Lions' Challenge

Thirty years ago this month, the Colonel was wrapping up his assignment as an Instructor at the Marine Corps' Basic School (TBS) in Quantico, Virginia.  It had been more of an education for him than for any of the second lieutenants who passed through the "Crossroads of the Corps" on their way to the Fleet Marine Force. 

Forty months previous, the Colonel, then a first lieutenant selected for captain, had come back to Quantico for the third time in his brief career.  He had been there twice already -- for Officer Candidate School (OCS) in '77 and for TBS and the Infantry Officer Course (IOC) in '78.   

After graduating from TBS and IOC, the Colonel's initial posting was as a rifle platoon commander in the 2d Marine Division at Camp Lejeune.  Three years at Lejeune had been followed by a year in the Western Pacific with a Marine Amphibious Unit.

Now he was back at Quantico, feeling not just a little bit cocky and sure of himself.  In fact, he was certain he was in possession of a set of orders to Quantico because he was perfectly suited for duty as an instructor teaching brand new second lieutenants all they needed to know to be successful in the fleet.  

When the Colonel reported in with the G-1 (Personnel Officer) at the Commanding General's HQ, he had his assignment speech well-rehearsed.  First he was going to wow the G-1 with his heel-clicking adherence to the letter of Marine Corps customs and courtesies, then launch into a quick synopsis of his accomplishments over the past four years, and then sum up with a succinct argument for immediate assignment to TBS as an instructor.

The major to whom the Colonel reported didn't give him a chance to get past "Good Morning, Sir."  He sighed wearily, "Stand at ease, lieutenant.  Lemme see you orders."

The Colonel handed over his orders and Officer Qualification Record (OQR) book.

"Gregory," he said, scanning the orders.  "Wasn't expecting you for another month or so.  Weren't you in the Philippines?"

"Yes, sir.  I was with 31st MAU.  We were pulling out of Subic headed into the Indian Ocean and they sent me back a few weeks early from there instead of trying to get me out later from Diego Garcia.  My relief was already aboard and I had trained him..."

The major cut the Colonel off with a wave of his hand, "Asked you for the time, not how to build a watch."

"Yes, sir."

"Okay, lieutenant.  A couple other officers have an appointment with the C.O. of the Basic School in an hour.  I'll call his X.O. and add you to the list of interviewees.  TBS gets first dibs on new officers.  If Colonel Deegan doesn't want you, come back here and we'll see if anybody else does."

Colonel Gene Deegan was one of a legion of legends in the Corps. Known as "Clean" Gene, he was famous for his circumspect conduct and his expectation of the same from his subordinates.  He would go on to retire as a major general and the Colonel had the great professional pleasure to serve under him on two later occasions.

When it was his turn to be interviewed, the Colonel reported in and was told, "Stand at ease, lieutenant.  Why are you here?"

The question took the Colonel a bit by surprise.  He thought it was obvious why he was there.  

"Sir?"

"Why are you here, Lieutenant Gregory?"  Colonel Deegan was studying the Colonel like a hawk studies a mouse.

"I, uh..., um, to interview for a job, sir."

"Got that, lieutenant.  But, why are you here?" 

"I want to be an instructor here at the Basic School."

"You and every other company grade officer in the Marine Corps," Colonel Deegan growled, and then looked down at a folder on his desk.

The folder wasn't the Colonel's orders.  It wasn't his OQR, either.

It was his Basic School record... and it wasn't stellar.  

It wasn't even planetary.  

More like dark side of the moon.

The Colonel began to mentally stash his dream of working at TBS.  "Looks like I'll be making coffee for majors at headquarters," the Colonel thought to himself.  He began to subconsciously assume the position of attention preparatory to his certain immediate dismissal.  

He was yanked back to full consciousness by Colonel Deegan's question, "Care to explain why your TBS academic record is so poor?" 

The Colonel really didn't care to explain, but he had to answer; and, all was lost anyway, so he lamely said, "I guess I wasn't challenged, sir."

The Colonel kids thee not.  That's what he said.  The most idiotic thing to say to a superior.  He has regretted that answer ever since.

He regretted it the greatest the moment it escaped his lips.  The Colonel fully expected a withering redress followed immediately by a summary dismissal.  

In other words, the Colonel was expecting to get his butt chewed and shown the door in a rapid one-two punch.   

Instead, Colonel Deegan quietly sat back in his chair and studied the Colonel with the look you give something repulsive that has stuck to the bottom of your shoe.

Then the look changed, and danged if a slight smile didn't cross Clean Gene's face.

"Well, lieutenant," he said slowly.  "Let's see if we can challenge you this time around."  

"Sir?"  For a terrifying moment, the Colonel feared that he was about to be assigned, not as an instructor, but as a student. This interview was going from bad to worse to worser at a rapid clip.  

"See the Adjutant.  Tell him I said to assign you to the Command and Leadership instructor group.  We'll see how you do on the boards and then look at putting you into a company as an SPC (staff platoon commander) later in the year."

Colonel Deegan must have seen the look of abject terror on the Colonel's face give way to a look of complete befuddlement, "Welcome aboard, lieutenant.  Now get out of here before I change my mind."

Turns out Colonel Deegan was true to his word.  The Colonel was challenged more over the next three and a half years than at any time before or since, and the challenge came from the competition of his peers.

