to join the fight in 1990, without success. You only get out of a recruiting assignment early by getting fired--regardless if you are the world's foremost operational expert (as I tried to portray myself at the time). So, stuck on recruiting while the war on terror heated up, I could only watch in frustration as the majority of my Marine Corps slung packs on their shoulders and headed off to fight, without me, again.

One of my oldest and dearest friends served for nearly thirty-five years as a Marine, rising from the enlisted ranks to the rank of lieutenant colonel at his "retirement" two years ago. His heart wasn't in the civilian world, and when the Marine Corps started asking for retired officers to volunteer to come back on active duty, he signed up. He is in Iraq.

Dang it, Scott. I better not see you on TV.

Say hello to my leetle friend.

He didn't stay long. The first one to stop here each spring only stays long enough to tank up. After two or three days of rest and refueling, the first hummingbird of the year disappears as suddenly as it appears, headed further north. Last year, the first ruby-throated hummingbird arrived at the feeder in my backyard on the 15th of March. This year it was the 17th. Last year the first bird was an immature male; this year a mature male. Same bird? No way of knowing, but I like to think so. If last year is any indication, I won't see any more hummingbirds for several more weeks.

That first bird is the leader of a migration no less amazing than any on earth. The tiny feathered helicopters that show up here in the middle of the Florida panhandle have probably flown non-stop across the Gulf of Mexico from the Yucatan Peninsula. Living for several years, a hummingbird will return to the same backyard feeders spring after spring and then return to a patch of jungle in Central or South America to spend the winter.

Wonder if the resident Yucatan tucans call the winter whizzers "snow birds."

Culloden's Descent

Yesterday was a good day at my house, and there was no binge drunk salute to a long-dead Irish monk. In fact, I studiously avoided doing, saying or watching anything connected with the traditional March 17th lunacy. I didn't wear green, although its a favorite color of mine. In years past I have participated on the fringes of this day, but not this year.

I'm from Celtic stock, but my ancestors wore highland tartan; and while they drank to celebrate, they didn't celebrate drunkedness.

I once spent a year's free time tracing the grain of my family tree from it's present leafy new growth, back to it's roots in Scotland. Thanks to folks who spent a lot more time researching the family line that I did, I have been able to trace it back to a story of two young brothers, who, shanghaied in Glasgow, jumped ship in Boston in the 1680s. For reasons unknown, but I believe have to do with the fact that the ruling Scottish clan Campbell had "outlawed" clan MacGregor, they changed last names to that of their (possibly) subclan Gregory and started new lives in the new world. Admittedly the ties to my line at that point are a bit tenuous, but I like the tale's timber and I'm sticking with it.

The ties are much clearer to one Thomas B. Gregory (interesting how a name continues to resurface generation after generation in some families), born 1730 in Chatham County, NC and died 1818 in Smith County, TN. His descendents who form my lineage spread across the northern hills of Alabama and Mississippi, and my namesake, greatgrandfather, and Methodist preacher Thomas Edwin Gregory died in Pontotoc, MS, 6 years before my appearance on the scene.

Yesterday was a good day at my house, because my grandson, Caleb Thomas Gregory, the latest in the Gregory line, came for a visit.

"Chaplain, I want a weather prayer."

Lest anyone think that my post yesterday reflected any desire on my part for world-wide conflagaration, or even a lightly armed territorial squabble, I wish to make clear that I sincerely hope that peace will be given a chance for the remainder of my lifetime, as well as the remainder of the lifetime of my grandson. I will admit, as my longest-lived infantry comrades will attest, that as a youngster I itched for a fight to the point that my face could be found in the group picture next to the dictionary definition of warmongers. Not sure I could have done my job correctly (that of preparing combat teams to take the fight to our nation's enemies) if I didn't have a tendency to, as we aggressive ground-pounders put it, "lean into the fire." I like to think, not without a modicum of chagrin, that a gracious and wise Father God kept me out of combat for the reason, among others, that I might actually have been way too good at orchestrating destruction and killing. That sounds terribly, horribly, un-Christian; but there it is.

