Free Laremy Tunsil

It's a theme as old as conflict itself.

Gideon had the Midianites.  David had Goliath.  Moses had Pharoah.  Leonides had Xerxes.  Gandalf had the Orcs.  The AFL had the NFL.

Ole Miss has Alabama.

Free Laremy Tunsil.


The Colonel's Ole Miss Football Rebels hold a winning record, or at least a respectably close record, with every team it plays regularly.

Except Alabama.

In the half century the Colonel has been a Rebel, he has seen the boys from Oxford defeat the Tide...

Wait for it...

Seven times.

Seven.  Even using Common Core, counting to seven is pretty stinking simple.

Free Laremy Tunsil.  


If you include the years before the Colonel became a Rebel -- all the way the back to the inauguration of the series in 1894 (contrary to popular belief in the Colonel's family, he wasn't around back then) -- the record against Alabama, and the refs (yes, the Colonel went there; and will again, just wait), looks even worse.

Nine wins total.

Nine.

Common Core still doesn't make the accounting difficult.

Free Laremy Tunsil.


Needless to say, as rare as a win against Alabama (and the refs) is for Ole Miss, back-to-back Rebel victories over the Tide are rarer still.

How rare, you ask?

Put down the Common Core manual.

Ole Miss has never beaten Alabama two years in a row.

N. e. v. e. r.

Not even including 'Bama wins vacated by the NCAA.

Free Laremy Tunsil. 


Last year, as delirious fans rushed the field and tore down the goalposts, the Colonel hugged everyone still standing in Section H of Vaught-Hemingway Stadium.

The Colonel ain't a hugger.

But..., his Rebels had just beaten Alabama, and the refs, and the Colonel lost his military bearing for a few minutes.

Sue him.

Oh..., and if the Colonel's Rebels pull off the UPSET OF THE CENTURIES (19th, 20th, and 21st) this coming Saturday in Tuscaloosa, the Colonel is going to open up a booth in the Grove the following Saturday and post a sign saying "Free Hugs."

Free Laremy Tunsil.


Ole Miss has opened the 2015 season with an offensive explosion not seen in Mississippi since Grant took Vicksburg.  The men in red and blue have out-scored their first two opponents 149 to 24.

Take away the three defensive touchdowns and the Rebels have scored...

Pick up that Common Core manual and turn to page thirty-seven...

... eighteen touchdowns.

E. i. g. h. t. e. e. n.  

Or, in Common Coreese:  Ten tens, minus two twos, plus eight eights, circle the fours, enter the number six and draw a line through it... 

Or, in Coloneleese:  Count all the fingers on both hands, take off your boots and count all the toes not missing feeling from that long winter in North Norway thirty-five years ago...

The Colonel doesn't mean to brag (well, he does, but for instructional purposes only), but... no SEC team has ever scored 73 or more points in back-to-back games.  

E. v. e. r.  

Well..., now one has.

Free Laremy Tunsil.


Granted, their first two opponents weren't exactly SEC calibre foes like, say, Jacksonville State or Toledo, but the Ole Miss offense has lit up the scoreboard without the services of one of the best offensive left tackles to ever play the game -- Laremy Tunsil.  

Thanks to an NCAA violation fishing expedition made possible by a humiliated step-father's claims (Laremy decked the clown for pushing his mother, and the deckee retaliated by claiming Tunsil broke some rules regarding contact with agents), Laremy Tunsil has not played in the last two games -- held out by an overly cautious Ole Miss athletic administration.  

And, we're not talking Johnny Football - level allegations.

Not even close.

Johnny MONEY Football was proven to have done far, far worse.

Half game suspension.  

Free Laremy Tunsil.  

So, perhaps the most potent offense, and defense, Ole Miss has ever fielded, heads east this Saturday to Tuscaloosa, where they have won...

(Excuse the Colonel while he does the Common Core math...)

...once.

O.N.C.E.

Here's where even the most die-hard, Walmart-bought "197 National Championships" T-shirt-wearing Tide fan has to admit...

You want Laremy Tunsil on the field for Ole Miss.

If only to shut up the Rebel Nation "the whole world hates us and stacks the deck against us any way they can" conspiracy theorists when the Tide (and the refs) send the Rebels back to Oxford with another loss in Tuscaloosa on the record.

Free Laremy Tunsil.   


Oh..., and...

BEAT BAMA!  

Leveraging Reality

The names, faces, and dates may be different, but some things never change.  

Since the founding of our Republic, there have been more than 75 separate Acts of Congress, Treaties, Presidential Executive Actions, and Supreme Court Decisions regarding immigration and citizenship naturalization.

Seriously.  Seventy-five.

Curiously enough, the crafters of the United States Constitution, though they constructed one of the greatest blueprints for self- governance and protection of individual natural rights ever devised by man, left mostly silent any reference to controlling immigration into the sovereign territory of the United States.

Granted, Article I, Section 8, Clause 4 granted Congress the power to "establish an uniform Rule of Naturalization...," but the issue of controlling immigration at that point in the history of our young nation was more about ensuring that new members of American society were loyal to the United States and not closet enemies still owing allegiance to some European crown.

At the birth of our nation, the founding fathers saw every reason in the world to encourage immigration by any and all (and by "any and all" the Colonel means Northern European) who would join in the republican (little "r") experiment and swell the ranks of liberty lovers.  

There was land to settle.

There were enemy tribes to defend against and subdue.

There was subdued tribes' land to settle. 

There were dynastic European empires still seeking to control the continent and prevent American expansion.    

There were cities to build and canals to dig.

As early as 1790, the Congress asserted its Constitutional powers over naturalization, setting in law the requirements for becoming a citizen of the United States.  All one (as long as "one" was male, white, and free) needed to do was reside in the United States for two years, present oneself to "any Common Law Court of Record" in any state in which one had resided for at least one year and swear an oath of allegiance to the Constitution of the United States.  

A quarter century later, famine in Ireland, and political repression in Germany, spurred the first great wave of immigration with which the United States had to deal.

Although there was significant nativist backlash to the millions of Irish and Germans pouring ashore in the first half of the 19th Century, by and large their addition to American society was a net positive to the expanding nation.  Irish laborers built cities and railroads.  German farmers spread west and tamed land for agriculture to feed the masses back East.

Both the private and public sector took advantage of this Celtic/Teutonic tide.  

Industry exploded with cheap labor.

Corrupt politicians (the Colonel apologizes for the redundancy of terms) bought votes from the new immigrants by bribing judges to issue citizenship papers on men who, in some cases, were still reeling with sea legs.  Political machines controlling major cities thumbed their noses at the Constitution and Federal law with impunity. 