There were approximately 80 captains assigned to TBS as instructors.  By and large, they represented the best and brightest -- the Colonel being a glaring exception to that rule, of course.  A disproportionate share of that group went on to distinguished careers and general officer rank -- again, the Colonel being a glaring exception.  The current Commandant of the Marine Corps was one of the Colonel's peers (and he uses that word in the loosest sense) on the TBS instructor staff.  The point is the Colonel's education the second time around at TBS was far greater and had more lasting effect than any other time in his career -- and it came from the example of his peers.

The Colonel learned some great leadership lessons from some great bosses throughout his career.  But, the lessons learned from the lions of the Corps at TBS from 1983 to 1986 shape him still.               

Glad Cad

Forty years ago this summer, the Colonel was halfway through his undergraduate studies at Ole Miss.  

Well..., the Colonel uses the word "studies" in the most general and non-descriptor fashion possible.  As the Colonel's college transcripts will attest, he was not exactly the model student.  Unless by model student you mean that he spent the vast majority of his matriculation at the "Harvard of the South" participating in every activity imaginable outside of actually studying.

And, the Colonel doesn't really claim to have attended a college -- he went to Ole Miss.  There is a vast difference.

But, that's not important right now.

What is of the greatest import with regard to this post is the fact that the most fantastically amazing change was about to take place in the Colonel's life.  He was about to get hitched for life with the love of his life -- the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda.   

There are those among the spare readership of the regularly irregular posts on this blog who will ask, "I thought hunting and fishing was the love of the Colonel's life?"

Those folks know him -- just not as well as they think.  It is true that the Colonel had a well-worn habit of introducing himself with, "hunting and fishing is my life -- the Marine Corps is my hobby...and, I'm passionate about my hobby."  But, that was a half-truth, at best...

Hunting and fishing was the Colonel's first love to be sure.  But the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda quickly and easily supplanted the pursuit of fin, feather, and fur.

Some among the readership of this blog -- you faithful few with nothing else of any measurable worth to do with your time but to spend it perusing posts hereon -- will ask, "I thought Ole Miss football was the love of the Colonel's life?"

Ah, but there is another layer of love, which, when peeled away, reveals the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda at the center of the Colonel's passion.  Make no mistake there aren't many things that will quicken the cold, flinty cinder that passes for his heart more than the melody of "Dixie" -- if buried not-so secretly under another more politically correct tune -- as the Colonel's Rebels take the field.

Yet, more often than not, in his lengthening life, the Colonel's Rebels have disappointed; let him down; crushed the cold, flinty cinder that passes for his heart; pushed him downtrodden out the exits; left him more bitter and further hating Bama and LSU.

In all the Colonel's years with the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda -- approaching a half-century -- she has never let him down.

The Colonel wishes that he could say that he has reciprocated -- but it just ain't so.  The Colonel is a cad.

He's a glad cad.

Glad that the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda saw something in the Colonel that the Colonel himself couldn't see.

Glad that when God said to the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, "that knucklehead over there is the one" she followed His direction just as she has every day since -- providing the Colonel a rock of faith in his life against which every storm imaginable has crashed without impact.  

Glad that out of the 3.5 billion women on this planet, the Colonel found the only one who understands him, and loves him despite that understanding.  

Forty years ago, the Colonel and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda decided they couldn't wait any longer to become man and wife.  In spite of all of the advice to wait until he graduated, they decided to dive headlong into the matrimonial morass -- clueless and unafraid.  They set a date -- July 31, 1976.  And, they kept it. 

If he could go back, the Colonel would do it all over again.

Well..., maybe he's try to limit the times he made her cry...      

Destructive to Morale

     "We're not accustomed to occupying defensive positions.  It's destructive to morale."
         --  Lieutenant General H. M. "Howling Mad" Smith, USMC, 1945

The Colonel is vehemently opposed to Donald Trump's campaign promise to "build a wall and make Mexico pay for it."  

But not for the mendacious motives espoused by the national-suicide socialists masquerading as classical liberals.  They would have the gullible and uninformed among us believe that building a counter-migrant wall on our southern border is heartless -- they would have the entire nation become one borderless sanctuary to countless millions who would, in their gratitude, vote their morally rudderless and ruthlessly intolerant party into permanence.     

Trump would have the gullible and uninformed among us believe that building a counter-migrant wall on our southern border will fix the problem of growing crime in our streets, and panders to countless millions who would, in their gratitude, vote his morally rudderless and ruthlessly intolerant neo-party into office. 

Know this, dear readers:  Walls, as stratagems of grand national strategy, are emblematic of empires in decline.  

So are wide-open borders.  

Walls are indicative of a fearful people.  Open borders are indicative of feckless leadership.

A wall, as the tactical obstacle in a strategic defense, is only as effective as the strength and efficiency of the operational forces dedicated to maintaining observation over, and integrity of, that obstacle.

When the Roman Republic/Empire, at the end of the Julio/Claudian era, transformed from an expansionist imperial power into a defensive imperial power (and began it's decline), it restructured its military to suit.  Where formerly Roman military strength had been concentrated into "multi-legion armies not committed to territorial defense" and therefore "inherently mobile and freely redeployable" (Edward N. Luttwak, Grand Strategy of the Roman Empire), the perceived need to be strong everywhere on the periphery of the Empire resulted in a centuries-long campaign of strategic wall and fortification-building.  These walls and fortifications (Hadrian's Wall in Britain is exemplary), although impressive in scale and design, were enormously expensive to build, maintain, and defend.  Far more expensive, in fact, than a concentrated multi-legion army -- a fraction of which could be deployed to quell a rebellious client state or destroy a rival's base of operations without leaving the heart of the Empire defenseless.