When your children start having children, however, a transformation takes place in your world view. No, I'm not changing into a liberal--that would require loss of a great deal of grey matter from the confines of my brain housing group. Having a grandchild is like getting a tranquilizer shot. The world's light (what little there is these days) has taken on a different shade with the entry of my son's son on to the stage. My wife says I'm just mellowing with age, but that is not something I want to admit to. Instead, I'm more content to give the credit to my grandson.

But, I am, if nothing else, a realist. My lifelong study of the history of man would not allow me to be anything else. Man may discover new technology and harness new resources to build new machines and edifices, but the nature that God sent with him from the garden will never change. Man may talk in ever loftier terms of the responsibility of men to live in peace with their fellow men, but even the most dedicated and disciplined peacenik has a point beyond which, when pushed, he will react with violence. Even my Lord used force to throw the money changers from the temple.

As an instrument of my nation's "politics by other means," I strived, without complete success I will admit, to be apolitical. My job was to salute smartly, shoot straight, and suffer silently. I was not allowed a public political stance, although I will admit, again, that my private political stance became a little more publicly viewable when my nation's leadership was acting according to my own jingoistic and imperialistic notions of the American place in world affairs.

I have said all of the above to say this: While we are all praying earnestly for peace, let's not forget to pray earnestly for the marksmanship of our defenders of that peace.

"Sergeant Major, where's my Farsi phrase book?"

I don't have a crystal ball. But you don't need one, if you are a student of government and history, to see what is coming. The signs are everywhere. The miscalculations on both sides are stacking up in front of them until, soon, the antagonists will not be able to see over them for a clear look at the other. There's gonna be a war with Iran.

This thing is starting to take on the look of inevitability that the last two father/son outings on the shores of the Persian Gulf did in 1990 and 2002. Those who study these things, knew we were going to war the morning we saw Iraqi helicopters in the skies over Kuwait on CNN. We in the battle business, watching the World Trade Center towers fall over and over that night on CNN, had no doubt that business was going to be brisk soon; not just in Afghanistan, but in Iraq, and probably Syria and Iran, before it was all over. And it is a long, long way from being over...no matter who controls the American government over the next half century.

While I'm at it, I'll hang my reputation for predictive accuracy a little further out on the limb. The coming donnybrook with Iran will not be the "drive-by" variety that the last two anti-Saddam campaigns were. Whereas Saddam possessed a third-rate military commanded by trustworthy idiots who were forbidden to communicate with each other (they weren't trustworthy enough to keep Saddam from worrying about a coup), the Iranian Mullahs have a second-rate force, a uniting theology (critical; ours is democracy, theirs is theocracy), and (here comes that geography thing again) geographically strategic position. Iran will not allow us to mass an invasion force in the vicinity for six unmolested months prior to receiving our untoward attentions, as Saddam the Stupid did...TWICE. The Iranian navy and air force is quite capable of contesting us for control of the Strait of Hormuz and the Arabian Sea in proximity of their shores. Said contest will be relatively short-lived, but very bloody on both sides. The Iranian ground forces will not melt away as quickly as the regular Iraqi army did. Most of the resistance our forces encountered on the ride to Baghdad three years ago were fanatical Baathist irregulars. Nearly the entire Iranian military is steeped in the tradition of suicidal, human-wave tactics (see for reference their tactics against Iraq 1980-88), the likes of which American forces have not faced since our mid-twentieth century expeditions on the Asian continent and adjacent islands--when you think Iran, think Japan 1941-45, N. Korea (and China) 1950-53, and N. Vietnam 1965-1973.

My educated guess is that my beloved Marine Corps will get to do something they have not done since Inchon in 1950--a real live, large-scale, amphibious assault on a defended coastline. This will be necessary--despite the protestations of my Air Force friends that they can win it all from the air. I was held captive at the mecca of air power zealotry for three years (Marine rep at the Air Command and Staff College) and easily exposed their strategic attack arguments for the "pie in the sky" theorizing that it was--and if this knuckle-head, Ole Miss-educated Marine can figure out the bankruptcy of your ideas, they ain't good ideas. I'm not saying that the zoomies won't make a vital contribution--American airpower is indispensable to our way of warfighting. But my friends in light blue never could explain to me how they could seize the port facilities necessary to introduce the ground forces needed to place the requisite boot heel on the neck of the enemy.