War affected the nature of citizenship in the United States and influenced attitudes toward immigration, as well.

The 1849 Treaty of Guadalupe-Hidalgo, concluding the War with Mexico, granted citizenship to 80,000 Mexicans living in the territory ceded to the United States.  The Gold Rush of that same year made them the minority, overnight.   

When it became obvious in the North that the Civil War was not going to be won by a few quick battles, Union war planners leveraged their immigrant manpower advantage.  By the end of the war nearly 1 out of every 4 Union soldiers spoke German as his native tongue, and cheap immigrant labor manned the forges of military might.

After the Civil War, the building of transcontinental, and regional, railroads demanded manpower for which immigrant labor was tailor-made.  Irish laborers laid rail westward.  Chinese immigrants (many victims of human trafficking not much less inhumane than African slavery) laid rail eastward.

So many Chinese flooded the labor markets on the West Coast that Congress passed a law in 1880 suspending all Chinese immigration. Although initially effective, the "illegal immigration" from China to America soon returned to previous levels and continues unabated to this day, despite dozens of laws passed to "control" Chinese immigration over the last 135 years.  

For half a century after 1880, political and religious repression, war, and famine in Eastern and Southern Europe spurred a huge explosion of emigration in search of liberty, security, and a chance for prosperity.  The United States, alone, held the only sure hope. Immigration from Europe to America averaged over a half-million people a year for the period 1880 to 1924 -- totalling 25 million in 44 years.  

As this "Great Wave" of European immigration came ashore on the East Coast, another wave began to grow to the South.

The security and economic crisis caused by the 1910 Mexican Revolution drove thousands north for safety and prosperity.  There was both farm and industry work north of the Rio Grande, and when the United States entered World War I in 1917 the need for Mexican labor increased significantly to fill the void left by a million American men mustered to fight the Kaiser.

That same manpower need happened again when the United States entered WWII and in 1943 the United States and Mexico agreed to a "temporary" program known as the Bracero Program, whereby both nations organized and controlled migrant workers (known as "Braceros") who provided replacement labor as American men mustered to fight Tojo and the Fuhrer.  The Bracero program was so successful and so beneficial to both nations that it continued for nearly two decades after the war ended.  A whole generation of migrant workers from Mexico (five million over the 22 years of the program) established a pattern that exists to this day, regardless the immigration debate.    

Over the course of the 20th Century, and into the first two decades of the 21st, Presidents, the Congress, and the Courts have wrestled with the issue of immigration.  Most legislation or executive actions have been effective only in that they served to pander to constituencies. 

Cities now openly flaunt their disregard for the Federal government and the laws of the land with regard to immigration -- "Sanctuary Cities" being only the latest manifestation of a political phenomenon that is as old as the Republic.

"A" solution to the current illegal immigration crisis is, certainly, to elect politicians who will enforce the laws on the books, seal our borders, and send the illegals home -- whether that home is Mexico, Russia, or China.  The Colonel would argue that the United States has been encouraging this illegal immigration, at least tacitly, all along and that to renege, if you will, is at least "bad form."

Another solution, at the opposite end of the spectrum, is blanket amnesty.  Easiest "solution," but not necessarily a fix to the long-term problem.  That just encourages more of the same.

We'll probably end up doing something that will be less of a compromise and more like kissing your sister.  Unless you're from Alabama, where family reunions are great places to pick up chicks.

Just kidding -- love you guys... mean it... War Tide; Roll Eagle.

Obligatory swipe at Alabama aside, the politicians ain't gonna "fix" this problem.  They never have.   The "non-politician" politicians won't either.  They never have.   

The Colonel hates to sound like a broken record, but the solution that best leverages the reality of the situation is the one that uses the manpower of the rest of the hemisphere to our advantage.

Expand the Republic.  



   

Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow

Tomorrow, the Colonel will join a lucky, if long-suffering, small nation of kindred spirits as he and 60,000 of his temporarily closest friends conduct a near-religious rite, replete with pilgrimage pageantry, legionary parades, historical hymns, and rote chants whose roots in antiquity are so deeply buried that the meaning of their words are as obscure as the mud at the bottom of the mighty Mississippi herself.

Tomorrow, on the campus of Ole Miss, the Old and New South, in general, and the Old and New Mississippi, specifically, will cease the culture clash for a few hours, forget the feelings-based fights over the truly inconsequential and hug and holler out what connects them in ways they don't even fully understand and are certain no one else does.

Tomorrow, the Colonel will join at least four live generations, and the ghosts of at least a dozen more, in reverent revelry under the oaks, elms, and magnolias forming the ceiling of one of the most holy cathedrals in the South; a naturally beautiful ten-acre park at the heart of one of America's most beautiful campuses, serene for the most part of any day of any season and frenetic sea of happy humanity on seven Saturdays in the fall.

Tomorrow, the Colonel will join the throng of expectant Rebel revelers pouring from the Grove toward the beckoning stands of Vaught-Hemingway Stadium, like parishioners parading from church to coliseum with the roar of the lions in their ears, to roar themselves in throaty, primal support and gleeful, grinning approval of valiant feats of skill and gridiron gladiator victory.

Today, the Colonel will prepare. He's old. The flinty, shriveled cinder which passes for his heart is cold and unstretched by months of inactivity and unready for the voltage the Colonel's Rebels will likely put through it this season.

The Colonel, from long experience, has learned to temper his expectations with regard to his Rebels.

But, this just might be the year.

Gotta get ready.

Are you ready, Rebel Nation?

Knowing Nothing

The populist siren call of ant-immigration is not a new phenomenon in the life of our republic. Donald Trump is but the latest (and, sadly, probably not the last) in a long line of populist demagogues who rally discontented voters by demonizing and fixing blame on the newest members of American society.

Nativist sentiment has manifested itself in political movements several times since the founding of the republic.

A wave of Irish and German Catholic immigrants flooded cities on the Eastern Seaboard in the first half of the 19th Century, straining physical and societal infrastructure. Overcrowding, high unemployment, and the inevitable soaring crime rate -- coupled with anti-Catholicism -- created a toxic brew of resentment and retaliation. 

The resultant sectarian violence would make Northern Ireland's "Troubles" look like a domestic squabble in comparison.

Institutional violence against immigrants in northern cities during this time would make Bull Connor blush.

Unscrupulous, power-hungry politicians climbed into the saddle aboard the wild steed of anti-immigration sentiment in the late 1830's and by 1856 had forged a third-party movement that named a former U.S. President (Millard Fillmore) as its Presidential Nominee.

Fillmore lost, of course. Buchanan won that election.

The party went by many names -- The American Party, The American Republican Party, The Native American Party -- but members were universally referred to as "Know Nothings" because most local chapters began in secret and members denied their early participation with the phrase: "I Know Nothing."