In Grand Strategy of the Roman Empire, Luttwak argues conclusively that the Empire's successes during the Julio/Claudian era actually resulted in long-term transformation of the peripheral "barbarian" nations by a process of "voluntary Romanization."  In other words, Rome's enemies learned how to beat Rome at its own game -- adopting systems of political and logistical organization that allowed effective resistance to, and eventual destruction of, the Roman Empire.

The Colonel would argue that, in terms of the arc of its imperial history, the American Republic has transitioned through and out of its own "Julio/Claudian" expansionist phase and is now faced with peripheral nations who have voluntarily "Americanized."

Mexico, for example, is currently reprising the 19th Century American model for continental population expansion.  Those aren't "immigrants" waving Mexican flags in California -- they are no less invaders than the American settlers who flooded Mexico's northern lands in the 1830's.   

Building a wall to "keep 'em out" not only panders to the most base of our human instincts, it will inevitably be highly destructive to our national morale.

The Colonel's answer:  A pan-hemispheric republic of American states organized and governed under an unabridged and faithfully executed Constitution of the United States.

You got a better idea?                  

Sea Story

The Colonel's flurry of activity over the past week or so, tackling long overdue chores and projects, has been reminiscent of the last two times he returned from long(er) "cruises" in the Roman's Mare Nostrum.

While the flurry of catching up on "honey-do's" has been similar, the accommodations aboard the most recent Med cruise vessel were a tad bit better than those the Colonel experienced on the Navy's BUGS (big ugly grey ships) three decades ago.  

At sea the first day the Colonel was reminded of an old Marine saying and shared it with the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda,

"Hey, you know the difference between being on a ship and being in prison?"

"No, knucklehead.  But, I'm sure you're about to enlighten me and then follow up with a largely fabricated and interminably long 'sea story'," she said in the loving way she reserves only for her man.

"Huh?  My sea stories are not interminably long," the Colonel countered.  "Anyway, the difference is that in prison you have cable television and no danger of drowning."

The Colonel's lady was clearly highly amused at his wit, "Whatever.  Now can you quickly sum up the accompanying sea story so I can get back to working on my tan?"   

"Get it?  No danger of drowning."

"I got it.  Why don't you go get some soft ice cream and leave me alone?"

"Soft ice cream?!?  When were you going to tell me about that?"

"I pointed it out to you earlier, but you were busy telling some largely fabricated and interminably long sea story about the last time you were here in the Mediterranean."

"My sea stories are not interminably long!" 

"Go tell that to somebody who doesn't know you.  Now go get some ice cream and give me some peace."  

The Colonel headed for the soft ice cream kiosk, but on the way passed a member of the crew who wished him a cheery "good morning!"  The Colonel noticed the man's name tag had Philippines below his name, "Where in the Philippines are you from?"

"Cabanatuan, sir."

"That's on Luzon, right?  I was at Subic Bay for several short stays 35 years ago.  Great country, the Philippines."

"Very good, sir.  Can I get you something to drink?"

He was clearly excited to hear that he and Colonel had so much in common.

"Eyud!," the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda hollered from her chaise lounge.  "Leave the man alone!  He's got work to do!"

"Yes, dear."

The Colonel clapped the man on his shoulder, winked conspiratorially, and whispered, "Gonna be on your boat for two more weeks.  I'll talk to you later and we can compare notes on the future of Filipino-American relations vis-a-vis the Chinese."

"Eyud!"

"Yes, dear!"   

Conversational Cruise Control

A two-week cruise across the Mediterranean with the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda -- celebrating their 60th birthdays and their 40th wedding anniversary -- provided the Colonel with a captive audience with whom to share his worldview.  

At dinner each evening, seated at a large table with new friends from across America and the globe, the Colonel, inspired by the day's excursion to a ubiquitous fragmentary remnant of some once-great empire -- Carthaginian, Greek, Roman, Moorish, Ottoman, etc. -- inevitably responded to some political inanity with a lesson in historical geopolitics.

Despite the shin-bruising inflicted on him by his adoring bride, the Colonel launched attack after attack on the weak defenses of knowledge and understanding possessed by his table-mates.

It always started so innocently.

"You sound like you are from the South, Ed.  Where are you from? Atlanta?

"No, there ain't nobody but transplanted yankees livin' in Atlanta anymore.  I'm from Mississippi."

You could see the mental images of bedsheets and burning crosses flash in their eyes.  "Mississippi," they would intone with a mixture of haughty superiority, disdainful disapproval, and patronizing sympathy.

The word "Mississippi" always has the same effect on the speech centers of yankees -- they start using smaller words and shorter sentences.  "So..., Ed from Mississippi, what do you do for a living?" 

"Well, George from the North Pole, in between Klan meetings and chasing girls at family reunions, there just ain't much time for work, now is there?"

At this point the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda volunteered, "He's a retired Marine; he's never been to a Klan meeting, and we are only related by marriage."