Oh, we'll play "bust the buried bunker" for a while with our latest air delivered deep penetrating high explosive toys. But then my dirty, sweaty, rifle-lugging kind will have to go in and root the hold-outs from the rubble. If you think that we can just bomb the Iranian nuke facilities for a few days and be satisfied, you are sadly mistaken, and sorely misunderestimating (that's a word, my president says so) the Iranian reaction. The ayatollahs are going to react very badly to our attempt at setting back their jihadic timetable for establishment of their long-sought (a least 1200 years and counting) theocratic domination of the world. They won't just shrug their shoulders and go back to suppressing Persian freedom--they will lash out. Their current mullah-puppet and former American hostage-taking president fervently believes in a Koranic prophecy of a cataclysmic, world-ending Islam v. Infidel conflict (Our president, and I, believe in something similar. But, we don't think man can bring on the final battle, like Amindejawhateverhisnameis believes). He will likely go down in history as one of a long line of lunatics whose fanatic megalomania threatened, and often succeeded, to plunge the known world into conflict pandemic--Nebuchanezar, Alexander, Suleman, Wilhelm, Hitler, Johnson..., et. al.

Better get my boots back in shape. I'm not too old to get called back to active duty and I think this is gonna be a biggun.

Mouse Trap

Took a quick business trip to Orlando, yesterday. Mickeyville always raises my blood pressure. I hate the way the place treats everyone like we are all eight years old. I hate the parks and their interminable lines. I hate fighting the traffic, made all the worse by yankee tourists in rental cars. I hate the kitschy architecture; developers trying for all the world to make Central Florida look like Southern California.

I was born in Orlando, but my family luckily moved on before the Disney invasion. My parents have occasionally mentioned that they would like to move back to Central Florida and I have been quick; perhaps too dream-killing quick; to snap that nothing remains of the orange grove-robed and lake-speckled jewel that they remember. The soothing groves of citrus have given way to seething droves of citizenry drawn to the place not by its former natural beauty but by its cosmetic enhanced promise of ecstasy; like so many johns to a streetwalker.

There is bright-eyed rumoring in my current adopted hometown of the possibility of theme park invasions here. Good for Panama City. If it comes, I'm gone. I'll shake the sand of this place off my white walkers and head for the hills of North Mississippi where I belong. That's the last place anyone would want to build a tourist attraction.

They probably said that about Orlando fifty years ago.

Raise, Don't Lower, the Standards.

A story on a newspaper's website caught my attention this morning, and made me catch my breath. The context for the story is the difficulty of the military's recruiting battle in the midst of the war on terror and facing a shrinking demographic pool from which to recruit. The not-so-subtle subtext in the story is the contention that the US military's standards are too high--non-high school grads, ritalin-takers, tattoo canvasses, drug-users, and criminals need not apply. Maybe I am way too sensitive on this subject, but I can almost smell the reporter's belief that the aforementioned disqualifications would actually make for good cannon-fodder in our long-war against islamo-fascism. To which I would reply for our nation and its military: "Been there, done that, didn't work so well."

At the height of the Vietnam campaign in the War with the Soviet Union, a Defense Secretary, whose qualification for the job was that he had presided over the building of planned-obsolescent automobiles in Detroit, decided it would be just a great idea to lower minimum mental requirements, and other standards, to fill the ranks of the military; under the guise of giving a "hand up" to those less fortunate in our society. The plan failed miserably. The quality and capability of the US military plummeted--a nose dive from which it took nearly two decades to pull out.

There was nothing wrong with the patriotism of those who served at the time--they just weren't smart enough to be soldiers, airmen, sailors and Marines. If you laughed out loud at that point, you obviously have never served in the military and never been required to plan and execute even the smallest scale military mission, the normal technological complexity and human resource management requirements for which would daunt any production floor manager at any auto plant. Being a soldier, and leading other soldiers, is not only physically demanding; it is one of the most mentally demanding activities in which man engages.