Seriously. The Colonel ain't makin' this stuff up.

And, finding a curious echo in the current Trumpista movement, the vast majority of Know Nothing party membership were middle class with a distinct disdain for politicians. As the movement grew, Northeastern state legislatures, in particular, became majority Know Nothing, the new members by and large possessing no prior political experience.

The Know Nothing movement faded as the country fell inexorably into the gravity well of civil war. By the second year of that war, whole divisions of the Union Army were completely Irish or German immigrants, many stepping off a boat in New York or Boston and right into formations that marched toward Richmond.

And, therein lies a probable solution to our current debate.

Jeb Bush is right, you know. The vast majority of illegal immigration to our country is an act of love. They love our freedom. They love their children. They fear the violence and repression in their native lands.

Oh sure, there is a small, but not insignificant, percentage that have come here as a clear and present threat to the security and welfare of our citizens.

But, security is rarely found on the defense.

Walls don't work.

Qin Shi Huang's Great Wall didn't keep out the Mongols.

Hadrian's Wall failed to secure Britannia for Rome.

No, dear readers, walls and other defensive measures are not the answer.

Offense wins.

You take it from here...

Goofing Off, Generally

Twenty years ago, this month, the Colonel graduated from the Armed Forces Staff College in Norfolk, Virginia.

The class was a collection of U.S. and Allied officers and DoD civilians completing the second phase of Congressionally mandated Joint Professional Military Education (JPME II).

In the early 1980's, Congress passed legislation that reformed the Department of Defense and drove the services to work together in a much more "joint" manner. Interoperability was a mandated goal of the Goldwater–Nichols Department of Defense Reorganization Act of 1986.

Goldwater-Nichols codified many of the recommendations of Reagan's Packard Commission that had critically assessed the stove-piped U.S. Military and its warfighting command structure.

Among other things, Goldwater-NIchols established the position of Chairman of the Joint Chiefs with a Joint Staff that would oversee service procurement and operations of joint combatant commands.

To hold the services' feet to the fire with regard to ensuring that they assigned their best officers to joint duty -- not necessarily considered a plum assignment within any of the services -- Goldwater-Nichols mandated that before any officer in any service could be selected to "flag" rank (brigadier general or rear admiral) that officer had to have completed JPME phases I and II and served in a joint assignment for at least three years (waivers for shortened joint tours granted for officers selected for command tours within their services.

What this meant in practical terms was that as an officer reached the rank of major and lieutenant colonel (lieutenant commander and commander in the Navy) that officer's service began to pay much closer attention to the "tickets" being "punched." By and large, the services' requirement for an officer's selection to flag rank was that the officer successfully completed command tours as a lieutenant colonel and colonel. Under Goldwater--Nichols the services now had to "dual-track" the "ticket punching" of officers on their way to eligibility for selection to flag rank.

The two tracks -- command and joint -- actually began to influence each other.

If an officer got his or her "joint ticket" punched early in his or her career (as a major), the likelihood that he or she would get a command tour as a lieutenant colonel was increased, because the services, taking a long view of their officers' careers, had to ensure that they had a large enough pool of Goldwater-Nichols -qualified colonels (Navy captains) from which to select flag officers.

There is no other way to explain how a mediocre Marine infantry officer by the name of Gregory achieved the rank of Colonel.

After surviving a tour on recruiting as a major, the Colonel was rewarded by assignment as a student at the intermediate level command and staff college of his choice.

The Colonel chose the Air Force's Air Command and Staff College (ACSC).

He could blow smoke up your trouser leg and tell you his choice was a purely professional one designed to broaden his professional military education, but the Colonel will be honest.

ACSC is aboard Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery, Alabama -- halfway between the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's folks in Panama City, Florida and the Colonel's folks in Columbus, Mississippi.

That, and, seriously, how hard could the Air Force's staff college be?

After three grueling years of recruiting duty, the Colonel was ready for a year of hunting, fishing, and general non-military goofing off.

All of the services' intermediate and senior level schools (command and staff, and war, colleges) were required by Goldwater-Nichols to include introduction of joint education (JPME Phase I) and include officers from the other services on their instructor staffs as well as in their student classes.

As the Colonel (then still a major) completed his year as a student at ACSC, the opportunity to stay on staff as an instructor presented itself -- not due to any particular excellence as a student, mind you. There were two Marine officers (one major and one lieutenant colonel) on the instructor staff and they both had orders to leave at the end of the school year.

The Colonel called his assignment monitor at Headquarters, Marine Corps (HQMC) and volunteered for the job. The monitor said something to the effect of, "You wanna stay in Alabama?!? I had you penciled in for a staff job at HQMC. Wouldn't you much rather live in Northern Virginia?"

The Colonel's druthers most certainly did not include working at HQMC as one of a hundred majors on a staff, and, oh, by the way, commuting in and out of D.C. everyday.

But, one dare not tell his assignment monitor that he would rather not do what the monitor wants him to do.

"Look," the Colonel offered helpfully. "I know you aren't going to find any volunteers to come live here in Alabama." The Colonel pronounced "Alabama" in his best Forrest Gump accent, paused for effect, and concluded his sales pitch with, I'm already here; saves you a PCS move."

The monitor was quiet for a long moment -- he was no doubt doing the calculus of what course of action was going to save him the most staff time. Finally, he said, "Okay, but you need to call the joint duty monitor to get his approval."

"Joint duty monitor?" The Colonel had no idea that the job was actually a joint assignment. No where else in DoD can one go on vacation for three years and get joint duty credit.

The joint duty monitor was an easy sell and the Colonel told the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda later that evening that, "We will probably end up retiring right here in Alabama. I'll make it to lieutenant colonel, take the 20-year retirement, and find a job at Walmart or something to keep you in the standard of living with which you have grown accustomed."

After a year teaching airpower theory -- yeah, that was a hoot -- the Colonel was assigned to the small instructor branch that taught the joint education requirements mandated by Goldwater-Nichols. The Navy commander running the Joint Branch welcomed the Colonel with, "You got your JPME Phase II ticket punched, yet?"

"Huh?"

"You haven't been to the Armed Forces Staff College, yet, have you?"

"Uh, nosir."

"Well, call your monitor and get in the next class -- they're three months long and you should be able to knock it out and be back in time to start the next academic year here."

The Colonel (still a major, but selected for promotion to lieutenant colonel) spent the summer of 1995 in Norfolk, Virginia at the Armed Forces Staff College, where he majored in golf and softball.

One morning, the Colonel was sitting in his seat in his conference group's small classroom -- strategically situated nearest the coffee machine -- when the conference group leader walked in and announced, "Gregory, report to the Commandant's office, ASAP."