Introducing the word "Marine" into any conversation always elicits one of three immediate responses:

         -- "Thank you for your service,"

         -- "I almost joined the Marines," or

         -- "Semper Fi!," followed by a round of monosyllabic grunts and chest thumps as two Marines go through a recognition ritual as old as the Corps itself.

In this case, the combination revelation that the Colonel was a retired Marine, from Mississippi, elicited, "Well, you must be a big Trump fan, huh?  Guess you can't wait for him to start building that wall."

"Actually, I despise Trump only a little less so than the Clintons, Alabama, and LSU.  And..., empires that build walls don't last much longer as empires."

"Huh?  Wait, the United States isn't an empire."

Despite three, count 'em, three kicks from the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, the Colonel bored in for the kill, "You folks up there just short of the arctic circle ever heard of a history book?  The United States of America is the greatest empire the world has ever known.  We don't like to call ourselves an empire, but we got all the hallmarks of one and then some."   

The Colonel's table-mates were now apprising him with looks ranging from that of finding a turd in the punchbowl to that of finding a rattlesnake in the cupboard.

The Colonel was undeterred by neither the looks nor the increasing violence and frequency of kicks to his shins, "Look, the future greatness of our Republic does not lie in the hands of an extra-constitutional executive.  The future greatness of the American Republic lies in the hands of a chief executive who will do two things -- unwaveringly uphold and abide by a strict interpretation of the Constitution; and, unite the nation in a grand mission."

"What kind of grand mission?  Sending a man to Mars?"

"Colonizing Mars would be nice, but the grand mission I have in mind is creation of a pan-hemispheric American republic stretching from the Hudson Bay to Cape Horn."

"That sounds like Manifest Destiny on steroids," one said.  Another snorted, "that's naked imperialism."

The Colonel's shins were absorbing a veritable rain of kicks -- the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was getting quite a leg workout -- but he was on a roll and nothing short of a mortal wound was going to stop him, "You say that like it's a bad thing.  I thought we had already established that the United States was an empire."

"But, what about a people's right of self-determination?"

"Show me that clause in the Constitution. And, why shouldn't we share the protections of life, liberty, property, and the pursuit of happiness with the rest of our neighbors?  And don't tell me they are happy where they are -- under corrupt and ineffective governments unable or unwilling to provide security and freedom to their citizens.  If their nations were so great, they wouldn't be flocking to our shores by the millions as we speak."  

"But..., but, not all cultures are are compatible with our form of democracy."

The Colonel had them right where he wanted them, "First of all, that is a racist statement and false on it's face.  Our Republic is peopled with folks from every corner of the globe who brought their culture with them when they came to our shores.  Isn't it a classical liberal tenet that our nation's strength is in part derived from our diversity?  Secondly, we aren't a democracy -- the word appears nowhere in our Constitution."

By this time dessert was finished and the Colonel and his bride excused themselves to go avail themselves of other ship-board entertainment, "Pleasure to meet y'all.  Have a nice evening."

For two weeks the Colonel was in heaven.     

Planting and Planning

The Colonel plans on living until he is at least 120.  He has to. 

It's gonna take at least another half century for all the trees he's been planting to reach maturity.  

Look, the Colonel has never been accused of harboring measurable amounts of altruistic motives -- he wants to see the fruits of his efforts.  He doesn't really care about any legacy.  There ain't really gonna be anyone spending all that much time after he's gone talking about all the great things the Colonel accomplished.

Primarily, because there ain't a whole lot of great accomplishments to the Colonel's credit.  At least not measurable by historically great standards.

The Colonel has built a couple of bridges -- but, he's the only one that uses 'em.

The Colonel has a couple of buildings to his credit, designed in his head and built with his hands -- the chickens appreciated them.

The Colonel even has a road on his vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere to his credit -- he had to cut it in order to get his tractor unstuck. 

The Colonel can't really even claim any credit for the fact that his three children have grown into amazing people accomplishing amazing things -- that credit belongs to the Colonel's Lady, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda.

With chainsaw, sawmill, and powered hand tools, he's turned a lot of trees into prodigious heaps of sawdust over the last decade, but the Colonel has planted far more than he has cut down.  

In fact, the Colonel's bent toward arboreal replacement is not a recent retirement reality -- he's been planting trees for as long as he can remember, and while his short-term memory has begun to atrophy alarmingly he can remember trees he planted many decades ago.

He just never got to stick around to see them grow.  Thanks, Uncle Sam.

But, the Colonel is, himself, finally planted and rooted deeply in the soil of his ancestors.  It took him fifty years of wandering the world to get to where he is now, and as soon as his feet stopped shuffling the roots drove down quickly, tapping into a stability and sustenance that only this particular place on this big blue marble ever provided him.

Yep, the Colonel needs to live a long life just so he can point to a large shady oak and proclaim, "the Colonel planted that!"

But, then again, with carbon dioxide levels skyrocketing, trees are growing a lot faster -- maybe the Colonel will only have to live to be 100.

The Colonel loves him some Global Warming.         

  

    

Ferocious Erudition

The Colonel has been called a lot of things over the years, and "angel" ain't one of 'em.  But, he hopes to be remembered as one.

Something in a scripture passage during his Sunday morning Bible study struck the Colonel differently than in numerous previous readings.

The passage in question is Luke's account of Stephen in the sixth chapter of the book of Acts. 