I always believed, much to the dismay of the recruiters who worked for me, and to the chagrin of my superiors, that our recruiting standards were way too low. I believe that the smarter a man or women is, the better soldier he or she makes--no matter whether that soldier's finger rests on the launch controls of a Patriot missile or a 5.56 round. So, I say, "Raise the standards!"

Don't tell me that the highest quality people in our society won't join the military--that insults my intelligence and their patriotism.

Isthmian Inkling

When the Colonel was 14, his Air Force NCO dad got his second most significant set of orders, as far as the impact on the Colonel's life was concerned.

The first most significant was in 1966 when he was sent to Vietnam for a long and family-stressing year, during which the Colonel attended the fifth grade in Columbus, Mississippi and got his first real lesson in the lunacy of racial segregation. But that is grist for another post.

In January of 1970 the Colonel's family flew to Howard Air Force Base in the Panama Canal Zone. 

That month the Colonel started in the second eighth grade class and third junior high he attended, but his school-hopping days were finally over. The result of the Colonel's previous 9 years of itinerant education, during which he landed briefly on 11 different schools like a confused honey bee visiting different varieties of flowers and returning to the hive with an unusable mixture of pollen clinging to its legs, was a polyglot of disconnected learning, disparate educational philosophies, and classmates known too briefly to be classified as friends. At Balboa High School in the Panama Canal Zone the Colonel got a real education from a first class high school, at which he miraculously stayed for his entire high school career.

We stepped off the plane that early January afternoon into 90 degree temperatures and 90 percent humidity -- a warm, moist embrace that wrapped the Colonel and held him for nearly 5 more years.

The Panama Canal Zone was a slice of time-warped America straddling Teddy Roosevelt's crowning achievement and dividing a banana republic situated on an isthmus stolen from Columbia in a relatively bloodless American sanctioned revolution. Teddy took what he wanted, and he wanted an American canal. 

By the time the Colonel got there the Panama Canal Zone was at its zenith. Governed by a US Army general appointed by the US President and ruled by a strict set of regulations called the Canal Zone Code, the Canal Zone was a country club-manicured, and nearly crime-free American oasis in a turbulent and poverty-stricken region. The Zone's permanent residents, American employees of the Panama Canal Company referred to by themselves and others as "Zonians," were proudly American, but undeniably influenced by the Panamanian culture surrounding them. They ran the canal and tolerated the large US military presence that brought a steady stream of temporary residents to their idyllic haven.

Little wonder that the Colonel's Panama experience became such a significant influence on him. It was a wonderful place for a teenage boy -- swimming weather year round, unspoiled beaches, lakes and bays full of fish, and rain forest (we called it jungle) to explore. 

In Panama, the Colonel found a scout troop and made Eagle. 

In Panama, the Colonel discovered a passion (won't call it talent) for writing and was published for the first time, in the high shool literary journal, "Isthmian Inklings." 

In Panama, the Colonel found a group of guys with budding patriotism in their hearts and made plans for military careers that many executed well beyond their wildest dreams. 

In Panama, the Colonel found a girl who became his best friend, later wife, and now the joy of his life. 

In Panama, the Colonel found faith in a gracious God whose faithfulness, mercy, and provision never ceases to amaze him.

The most idiotic American President of the twentieth century (he will go un-named, but his initials are James Earl Carter), in a fit of never-rewarded international do-good-ism, gave the Canal Zone "back" to Panama (actually, Nixon started the process, but we won't go there). 

If you want to be technically legal about it, we should have given the Isthmus of Panama (and the Canal) back to Columbia, from whom we took it at the beginning of the century. 

The Canal, one of the technological marvels of the twentieth century (and even the present century), still runs -- Panama had the good sense to keep on many of the Zonians who had the expertise to run it, until they could train their own. But the zone itself, its American affluence once starkly contrasting against the poverty of Panama on either side, has largely fallen into neglect; a line no longer sharply demonstrating the wealth and power of the American Empire.

Just as well. The Canal Zone of the Colonel's youth is brought to his mind every time he looks into his high school sweetheart's eyes.

Show Me the Money!