On the way to his office, the Colonel rehearsed his excuses for any number of reasons why the school's commandant would call the Colonel onto his carpet.

The Colonel reported in and the commandant smiled broadly and waved a piece of paper at the Colonel, "Congratulations, major, the Marine Corps has selected you for battalion level command!"

"Sir, the major apologizes for his poor showing on the last exam. I'm just a knuckle-dragging infantry Marine, and... Excuse me, sir, did you say I was selected for command?"

Needless to say, there was a bit of a celebration that night at which the Colonel will neither confirm nor deny that prodigious amounts of adult beverages were consumed.

A few months later, the Colonel pinned on the the silver oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel of Marines. A couple of months after that, the Colonel got a call from his assignment monitor, "Congratulations, a battalion just came open and you are the next in line. Report to 3rd Marines for duty this summer."

"Third Marines? That's in Hawaii, ain't it?"

"Yep, pack your board shorts."

Three years later, after successful command of an infantry battalion -- due completely to the excellence of some of the best Marines with whom the Colonel had ever served -- and a year as the executive officer of the regiment, the Colonel was selected for attendance at the Navy War College in Newport, Rhode Island.

While at the Navy War College, the Colonel was selected for promotion to colonel. And, because he had his JPME Phase II and Joint Tour tickets punched, the Colonel was designated a Joint Specialty Officer (JSO) -- another requirement of Goldwater-Nichols.

Designation as a JSO got the Colonel assigned to an insane job running the operations division at US Forces, Korea, in Seoul.

But, that's another story.

Bottom line: the Colonel owes his success to a deep desire to just goof off.     

Constitutionally First

The 4th of March passes quietly and without fanfare in most, if not all, of the lives of the citizens of these re-United States. 

However, the day is of much greater import than the 4th of July and should be celebrated accordingly. On the 4th of March in 1789, the Congress of the United States met for the first time operating under the precepts of the Constitution of the United States.

In June of 1776, the band of rebels, traitors, and opportunists calling themselves the Second Continental Congress appointed committees to draft two critical documents. One committee wrote the Declaration of Independence. The other was tasked with formulating a constitution that would unite the rebel alliance governments of the 13 British colonies on the American continent declared as independent states by the work of the former committee, into a confederation that would cooperate in government, not just for the struggle against the British crown, but in perpetuity. 

A draft of the Articles of Confederation and Perpetual Union was finally completed in the summer of 1777, approved by the Second Continental Congress in November of that year, and submitted to the states for ratification. While the states wrangled and dithered over ratification, the approved draft served as the de facto constitution. The last state, Maryland, to ratify the Articles of Confederation, did so on March 1, 1781.

The Articles of Confederation and Perpetual Union proved to be a weak and relatively ineffective constitution as far as the central governance of the new nation was concerned. As luck would have it, British bungling, and the arrival of a French army and fleet to aid the American rebels in 1781, outweighed the dysfunction of the rebel government. 

And, luckily, the British occupied and governed a significant portion of the colonies throughout the Revolution. 

But, once the United States were truly on their own to govern the entire lash-up, the inherent weaknesses of the Confederation government became glaringly obvious. In short, the operation of the central government was completely at the mercy of the sovereignty of the states in all but a relatively few, and minor, matters over which the Articles of Confederation gave it power. It was as if, using today's re-United States as example, the states had all of the federal government's powers of taxation and appropriation exclusively, and the federal government had no power to compel the states' compliance in any matters.

The Confederacy was so dysfunctional (as would be the Southern Confederacy in the next century) that even ratification of the 1783 Treaty of Paris, ending conflict between the United States and Great Britain and granting the United States everything for which they had fought, languished for months because the Confederacy could not compel enough state representatives to attend a congressional session.

A Constitutional Convention was convened in Philadelphia to draft a new, more federally strong constitution. Thirty-eight of forty-one delegates to the convention signed and approved the new constitution on September 17, 1787, and it was sent to the states for ratification.  Article VII of the new constitution required 9 of the 13 states' ratification for it to become effective. The ninth state to ratify, New Hampshire, did so on June 21, 1788, and the new constitution designated March 4th of the next year as the date on which the First Congress of the United States would convene under the Constitution of the United States.

The 4th of March is a day to reflect on the fact that the endurance of the Constitution of the United States is no mere accident. The original Constitution, with appropriate amendments mostly strengthening the protections of the people for, and by, whom the Constitution exists, has proved a remarkable standard of government, unique at its origination and copied in whole or in part by numerous new nations since. The Constitution, in its present amended form, is, in the Colonel's not-so-humble and not-so-little experienced opinion, the single greatest and most effective government, as Lincoln said, "of the people, by the people, for the people."

All who find themselves, by election of the people, representatives of the people's will and guardians of the people's rights would do well to daily reflect on their solemn oath to "support and defend" the people's Constitution against "all enemies, foreign and domestic." 

Failure to govern according to the Constitution makes one a "domestic enemy" of the people.

Pay Attention, or Pay the Piper

There is a clear and defining difference between "standing up" and "taking a stand."

The Colonel begs you, with tears in his eyes and all the love he can muster in the flinty cinder that passes for his heart, to discern that difference in the motives of those who would vie for your vote.

Contrary to shallow popular belief and star-struck sentiment, discerning the motives of someone who would assume the mantle of leadership is really rather easy.

That ease of discernment, however, does not come with the sole reliance on the study of sound bytes or parrotting of carefully crafted slogans -- no matter how compelling.  Discernment requires a bit more study.

Discernment does not require an exceptional education, nor any particularly acute mental faculties -- were that the case, the Colonel would be out of luck.

The first requirement for knowing the difference between "standing up" and "taking a stand" is understanding the definition of each term. They are polar opposites.

One who stands up draws attention to one's self.

One who takes a stand draws attention to the principle on which one stands.

One who stands up denounces the actions of others and derides their "stupidity."

One who takes a stand makes no claim of personal character superiority, nor relative intellectual superiority.

Standing up screams, "Look at me!" Use of the first person pronoun is prevalent. (For the LSU grads, that's the word "I")

Taking a stand calmly pleads, "Look at the issue!"

Standing up means drawing approving attention, with the most strident appeals, to the audience's biases and prejudices.

Taking a stand means drawing attention to the merits of a principle -- even when that principle runs counter to the audience's biases and prejudices.

By the Colonel's count, at least half of those vying for our vote, of both parties, are just "standing up."

The Colonel pleads with you, with tears in his eyes and all the love he can muster from the flinty cinder that passes for his heart, to look beyond the flashy and feel beyond the simple appeals to your baser nature.