Stephen, as you will remember from your own countless perusing of the passage, was one of the seven men of good reputation, wisdom, and spiritual maturity chosen to administer to the equitable distribution of church resources among the widows of differing nationalities.  Because the Greek word, diakonos, was used to describe their duties, these seven men chosen to assist the apostles (allowing the apostles to devote their efforts to preaching and teaching) are considered to be the Christian Church's first deacons; although Luke does not indicate that they were so named.

Interesting word, diakonos.  As it passed from Greek to Latin to Old English to modern English, (with other linguistic detours the Colonel ain't schooled in) the word was long thought to be a conjunction of two Greek root words meaning "to hurry" and to "kick up dust."  

The Colonel likes that translation -- connotes a servant so devoted to his duties that his alacrity is physically manifest in the exhaust of his passage.

Alas, as much as the Colonel likes it, that translation of diakonos has fallen into disfavor amongst erudite folks whose grasp of Greek far outstrips his.  Modern Biblical scholars hold to a different set of root words whose conjunction connotes a servant trusted with protection and allocation of resources.  Given the responsibilities charged to Stephen, and the other six chosen with him; namely, the aforementioned "equitable distribution of church resources among the widows of differing nationalities;" it seems most probable, even to this knuckle-dragger, that this latter definition is more accurate.

But, despite the Colonel's verbose attempt to make it so, this post isn't about the origin of the word, and duties of one assigned as a, deacon.

No, weary reader, this post is about Stephen's ferocious erudition in the defense of his faith.  

As you will remember, from your numerous reading of the passage in question, Luke tells us that Stephen was ministering to a group of Christians who belonged to a synagogue composed primarily of freed slaves from regions outside of Israel.  As Stephen ministered to physical needs, he also ministered to spiritual needs -- preaching the Gospel of Jesus as the Messiah.  Said preaching rankled the synagogue leadership.

What rankled them most was the fact that, as Luke points out in verse 10 of Acts 6, they couldn't match the wisdom and erudition with which Stephen made his case for the messiahship of Jesus.  

Mind you, there is no indication that Stephen was a particularly well-educated man.  In fact, Luke indicates that the source of Stephen's wisdom and erudition was the Holy Spirit.  

Well, them high muckity-mucks in the Freedmen Synagogue couldn't best Stephen in the contest of ideas, so they dredged up some blasphemous mud and threw it at him.  Hauled before the Sanhedrin (Jerusalem's version of the county board of supervisors) and charged with blasphemy, Stephen sat facing the same sort of crowd that Jesus had just prior to His crucifixion.

Luke tells us that as the Sanhedrin was giving ole Stephen the stink eye, them sanctimonious Sadducees and Pharisees noticed something unusual about the look on Stephen's face.

Here's how Luke describes the scene in Acts 6:15:  "All who were sitting in the Sanhedrin looked intently at Stephen, and they saw that his face was like the face of an angel."

Now, if y'all are anything like the Colonel -- and he is seriously sorry if you are -- you have probably read that verse before and thought that Stephen was sitting there with this placid, sweet smile on his face.  

That's how the Colonel has always read the verse.

Until this morning.

This morning when he read the verse the Colonel was suddenly reminded of the times in Scripture when men and women were face to face with angels.  He was also reminded of descriptions of angels in Scripture and those descriptions explain why men and women face to face with angels were, at least, deeply impressed, and at most, scared plumb to death.

Angels -- real angels -- aren't cloud-sittin' cuddly chubby-cheeked cherubs.

Angels -- real angels -- are impressive beings capable of a ferocity unmatched by mere mortal men.

The Colonel is thinking that when the Sanhedrin looked at Stephen what they saw was ferocious faith.    

Look, just as there is no scriptural indication that Stephen was particularly well-educated, there is no indication that Stephen was a battle-tested warrior either.  Stephen's erudition and ferocious defense of his faith -- see the remainder of the chapter -- was not, in the Colonel's not-so humble opinion, a result of his experience.  Stephen's ferocious faith was God's Holy Spirit working through him.

Today, men and women of faith face Sanhedrins of sanctimonious legalists who have twisted the concepts of love and acceptance into hideous forms unrecognizable by the God who created those concepts.  

Stephen defended his faith with the wisdom of spiritual maturity available only through the power of God's Holy Spirit.  And, he faced death with the ferocity of an angel.  

The Colonel prays for angelic ferocity.

Responsibility of the Republic

The Colonel knows full well that he views the world, and our great Republic's place in it, through a much different lens than the vast majority of his fellow citizens.

He has regularly, throughout his lengthening life, found himself marching at the head of a one-man parade, serene in his rhythm and yet alone with the beat in his head.

It was so even during his years as a centurion in the Republic's expeditionary legions.  Oh, there were some like-minded fellow freedom fighters, but all too often their cerebral drum-beat carried them tangentially away from the Colonel's route of march.

Mind you, the Colonel claims no particular brilliance to his beat.  As any of you who follow his posts hereon will testify, the Colonel's personal motto -- "ain't smart and you can't make me" -- applies in spades.

No, the drum beat echoing throughout his cavernous, and relatively empty, brain cavity isn't an original creation.  

Remember, the Colonel ain't educated -- he didn't go to college, he went to Ole Miss.  And, his two masters degrees -- Human Resource Management, and National Security and Strategic Studies -- weren't exactly the product of strenuous mental calisthenics.  They were more like participation trophies and nearly perfectly suited for the Colonel's current career -- raising trees and turning them into sawdust.  