A recent e-mail discussion with a college buddy and fellow Marine dredged up some feelings that I am surprised to still be harboring. He retired from the Marine Corps a year after I did and we have shared e-mails and phone calls for the past year regarding our separate and mutual business ventures. I must admit that he seems to have embraced the capitalist spirit with much more gusto than have I.

This "for profit" stuff is still a bit disconcerting to me, even after 2 and 1/2 years as a "money-grubbing civilian." For three decades I paid scant attention to my compensation, and when I did, my feeling was that I was being overpaid for something that was my duty and that I loved doing. I can honestly say that I didn't sign up for the pay check.

During my brief foray into the business world, I have been amazed that someone will pay me so much money for my ideas and some simple decision-making! I almost feel guilty taking their money...almost.

After spending most of my adult life defending the Republic, and the capitalism for which it stands, I find that I'm not a very good capitalist...yet.

It's the Geography, Stupid!

A high school geography teacher in Colorado, and the student who taped his anti-Bush rant in class, are getting their "15 minutes of fame" this week. Of course, the whole issue is much ado about nothing, but politicians and the media (liberal and conservative) have seized on the issue as a platform for bellowing their position at the other end of the political spectrum. What is somewhat hidden in all of the hoopla is the fact that American schools are woefully derelict in their responsibility to actually TEACH the BASICS. I have no problem with an elective course, descriptively titled, challenging students to examine issues critically and then to make up their own minds on where they stand on those issues. The problem I have is that you can't participate in a course like that unless you have an educational foundation in the BASICS. Case (somewhat) in point: My daughter's fourth grade class spent the better part of a week studying China and its peoples' writing, food, clothing, and love of the Panda. At the end of the week, she, and the rest of her classmates, could not point to China on a world map.

I have always believed the refrain, "Those who do not understand history are doomed to repeat it." To which I would add the corollary, "Those who do not understand geography cannot understand history."

The geography of a place; its location, resources, physical features, and climate, is often the most significant factor in the history of the people who live in that place. Would the British colonies in the New World have developed into the current world's superpower if they had been scattered across the islands of the Caribbean instead of along the edge of one of the most challengingly diverse and resource rich continents on the planet? Arguably, had western Europeans not supplanted the existing native populations in North and South America, those people would have eventually developed technologically to the point that they could have harnessed the full power inherent in the resources of the land. The "Native Americans" were a very adaptive and intelligent people--they took horses brought to the New World by the Spanish in the 1500's and developed a "horse culture" that rivaled Old World horse cultures that had existed for millennia; and they took firearms and gave the expansionist former British colonists fits for nearly a century (just ask Custer how effectively they used that technology). The Maya, Inca, and Aztec in what is now called "Latin America" were even more advanced than their northern cousins, with architecture and culture in some cases more advanced than that of the European nations from whom the conquistadors and their ilk came. And, contrary to "pop culture history," Anglo-American cavalry and cowboys did not "kill all the Indians"--smallpox did most of the dirty work. Smallpox so decimated the Native American populations that they did not have the numbers to resist the Anglo tide sweeping west, and smallpox was so horribly effective because the GEOGRAPHICAL isolation of the New World had prevented development of immunities from this Old World disease. See? Geography is the key!

I could go on and on, as my family will attest. They have long ago learned not to ask any question of me that could possibly give me the excuse to lecture (for the minimum required 30 minutes) on the geographical and historical background necessary to understand the answer.

Don't Tread on Me

This week the U.S. Supreme Court handed down a ruling on a case brought by a collection of law schools challenging a 1996 act of congress that denied federal funds to any school that denied access to military recruiters. That this case made it all the way to John Roberts and crew is amazing on several different levels. The law schools' argument was that the law forced them, in effect, to associate with someone (in this case, military recruiters conducting the business of the nation on a law school campus) whose views (in this case, DoD's prohibition on homosexual conduct) were repugnant to them. Any normal American (defined in this case as the majority population in "red" states and the minority population in "blue" states) could see the fallacious nature of this argument without the benefit of a law degree or even the benefit of having watched Perry Mason once. I am forced daily to associate with punks, rascals, scoundrels, thieves, reprobates, and other assorted low-lifes (all in a quick trip to Wal-Mart) and I don't believe I have a legal claim to a First Amendment right to require one half of the population of my fair city to get out.