TAKE A STAND with a principled, "others first" leader -- and go down, if you must, fighting the good fight.

As for Me and My House

The Colonel will never be a candidate for Sainthood.

The only miracles associated with his time on earth involve his salvation, convincing the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda to marry him, and achieving any rank in the Marine Corps beyond second lieutenant.

That, and the precedent for a Southern Baptist's canonization is kinda hard to find...

The low opinion the Colonel holds for himself is matched only by his opinion of those with whom he disagrees. Although hamstrung by a lack of education (he went to Ole Miss instead of college), he still considers himself at least the second smartest person in any room -- and he often has a hard time finding the first.

But, the Colonel is not-so quickly coming to the conclusion that his principled opinion, while fortified with the brick and mortar of studied fact and built on the bedrock of conviction, is corroded to inviability by his own attitude and conduct.

The Colonel's heart is as cold and unfeeling as one of his diabetic-riddled toes in a duck blind in January.

His lack of empathy would make Genghis Khan wince.

The meter measuring his concern for the welfare of others is pegged on empty.

The Colonel could blame his scorched earth nature on three decades of training to visit his nation's righteous wrath on enemies of the Constitution, but that would be a cop out worthy of comparison with a Nuremberg defense.

This toxic brew of narcissism, selfish pride, and positional self-righteousness, while quite entertaining personally, is poison delivered straight to the heart of any cause, no matter the moral strength of the argument.

So, the Colonel's quandary is this:

How does he stand up for what is Godly, right, and just, without the mangudai in him attempting to lay waste to the homeland of his opponent?

Look, the Colonel knows the answer. Second smartest guy in any room, remember?

God doesn't need any of us to fight His battles for Him.

The Colonel believes that God expects him to take a stand...

...behind Him.

And, the place to stand is at home.

The Colonel doesn't mean to ignore the evil in the world. He means there is plenty of evil to confront within the confines of his own home and heart.

Joshua's challenge to the Israelites sums up what the Colonel means best.

"Now, therefore, fear the LORD and serve Him in sincerity and truth; and put away the gods which your fathers served beyond the River and in Egypt, and serve the LORD. If it is disagreeable in your sight to serve the LORD, choose for yourselves today whom you will serve: whether the gods which your fathers served which were beyond the River, or the gods of the Amorites in whose land you are living; but as for me and my house, we will serve the LORD." Joshua 25: 14 - 15

The Colonel is convinced, without the shadow of a doubt in his military mind, that confronting evil begins at home.

Fair warning, though:

When God gets the Colonel's heart right and turns him loose, there will be hell to pay...

The Colonel Kids Thee Not

The recent Islamic State-inspired attack on a military recruiting office and Reserve center in Chattanooga hit the Colonel right in the small crusty cinder that serves as his heart and fired up a few neurons circulating in the vicinity of what used to be his memory.

The Colonel's last command on active duty was the 6th Marine Corps District; headquartered at Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, and responsible for Marine Corps enlisted and officer recruiting in the Southeastern United States. He commanded more than 500 Marine NCOs and Officers, spread over hundreds of offices. Those Marines (most on temporary duty as recruiters -- outside of their primary occupational specialties) contacted, screened, and sold nearly 4000 of America's finest young men and women on the benefits of serving their nation as Marines, each year.

In addition to recruiting the best high school graduates for service as Marines, recruiters are also held responsible for preparing soft, squishy civilian minds and bodies for success at the world's foremost military recruit training grounds -- Parris Island and Quantico..

The Colonel has often told anyone he could corner that, "a Marine recruiter is the best salesman in the world." Anyone who can convince a college-bound youngster, and his Momma, that he should forego college for a few years and serve as a Marine -- in time of WAR -- well...,

That's a salesman.

And..., to walk into the most dangerous place on earth -- Momma's house -- to ask for Momma's permission to take her baby to war, takes incredible bravery.

The Colonel kids thee not.

Marines would rather face a regiment of the enemy single-handed, than Momma.

A combat Marine, now trained to be the world's best salesman, is a dangerous combination of skills.

Even as planes crashed into the towers in New York and into the Pentagon, the Colonel remained more concerned for the safety of his Marine recruiters at the hands of a jealous boyfriend or husband than any terrorist.

The Colonel kids thee not.

The Colonel lost more Marines to their own testosterone and bravado than he ever worried about losing to enemy action.

But, as much as the modified dress blue uniform of a recruiter made him an easily identifiable target, that was the whole idea. Marines on recruiting are supposed to stand out in the civilian community. They give most of the American people the only personal exposure to Marines that they ever get. That is by design.

Only the best Marines get assigned to recruiting duty.

Marines assigned as drill instructors are fine, as well. But, the Colonel would take a former recruiter as a subordinate leader in any combat organization over a former drill instructor ANY DAY.

The Colonel kids thee not.

Swords and Plowshares

In the Colonel's not-so humble opinion those who entertain the pleasant delusion that any deal with the mad mullahs in Iran lessens the probability of war in the region share that pleasantly delusional state with those who believe that the current deal with the mad mullahs makes a war in the region more likely.

In plain truth, there will be another major war in that region within the next generation with or without some agreement ostensibly restricting Iranian development of nuclear weapons.

Count on it.

The Colonel isn't cynical -- well..., he is..., but on this score he's just plain realistic.  He's read way too much history to be otherwise.

First of all, the history of grand multinational arms limitation agreements preventing war is checkered at best.  For example, the international naval limitation treaties of the inter-war years in the last century did little to prevent the ultimate rise of the Axis powers and the horrific global war that followed.

One could point out that the strategic arms limitations treaties between NATO and the Warsaw Pact "kept the peace" during the Cold War, but in reality mutually assured nuclear destruction had more to do with keeping the U.S. and the Soviets from settling their political differences on the plains of Europe.  And, proxy wars embroiled both sides in costly side-show wars regardless.

Secondly, the Iranian regime is clearly expansionist.  Sure, it hasn't overtly invaded neighbors' sovereign territory, yet; but its clandestine claws are scratching open old wounds all across the region.  They have played the game extremely well, so far.  No move has been so overtly hostile as to draw a hard response.  But, even the most calculating chess player knows that gambits are no sure bet -- the other side is is calculating, as well.  

In military planners' parlance: "The enemy always gets a vote."

So, the Colonel believes, without a significant doubt in his military mind, that the Iranians will eventually miscalculate.

The road to war throughout history is paved with miscalculations.

Lastly, over the last 100 years alone, the region we call "the Middle East" has hosted a major war every dozen years on average.

The Colonel sees no reason to believe that the tensions and motivations that led to those conflicts has abated, or will for the foreseeable future.  And, a major war caused by Iranian hegemonistic designs cannot be sat-out by the United States. 