The Colonel once held the mistaken belief that the beat that animated his march was "love of country."  

He now sees, through eyes dimmed by decades searching the sun for the approach of the barbarians, that love of country is as vacuous and worthless a concept as love of lawn.   

The Colonel has been to many, many countries on the globe, thanks to Uncle Sam as his financier and travel agent.  

The geography in those far-flung places was no less affection-inspiring than that of his native land.

The people themselves were no less appropriate for the Colonel's comradeship than his fellow citizens. 

It slowly dawned on the Colonel -- remember, he ain't particularly bright -- that there had to be something more to his devotion to the Republic than it's dirt and denizens.

The Colonel recognizes that most of you -- much smarter than this perpetual fifth-grader -- came to the correct conclusion of this search for understanding long ago.  

You realized that it wasn't the people and places that made America great.  It was their animating spirit.

The spirit of America is FREEDOM.  

Not freedom from responsibility, but freedom to act on personal responsibility.  Our Republic's spirit -- enshrined in our Constitution -- is freedom to pursue individual greatness.  Our Republic's spirit is equality of opportunity, NOT equality of outcome.  

Here's where the Colonel's drummer breaks into a beat that marches him off the reservation.  

Our Republic -- The United States of America -- has the same responsibility as it's citizens.  Just as each citizen has the responsibility to ensure that his or her fellow citizens' equality of opportunity is unhindered, our Republic has a moral responsibility to ensure that ALL men -- whose natural rights of freedom are "endowed by their Creator," not by a government -- are free to pursue the fruits of that freedom.

What does that mean?

It means that our Republic must continue to expand in order that increasing numbers of the world's men and women are included under a particular system of self-governance that has proven to be the greatest guarantor of the blessings of free-market capitalism this world has ever known.

It also means that we whose eyes are wide open must keep our sights set on the target of limited government.  Not no government.  But a government limited solely to the ensurance of the survival of the free exercise of man's natural rights.

Pick your leaders accordingly.

The Republic's future greatness depends on a Constitutionally-constrained chief executive who will lead the nation to share the fruits of freedom with the world, not on the whims of an authoritarian chief executive who will build walls of exclusion and wield the apparatus of government as a cudgel.       

Fascinating February

As much as the Colonel detests the month of February -- and his regard for the runted revenant is replete with more reasons than any other object of his disaffection -- this February is proving to be so fascinating that he may have to suspend his campaign to have the month removed from the calendar.

What can be so fascinating as to arrest the acceleration of the Colonel's animus, you ask?

Allow the Colonel to enumerate, ruminate, and elucidate.

1.  The Colonel is amazed that an egomaniacal New York liberal with a long history of supporting the biggest of big federal government policies is the darling of the Republican electorate and likely to win the 2016 Republican Presidential primary in South Carolina.

     South Carolina! 

     The Colonel gets Trump's popularity among the closet celebriphiles at the shallow New England end of the gene pool.   But, South Carolina!?!

2.  The Colonel is fascinated by the paradoxical political machinations manifest in response to the highly regrettable passing of Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia.  Consider the mendacity of those whose fecal-filled frontal lobes cause them to call for the one of the most extra-Constitutional presidents in our republic's history to not fulfill his Constitutional duty to nominate a replacement for one of the, if not the, most vociferous defenders of that Constitution.

     The President is clearly Constitutionally bound to nominate a replacement at his earliest convenience.

     The Senate is clearly Constitutionally bound to consider and vote on confirmation of that nominee.

     For either party to this Constitutional command performance to act otherwise is despicably disrespectful to the memory of the justice whose life was entirely committed to the defense of the United States Constitution.

3.  The Colonel is fascinated by the increasing fervor with which American society celebrates a hedonistic holiday, and dismayed by the rapidly decreasing reverence of holiday originally designated to celebrate the birthday of the "Father of our Nation."

     Let it be said, if you wait until one day in the depths of winter to show your love for your significant other, your other really ain't that significant. 

    Let it also be said, a nation that forgets its founders flounders. 

-----------------------------

There's more on the Colonel's minuscule military mind this morning, but his age-addled vocabulary is rapidly becoming an untrustworthy alliterative ally.      
   

The Tyranny of Elites

The Colonel wishes we Americans would stop so casually throwing around the word democracy in self-identification.

We ain't one.

At least not by original design.

The founders of our republic knew full well the inherent self-destructive flaws of a pure democracy -- so much so that the word itself never appears in the Constitution of these re-United States.

The Colonel would pause at this juncture to allow the Bama and LSU grads a chance to fact-check him, but we all know that pachyderms and felines are functional illiterates.

Trust the Colonel.  The explosive growth of the American republic from colonial backwater to world superpower had little to do with any democratic ideals and more to do with our Constitution's protection of our republic's CITIZENS' God-given rights to life, liberty, and property..., and a huge resource-rich continent sparsely occupied by inferior civilizations.

The Colonel knows that last phrase will set some of your teeth on edge.  Better deal with that -- it's gonna get rougher...

A democracy promises a utopia, the definition of which is decided by the majority at the expense of the minority.  A democracy always delivers, in its inevitable death throes, a tyranny of elites.

Nowhere is this concept of the Tyranny of Elites more evident than in the two parties currently vying for dominance of the body politic and the power and riches that follow.