In fact, this farcical suit exposes the litigants for the Home of the Brave-hating hypocrites that they are. They wallow in the rights of this free land and yet refuse to accept the price of its protection. The present ruling generation (of which I am, sadly, a member) has forgotten (maybe never learned in the first place) that "Freedom isn't free."

I am touchy on this subject in general because I served with, and am related to, great Americans who sacrificed comfort and compensation to protect the freedoms most Americans take for granted. I am touchy on this subject in particular because I served for a fifth of my Marine Corps career as a recruiter and saw first hand the lack of a sense of civic and national duty that is prevalent in our society. We have what we euphemistically call an "All Volunteer Force" when, in fact, the vast majority of those who join today's guardians of freedom, do so only after being contacted by a recruiter and sold on the benefits of a vocation for which the idea of pursuing had never previously entered their minds. I'm not knocking the young men and women of our nation here--when finally taught that freedom has a price and presented the call to serve, they do so admirably. I am indicting their parents and influencers (teachers, coaches, and counselors)--my generation--that grew up in the most affluent period in our nation's history and refuse to accept (or teach our children) that service before self is a primary virtue.

And another thing, while the spirit moves me... When the rest of our nation went through a paroxysm of flag-flying, skin-deep patriotism post 9-11, the true life-long patriots looked on with a mixture of wonder and scorn. Where was your flag on 9-10? Where is your flag, now? I will tell you that mine stayed reverently folded in my pack, where it had been for more than two decades, ready to be raised over a captured enemy citadel. It is still reverently folded and lying in a position of honor on my desk. True American patriots don't fly the flag like a banner on the way to a football game--it is way too dear of a symbol for that.

Okay. I'll take a deep breath now, and let the coffee push the curmudgeon back into his hole.

Snoopy's Sub-Orbital Flight

Another February is gone, its page on my calendar flipped unceremoniously, yet thankfully, to reveal one of my favorite months of the year. March may not be such a special month to those of you unfortunates who reside (won't call it "living") in the arctic reaches (anywhere north of Memphis), but for those of us who live in the most blessed portion of these Re-United States, it is a month welcomed with smiling sun-turned faces and happy winter coat-shedding shoulder shrugs. While Spring begins officially in March for everyone, it begins in truth in the South. March brings blooms to forsythia, dogwood, and redbud, and everybody knows that "when the forsythia are bloomin', the crappie are bitin'!"

This month brings back childhood memories of kite-flying. I still remember the first "store-bought" kite I ever had--I think I was 12 or 13. It was acrobatic--its crackling plastic swept-back wings made me feel like I had a fighter plane on a leash. It was so light and aero-dynamic that it would leap from your hand into flight with the slightest breeze. But, as special as buying and flying that marvel by myself was, there was something missing in the experience. Up until that point, every March meant saving the Sunday paper funny pages with which to cover homemade kites the way my daddy had done when he was a kid, and the way he did for my brother and me the first time we ever experienced the wonder of sailing a kite on a warm, windy afternoon.

After a few years of flying small diamond-shaped kites stabilized with rag-strip tails and tethered to us with a few hundred feet of string, Dad decided we were big enough to handle the "manly-man's kite" and he built us a box kite. On a three-dimensional two foot long frame, a box kite's sail surface was four-sided at either end. This produced a dramatic increase in lift compared to the one dimensional kites we had flown. Dad attached the box kite to one of his fishing poles, the reel for which was spooled with several hundred yards of line, and set the drag at its lightest limit. It took both my brother and I running full tilt into the wind to get the behemoth airborne, but once it "slipped the surly bonds of earth" the box kite literally streaked into the sky. The line screamed off the fishing reel and the kite rapidly diminished in apparent size as the March wind drove it upward toward the clouds.