Don't beat your swords into plowshares just yet.      

In Defense of Thought

The Colonel has said it before and it bears repeating: "the line beyond which something is considered 'politically incorrect' -- a term which in itself conjures up the most egregious aspects of totalitarianism and tyrannical socialism -- incessantly encroaches on God-given individual rights, constricts even the most conservative definition of common sense, and pushes ceaselessly against even the most harmless historical markers of custom and tradition necessary for maintaining a culture."

Orwell's "Thought Police," once anathema to the American Ideal, have come to life and taken root at the Republic's collective brain stem like a malignant tumor disguising itself by releasing emotional endorphins that overwhelm our once vaunted reputation for tolerance and respect of each citizen's opinion.

The Colonel has not flown the "Rebel" flag for nearly 40 years. He's a Rebel, to be sure -- in more ways than one -- but, his oath to "defend the Constitution" (without statute of limitation) obviated love and allegiance to all but one flag. Still, he feels great sorrow welling up as the Confederate battle flag comes down. No sorrow for the flag itself, nor for the causes that usurped the symbol for the purpose of perpetuating prejudice and hate.

Sorrow for the loss of common sense, sanity, and, ultimately, the individual freedom for which the republic was founded.

Let's be clear-eyed about the erasure of a historical marker in the life of our Republic. It will not erase the sins of pride and prejudice in our hearts, nor will it be the last target of those who seek to consolidate power by controlling thought.

Those marching at the head of today's "victory" parade, will not relinquish that "honor." No cherished ideal or beloved tradition is safe from their rapacious appetite for the amphetamine rush of power.

Eventually, the movement will turn on itself, in one last cannibalistic feeding frenzy.

Like a collapsed star whose density generates gravity so strong that not even light escapes, so will be the Republic and its once-bright torch of freedom.

Unless...

Unless each of us stands up to the tyranny of political correctness.  

Not in defense of indefensible positions and thought; in defense of the right to hold those indefensible positions and think those indefensible thoughts.

What are YOU doing to defend the Constitution of the United States? 

Sin and the State

For the purpose of the preamble to this treatise, the Colonel begs your indulgence as he dispenses with his customary use of the third person self-address.  He wishes to be crystal clear of whom and of what he speaks  –  it is his bona fides on the subject.

I am a black-hearted sinner.

Of all the sinners of whom I am aware – scores of billions since the beginning of man – I am the greatest.

I have broken every law of God, in thought if not in deed.  

Although, I deed a lot.

I lie.  I lust.  I long for the possessions of others.

I am guilty of idolatry, blasphemy, sexual immorality.

I have dishonored my parents.

I have harbored in my heart unforgiveness and hate so strong, that had the object been in front of me at the time I would have taken his life.

I am even guilty of the sin of hypocrisy – condemning sin in others of which I am just as culpable.  

I am an authority on sin.  I am in my 60^th year as a practitioner.

I take no pride in my sin.  I fly no flag proclaiming my sin.  It is self-evident.

My awful sin separates me from my Perfect Creator.

The only sin of which I am NOT guilty is rejection of my God’s plan for my salvation from the eternal death of separation from Him.  Through no other action of my own, save acceptance of God’s Son Jesus as my savior, my sin no longer separates me from my Perfect God.

The purpose of the foregoing preamble is to dispense with the highly favored counter-argument that my argument has no standing due to my hypocrisy.  I am dismounted from my high horse and have my feet planted level on the playing field with all others.

   

The Colonel (resuming his customary third person) actually agrees whole-black-heartedly with his liberal friends who pronounce that government (hereinafter: “the state”) has no business “legislating morality.”  Yet, the Colonel has great cause to question his liberal friends’ belief in that principle.  Were they true believers that the state has no business legislating morality, they would see no need for so-called “hate-crime statutes.”  Hate is at the very root of all immorality.

But that battle for the title of “Greatest Hypocrite” will have to be fought in a different forum.  The Colonel has another set of great questions for us to ponder:

Why is the state in the business of “licensing” marriage?  For that matter, why is the state in the business of providing incentives for marriage? 

If the argument is that “stable marriage is beneficial to society,” why then does the state incentivize single mothers on welfare to have more children outside of marriage?

If the role of the state in a constitutional republic is to ensure equal protection under the law (see the vaunted 14^th Amendment to our Constitution), why should a married couple receive more favorable treatment under the tax code than a single citizen?

In full disclosure, the Colonel must admit that he has benefitted from that favorable “unequal” treatment under the tax code for nearly his entire tax-paying life.  Furthermore, while on active duty in the Marine Corps, the Colonel received, by virtue of his CHOICE to marry and have children, additional benefits and allowances not given single Marines.  Those single Marines did the same job, worked the same hours, and endured the same hardships as the Colonel.  The only difference was that the Colonel had a wife and kids – who provided absolutely zero to the combat effectiveness of the Marine Corps. 

Both examples in the paragraph above are, the Colonel has come to believe, egregious violations of the 14^th Amendment’s “Equal Protection” clause.

For that matter, progressive taxation is also an egregious violation of the 14^th Amendment’s “Equal Protection” clause.

For you slow Bama and LSU grads, “progressive taxation” is the socialistic manner in which our federal income tax code is graduated so that those who make more and more money pay a higher and higher percentage of their income in taxes.  Marx would be so proud of us.

No, not Groucho; Boudreaux.  Karl.  Karl Marx. 

Anyway…,

The Colonel believes it’s time to recognize the concept of “the separation of sin and state,” that, while not specifically spelled out in the Constitution, is just as manifest in the framers’ intent as is “the separation of church and state” and “the right to privacy” – both of which have been used to legislate (by activist courts) more “morality” and limit more religious freedom over the past 50 years than to provide for the individual freedoms for which they were designed.

Homework for the Colonel’s next post:  Read, for comprehension, the 10^th Amendment of the Constitution of the United States. 

Qual Day

Fridays often evoke jarring memories for this old Jarhead.

This morning, as the strong coffee courses venously, clearing the sleepy sludge like a downpour through a storm drain, the Colonel remembers the rifle range.

By this hour of this day of an old Corps annual requalification range week the loudspeakers would crackle with instructions no Marine will ever forget, though the intervening years be many and his brain cells few.

"Shooters! This is your fifth and final stage of fire -- 500 yards slow fire from the prone position -- ten rounds with a time limit of ten minutes. All ready on the left. All ready on the right. Shooters, your long range targets are in the air -- you may commence firing."

The Colonel invites you to study the accompanying picture. That's what a man-size target looks like through the iron sights of an M-16 at 500 yards.

An impossible shot.