And, nowhere is tyrannical elitism more evident than in the Democrat Party.

The Colonel knows that the small minority of his readership that are Democrats have just left the page.  It is up to the remainder of you to carry what follows to them.

Ask your Democrat friends to explain to you the Democrat Party concept of Superdelegates.

In all likelihood, they won't have any idea what you're talking about and will give you a combination blank stare and Victrola Nipper Dog head tilt.

Allow the Colonel to arm you with the sword of knowledge with which to deal a mortal blow to your Democrat friends' belief that their party best upholds the vaunted democratic ideal of "one man, one vote."

There are approximately 712 elites (representing about a sixth of the overall delegates) who will cast a vote at the Democrat Party's 2016 National Convention this year.  The exact number of these delegates changes year-by-year and consists of several categories of Party elites:

     - Current and former Presidents, Vice-Presidents, Congressional leaders, and DNC Chairs

     - Democrat state and territorial Governors 

     - Democrat U.S. Senators

     - Democrat U.S. Representatives

     - Elected members of the Democrat National Committee

The nominating votes of these elites are not apportioned in any way by the Primary votes of the electorate.  Superdelegates vote their consciences.   

That has to be one of the most un-democratic, "Animal Farm"ish power machinations the Colonel has ever seen outside of Venezuela.

For the Bama and LSU grads still hangin' in there, George Orwell's political satire "Animal Farm" elucidated the inherent danger of a democracy falling under the sway of unscrupulous power-hungry leaders.  Nothing summarizes the Democrat Party presidential nominating process more succinctly than Orwell's phrase "all animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others." 

The Republican Party ain't much better, in the Colonel's not-so-humble opinion.  But, the GOP isn't in the Colonel's cross-hairs this morning...

Maybe tomorrow.

Want to see the newest generation of American voters implode in disgust? 

Hide and watch what happens when their socialist darling wins a plurality of the Democrat Party presidential primary state delegates but is denied the nomination by the party's superdelegates... 

  

Rubio/Kasich For The Win

The Colonel is loathe to endorse a candidate for President of these re-United States.   His backing of any candidate for any office has nearly always been the kiss of electoral death.

So, don't consider the following to be the Colonel's "official endorsement."  Rather, look at it as his objective, and not-so humble, assessment of the highest percentage shot at denying occupation of the Oval Office by either a criminal or a[nother] socialist.

Look, the Colonel gets it.  Trump is making all of our Great American hearts quicken with his politically incorrect and populist campaign.  The Colonel wants all of what he says he will do.

The problem is that the office of President of these re-United States does not have the Constitutional authority to do the majority of what Trump says he's going to do.   

For the last eight decades, our republic has suffered from the extra-Constitutional actions of chief executives (from both parties), drifting further and further from the safely navigated waters of (little "r") republican and balanced state/federal governance towards the rocks and shoals of dictatorial tyranny the likes of which drove Americans to revolution 240 years ago.    

The Colonel cannot, in good conscience, support a man whose manifest narcissism would inevitably lead him to disregard the Constitution.  Trump is a builder by nature -- he'll just build more government.

So, Trump is out.  Would make a great Chief Trade Negotiator.

The two men making the best case for limiting the scope of the Federal government and taking the strongest line in support of the Constitution are Senators Paul and Cruz.

However, Senator Paul doesn't seem to accept the notion that one of the foundational pillars of American Exceptionalism is a robust foreign policy embodied in the open hand of active diplomacy and the fist of a unmatched expeditionary military.

So, Paul is out.  Would make a great Chairman of the Federal Reserve. 

Senator Cruz has staked out a conservative, Constitution-defending position that warms the cockles of the Colonel's heart.  But, Senator Cruz will be hoisted on the petard of his own hard-line interpretation of the very Constitution he so fervently defends.  By the most conservative interpretation of the Constitution, he, being born in Canada, is not a "natural-born citizen" as required for election as President.

The Colonel recognizes that Cruz will win any court challenges to his eligibility, but the Republican Party does not need that drag on what will already be an up-hill battle.

So, Cruz is out.  Would make a great Supreme Court Justice. 

Doctor Carson is a great guy.  Brilliant and accomplished surgeon.  But his naivete reminds me of a certain peanut farmer from Georgia whose feckless performance in the Oval Office established the comparative floor of Presidential rankings.

So, Carson is out.  Would make a great Surgeon General.

The Colonel loves Governor Christie.  He would have made a great Marine -- or two.  But, Christie is a Northeastern liberal who would make Romney's anemic turnout in the evangelical ranks look like a tsunami.   

So, Christie is out.  Would make a terrific Attorney General.

Governor Huckabee and Senator Santorum are both great guys.  But, they have been running for President without success for the past two decades.  Give it up guys.

The Colonel salutes the only veteran, Governor Gilmore.  How would you like to fix the V.A., Governor?

Governors Bush and Kasich are the two men best qualified to govern as President of the United States on Day One.  The Colonel loves W, but, frankly, we elected the wrong Governor Bush in 2000.  Jeb would have not been nearly as trigger-happy and would not have selected Cheney as his VP, let alone let him have such unfettered influence.  (If you have any doubt -- the Colonel ain't a Dick Cheney fan, for multiple reasons not germane to this post.)