Brother and I stood transfixed and alternately gawked skyward and grinned back at Dad as the kite soared. At the grin point in each slack-jawed gawk and grin sequence, however, I detected a slight change in the look on Dad's face. He was going through his own attention-shifting sequence, grinning at us and then checking the rapidly diminishing line thickness on the level-wind reel at his hands. Dad's look began to take on a hint of concern as he attempted to check the racing line by tightening the reel's drag. Line continued to scream off the reel. Brother and I continued our gawk and grin routine. The box kite was approaching escape velocity at down-range altitude sufficient to turn it into a mere colorful speck.

"Uh, oh. There she goes.", Dad said flatly. Just as I began to try to figure out where Mom was going, the last of the line left the reel and a loud snap announced another Confederate loss. The gawk and grin sequence devolved into an expanding-interval shock and question sequence, the shock portion of which was accompanied by quivering bottom lips caving-in under protruding buck teeth (regular torture sessions at the orthodontist were still underway).

Somewhere east of England Air Force Base, outside of Alexandria, LA, a homemade box kite, bearing the previous Sunday's Charles Shultz creation, crashed to earth--that is if it didn't burn up on re-entry.

Ace Low

On the tenth of May, 1972, in the skies over North Vietnam, a Navy fighter pilot and his Radar Intercept Officer (RIO) in a two seat F-4J Phantom became the first ace of the Vietnam War. They had two previous kills, and on this memorable day, they quickly downed two communist MiGs and then engaged in one of the most studied dogfights in aerial combat history with one of North Vietnam's most experienced fighter pilots. After a seesaw aerial ballet which pitted the brute force F-4 Phantom against the nimble MiG-17 Fresco in a series of head-on and climbing engagements, the Americans finally got the advantage and made their fifth kill with a Sidewinder heat-seeking missile at close range. The enemy pilot had the advantage at several points in the fight, but the American pilot refused to follow the safe route and disengage to fight another day. He pushed the envelope, hung it out, and finally prevailed. On their way out of enemy skies, their aircraft was hit by a surface to air missile and they were forced to eject from their fatally crippled ride over the coastal waters of North Vietnam. Plucked from the shark and enemy patrol boat-infested waters by a rescue helicopter, Randy "Duke" Cunningham and his shipmate Willie Driscol became two of the most celebrated and decorated flyers of the war, and went on to train hundreds of other fighter pilots at the Navy's Top Gun school.

Yesterday, former congressman Randy Cunningham was sentenced to 8 years and 4 months in a Federal penitentary as punishment for his conviction on bribery charges. The immediate reaction that most of us have when we see something like this take place in the life of a former hero is to wonder where and why they changed. But Cunningham didn't "change." He lived the rest of his life like he fought enemy fighter pilots--over the edge, pushing the envelope.

The character "strength" that made him an ace was the character "flaw" that made him a felon.

Checklists and Caffeine

Shortly after I left active duty, my son and his boss asked me to come help them with organizing the operations of their fast-growing construction supply business. I started out part-time at first--I had a lot of hunting and fishing to catch up on. As time went by, I spent more and more time and eventually became the full-time operations manager.

From long training in the Marine Corps, I had learned that the first one to arrive on the battlefield had the advantage. This advantage applies whether the battlefield is an actual fight or a business venture. Getting in to work before everyone else allowed me to be organized and ready to get everyone else organized and ready. I also found, as I got more senior in rank, that my subordinates drew a certain degree of comfort from my predictability, and from the fact that I was ready with a plan for the day when they arrived.

Of course, the first to arrive at the office also had the responsibility for making the coffee. I am a prodigious consumer of coffee. If caffeine is ever out-lawed, I'm changing my name to Jesse James. I took great pleasure in having that first bitter taste of the bean, at my desk, in the quiet before the arrival of the rest of the gang.

Besides making the coffee, my more visible duties as operations manager were generally to issue orders for the day's and week's deliveries and installation jobs, and then record all of the activities accomplished at the end of the day in a series of reports. Although there was a lot to do, my routine and the relative simplicity of the tasks, made it look fairly easy. I also made checklists for everyone else to help keep them on task.

When I left that job last year, the guys presented me with a coffee mug. They told me that, through close observation, they had figured out my duties, and they pointed out the checklist printed on the side of the coffee mug.

1. Make the coffee.
2. Drink the coffee.
3. Tell people what to do.
4. Write it down.

That about sums it up.