Yet, Marines in the Colonel's day were trained to make ten of those impossible shots in a row.

500 yards.

Iron sights.

Iron sights are a thing of the past and the Colonel has lost touch with what the current Marine Corps rifle qualification requires. He, frankly, doesn't care to know.

He'd rather remember, like a pre-Chicxulub Cretaceous creature (that's a "dinosaur," for you Bama Bandwagon Boors), the sensory overload of recoil, burnt powder, the crackling cacophony of dozens of rifles to left and right, and the manly satisfaction (term used in the most gender-neutral way the Colonel can) of punching tight groups of 5.56 caliber holes in black paper at long distance with 100 year-old rifle sights.

There are five stages of fire to qualify as a rifleman in the Marine Corps, serving as an enduring waypoint in every recruit's and every officer candidate's right of passage toward earning his or her eagle, globe, and anchor insignia and the right to be called "Marine;" and also serving as a yearly touchstone to the "rifleman ethos" for the rest of a Marine's career.

At 200 yards, five rounds each are fired at a 12-inch round target, from the standing ("off-hand"), sitting, and kneeling positions. Ten more rounds are fired "rapid-fire" (less than a minute) at a foot and a half tall and two foot wide top-half silhouette, from the sitting position.

At 300 yards: five rounds, sitting, at the round target; and ten rounds, "rapid fire," at the half silhouette, from the prone position.

Those two lines of fire always felt "mechanical" to the Colonel. Hard to put into words, particularly given the Colonel's lack of education (he went to Ole Miss instead of college, remember), but it just felt like "target shooting."

The 500 yard-line, however, had a whole different feel.

Every time the Colonel wrapped his service rifle in the prone embrace and squinted over open sights at a full-size silhouette, he couldn't help but feel an affinity with some long-forgotten Marine infantryman in the defense outside of Paris in the early summer of 1918.

With their 1903 Springfield rifles reaching out and touching at long range and with such rapidity, the Marines in 1918 so impressed the Germans attacking their lines that they reported back that "every Marine seems to be armed with a machine gun."

At least that's the propaganda we Marines kept alive three generations later...

STRATEGY

An effective theater battlefield strategy – one that secures victory within parameters acceptable and profitable to the victors (Pyrrhic victories are not the result of “effective” strategies) -- is the final product of a long chain of critical assessments that begin with a nation’s Grand Strategy (determination of national interests – vital, important, and peripheral – and the resources that will be developed, maintained, and employed to protect those interests).  

The United States (particularly over the last 100 years) exerts tremendous effort in codifying Grand Strategy, from which a National Military Strategy – and the resource requirements to support it – is derived.  Literally hundreds of millions of man-hours of critical analysis and strategic assessment, by some of the finest civilian and military strategic thinkers on the planet, are expended every year to ensure that the United States is prepared to protect its national interests in any conceivable contingency.  The United States mans, organizes, trains, and equips military forces accordingly, and does so better than any empire the world has ever seen.   

Assuming that the mission given a Theater Combatant Commander is in consonance with our nation’s Grand Strategy, that commander would then, by definition, have available for his use ample resources and authority to accomplish that mission. 

In short, if the mission is important enough to our National Command Authority, a winning battlefield strategy should be a no-brainer.

If, however, the mission is less important to our National Command Authority than domestic political considerations or is colored by a current decision-maker’s  (or significant advisors’) worldview that does not place the interests of the United States absolutely and unquestionably above the interests of any other nation or non-governmental organization, then a winning battlefield strategy becomes problematic, no matter the excellence of the nation’s long-existing Grand Strategy or the amount of national treasure expended to make the supporting National Military Strategy feasible.

So, with the foregoing as instructional preamble, we find ourselves with a set of questions before us:

Is the defeat of the Islamic State a matter of vital national interest?

                a. If yes, then whose competence should be in question at present – the President’s or the Pentagon’s?     

                b. If no, then our President should say so and explain why not.

Actually, the Colonel needs no answer from the President.  It is quite clear -- even to this knuckle-draggin’, mono-syllabic grunting, academically-challenged cretin -- the President does not consider the defeat of the Islamic State to be in the “vital” national interest of the United States.

So, that would make defeat of the Islamic State either an “important” or “peripheral” national interest.   

If the Islamic State is not a clear and present danger to the United States, but still of grave concern to the security of friends and allies – an “important” national interest – then the question remains: 

Whose competence should be in question regarding the failure to develop (in over a year’s time) a “complete strategy” (his words) for the defeat of the Islamic State – the President’s or the Pentagon’s?

If defeat of the Islamic State is considered only of marginal or peripheral interest to the United States, then why are we expending any treasure or risking any American lives?

The Colonel ain’t smart and you can’t make him, but this ain’t rocket science.

The Flying Gregorys

The Colonel and his Lady, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, are in the midst of the final major phase of operations aimed at completing the Colonel's man cave -- aka: The Colonel's Knotty Room.


The final major phase -- installing the ceiling -- has been ongoing for an interminable amount of time owing to a plethora of distractions, hobbies, and new (according to the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda) priorities; all of which have posed a daunting challenge to the tenuous grip the Colonel has on disciplining his severe case of ADD/LIJ (Attention Deficit Disorder/Lack of Initiative and Judgement, for the LSU and Bama grads).

However, the Colonel has managed to maintain a modicum of forward progress and had, as recently as two months ago, reached the point at which it was time to install the pull-down attic stairs. For the last two months the Colonel has studied carefully all written and video instructions for the installation of said pull-down attic stairs. In fact, the Colonel's morning routine each day for the past two months has included coffee, reading the written instructions, more coffee, watching the video instructions, more coffee..., and, then, deciding to tackle some other project that day instead.

At last the Colonel's Lady, inured as she is to the Colonel's pronounced procrastination, could take no more of his dithering and declared last week that the attic stairs were going in, posthaste.

The Colonel doesn't really know what "posthaste" means, but he got the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's intent, nonetheless.

The Colonel began last Friday morning with his customary cups of coffee and careful reading and viewing of the installation instructions, and then announced,

"Attention in the Operations Center! Installation of the pull-down attic stairs will begin, immediately!"

Sadly for the Colonel, he is the sole member of the Operations Staff here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, and no one sprung into immediate action.

About that time, the Colonel's Lady stuck her comely and kind-hearted head into the sanctified confines of the Colonel's operational, if only partially completed, man cave and asked in her most gentle and encouraging way,

"Hey, Knucklehead, you ever going to get those pull-down attic stairs installed, or am I going to have to get our sons to come do it?"

The Colonel drew himself up to his full, if diminutive, height, stuck out his formerly muscled chest, and invited the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda to climb up the step ladder into the attic and prepare for receipt of the pull-down attic stairs assembly.

The Colonel's Lady had only one tiny, little question,

"You want me to do WHAT?!?"

The Colonel showed her the diagram of the two-person operation, wherein one person lifts the fifty-pound pull-down attic stair assembly from the floor up overhead and into the rough opening, and the other person -- in the attic -- guides the pull-down attic stair assembly onto temporary supports at either end of the rough opening.

"Sweething," the Colonel asked his bride of 38 years, 8 months, and six days (but, who's counting), "which job would you prefer?"

"Neither," she intoned flatly, fixing me with the look that usually precedes pleasantries along the lines of "idiot" and other slightly less loving terms of endearment.

"Okay, then," the Colonel responded, having given his Lady the benefit of choice. "Up you go."

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda muttered something under her breath that included the word "up" and climbed up the step ladder into the attic.

When the Colonel was satisfied that the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was prepared for receipt of the pull-down attic stairs assembly and subsequent guidance into position in the rough opening, he hoisted the assembly overhead and began climbing up the step ladder...

Okay, the Colonel knows what you're thinking at this point. You're thinking that this doesn't end well. Well, you're wrong -- it does end well.

It just takes a short detour through "disaster" before arriving at "well."

Having successfully placed the pull-down attic stairs assembly on the temporary supports in the rough opening, the Colonel instructed his Lady to stay put in the attic for a few minutes while he squared and secured the assembly in the rough opening. This process was going amazingly well until the Colonel decided to step up one more rung on the step ladder in order to gain better leverage with his screw gun.

This is the point at which the aforementioned detour happens.

Have you ever noticed the warning labels on step ladders that tell you not to stand on the top of the platform at the top of the ladder?

Well, the Colonel has. But, warnings are for the weak...

The next thing the Colonel remembers is the sensation of falling. The Colonel was experiencing that sensation because, as it turns out, there's a very good reason for that warning regarding standing on the platform at the top of a step ladder.

The Colonel vaguely remembers the clattering sound of step ladder bouncing off the floor of his man cave. Vaguely...because that sound was overridden by his own screaming and a loud wailing emanating from the attic.

As time slowed, as it does in his frequent mid-project detours through the disaster zone, the Colonel's cat-like reflexes kicked in and his cat-like arm-flailing was rewarded by an open hand slapping and grasping a 2 x 6 rafter.

Hanging by one arm from the ceiling, the Colonel slowly wound down his personal alarm siren and checked the landing area below his feet for obstructions. He then looked upward into the angelic face of his bride and asked her if she was okay.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's personal siren was still wailing loudly and the Colonel's one-handed grip on the rafter was reaching the limit of it's endurance, so he let go.

He didn't fall.

The Colonel looked up at the still loudly wailing Miss Brenda and noticed a trickle of blood running down his arm.

"Sweetie, please unclench your nails and let go of my arm."

The loud wailing began to abate, but the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's grip on the Colonel's wrists did not loosen.

"Sweetie, I'm only four feet off of the floor. Please let go of my arm."

She let go, the Colonel dropped two feet and then trip-bounced off the top of the air compressor running his screw gun...

What should have been a light knees-bent, cat-like landing became another uncontrolled flailing final approach to prostration on the floor, accompanied by renewed wailing from the attic.

The Colonel lay still for several long moments listening to the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's sorrowful siren, and then,

"Sweetie, you can quit your screeching. I'm okay."

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was as loving as ever,

"You idiot! I was yelling because if you were killed, I had no way to get down out of the attic and call in a life insurance claim."

Chrysanthemum Crescendo

As the U.S.-led Allied two-pronged march across the Pacific drew inexorably closer to the home islands of the Empire of Japan in the Spring of 1945, both sides' increasing desperation for an end to the monumental waste of blood and treasure was matched by the increasing intensity of the fighting to bring about that end.

By this date 70 years ago, MacArthur's drive from Australia up through New Guinea and back to the Philippines (as he had theatrically promised when chased out by the Japanese three years earlier: "...I shall return.") had climaxed with a destructively brutal wresting of Manila from its unbending defenders. To the East, Nimitz's Central Pacific campaign had seized Iwo Jima in an unbelievably bloody 6-week prize fight whose purse was possession of a sulphurous island with only one redeeming feature -- an airfield halfway between Tokyo and the US heavy bomber base in the Marianas Islands.

Now, all eyes turned to the last major objective short of Japan itself -- Okinawa.

The Japanese viewed Okinawa in much the same way we Americans view Puerto Rico. It was centuries-long held territory, but its inhabitants weren't considered full-fledged Japanese. The Japanese Imperial high command intended to sacrifice the Okinawan people (unlike most of the Japanese-held islands on the way to Tokyo, Okinawa was heavily populated) along with 100,000 Japanese soldiers in a final battle that would give the Americans a taste of just how horrible invading the Japanese home islands would be.

Early in American Pacific War planning, the island of Formosa (Taiwan) was considered as the final island objective and jumping-off point for campaigns against Japanese forces in China as well as Japan itself. As the staggering cost of men and materiel mounted in Europe and the Pacific, war-planners shelved the idea of landings on the very large island of Formosa and subsequent land campaign on the Asian mainland in favor of seizing Okinawa and its large airfields, adequate anchorages, and large-enough troop staging area.

The Americans called the Okinawa campaign "Operation Iceberg."

The Japanese called their kamikaze defense of Okinawa "Falling Chrysanthemums."

The Okinawan people called the battle "The Typhoon of Steel."

On this date, seventy years ago -- April 1, 1945 -- four US divisions, 2 Army and 2 Marine, went ashore virtually unopposed across beaches on the western side of the island. By the end of the day, 60,000 Americans were on Okinawa at the price of a handful of casualties.

It was Easter Sunday in 1945. It would be the last peaceful day for months.

The commander of the Japanese forces on Okinawa had decided against exposing his troops to pre-landing naval and air bombardment in a defense of the beaches. Instead, he constructed elaborate defenses in depth along terrain bisecting the island in successive lines.

While American soldiers and Marines fed themselves into meat-grinding assaults against the most formidable Japanese defensive positions of the Pacific War, the 1300-ship (yes, one thousand, three hundred ships) of the supporting Allied fleet were subject to the crescendo of Japanese airpower, the majority of which were kamikaze strikes. US Navy dead (nearly 5000) exceeded that suffered by either the Army or Marines ashore.

The vast majority of the Japanese defenders were killed or committed suicide by battle's end.

Upwards of 100,000 Okinawan civilians (a third of the population) died.

As the light on Okinawa died by the middle of July, a new light flashed in the New Mexico desert.

A month later, Japan surrendered.