But, a third Bush in the Oval Office in a little more than a generation just smacks too much of hereditary dynasty.   And, the Colonel has come to believe that the Bushes are as big a fans of Big Government as the socialists calling themselves the Democrat Party.

So, Bush is out.  Would make a great ambassador.

The Colonel likes Governor Kasich -- as the Republican Vice Presidential candidate.  Hold that thought -- more later.

Senator Rubio, for all his faults, makes the most electoral sense as the Republican's Presidential nominee.  He wins Florida and the South.  He attracts enough Hispanic support to make the Southwest and West competitive for the Republicans.  He is young and just visionary enough to appeal to the newest generation of voters.  

A Rubio/Kasich ticket is the only winning ticket, from an Electoral College perspective.  In order to win the Presidency, the Republicans must, in addition to winning the solidly red states, win a majority of the "purple" states -- i.e., Ohio, Pennsylvania, Virginia.  

Kasich wins Ohio and Pennsylvania.  Oh, and he was the Chairman of the House Budget Committee the last time the Federal government had a balanced budget.  

Hey, Marco, the Colonel has a great job for your Vice President!

The Colonel hears the faint voices of those asking "What about Carly?"

The Colonel loves Ms. Fiorina!  Wish she was from Ohio!  She ain't real popular in California and the Republicans haven't had a shot at the left coast since Reagan.

Rubio/Kasich for the win.

NOT an official endorsement...        

Brain-bucket Bounce

The Colonel learned early that being diminutive in stature was actually a marked advantage in his Marine Corps career.  

Always underestimated and overlooked, he flew in under the radar and capitalized on one of the more important principles of war --surprise. 

Being light on the hoof also had advantages in light of the Marine Corps' near-obsessive focus on physical fitness and appearance.

There were, of course, some obvious disadvantages to being a "short-round."  The Marine Corps prides itself on its thrift and under-reliance on technology.  Any motorized vehicle that carries people is untrustworthy in battle and therefore Marines must be able to carry everything they bring to a fight on their backs and over long distances.  There were occasions when the mission and the environment required so much gear that the Colonel nearly carried his own body weight on his back.  

Small wonder the Colonel's back tortures him today.  Payback.

But, the Colonel also liked to think that a short stature was a plus on the battlefield -- he figured he could keep his head down and out of the line of fire a lot easier than the 6 footers. 

When the Colonel went to Marine Corps Officer Candidate School (OCS) at Quantico, Virginia in the summer of 1977, he was very nearly the smallest candidate of the 250 in the company -- 5'6 and 3/4" (don't ever forget the 3/4) and 130 pounds dripping wet.  

Reaching things in high places was (and still is) a bit of a challenge.  
The Colonel vividly remembers trying to put away his pack on top of his wall locker the first few days at OCS. There was, of course, a certain way the pack had to be situated, with the helmet strapped on top. 

The Colonel had developed a practiced, time-saving (time was of the essence with a drill instructor breathing down your neck) method to get his pack onto the top of his seven-foot wall-locker. He would get the  pack and helmet all squared away on his bunk, pick it up, spin around, and pitch it up on top of the locker to land facing the correct way. 

Since the Colonel was in the last bunk bay in the squad bay, his locker backed up against a bulkhead and he could actually use a bank-shot of sorts to get his pack, with helmet riding on top, into position. If he got the pick, spin, pitch, and bank just right, the pack would land in the perfect position on top of the locker and not require further adjustment.  The Colonel would then be free to use the resulting extra seconds to attend to the next task for which the certainly insane drill instructor was screaming unintelligibly. This routine worked perfectly the first half-dozen times.

The seventh was different.

All plans and actions on the battlefield (and all of life is one big battlefield)  are subject to what Clausewitz (some dead German guy who, like most Germans, spent way too much time thinking about war) called "fog and friction." 

Even the simplest things are difficult under stress. 

Newton's laws of physics aren't nullified by a screaming drill instructor either. 

From the grave, both Clausewitz and Newton conspired to cause the Colonel to light up big-time on Sergeant Psycho's radar screen. This time, although the pick, spin, pitch, and bank was executed to perfection, there was a catastrophic equipment failure (thank you, Clausewitz) that introduced plan-altering friction and allowed inertial physics (thank you, Newton) to take over. 

The chin strap on the Colonel's helmet broke. 

Said chin strap had theretofore served admirably as the device with which the helmet had been quite securely affixed to the pack. 

Had been being the operative phrase in this case.

The practiced conclusion of the pick, spin, pitch, and bank of the Colonel's squad bay ballet was a combat-booted pirouette, executed at the moment that the pea-sized computer in his brain-housing group calculated that the pack's trajectory was such that it would bank and rest in inspection-ready position atop the wall locker. As the Colonel spun back to his bunk this time, he was struck hard on the top of his hairless noggin and driven to his knees. 

The Colonel's helmet -- its broken chin strap freeing it to follow Newton's third law -- had performed a half-roll and landed, round-side down, squarely on the Colonel's head.  Later, his buddies told the Colonel that the resulting "thonk!" was so loud and impressive that everyone in the squad bay stopped what they were doing... for a millisecond. 

A milisecond being the exact length of time one could get away with pausing without attracting the attention of a rabid drill instructor.

Would that the story ended there. But, alas, there is more. 

The Colonel rejoined the conscious world a second later, stood, and began searching for his errant brain bucket.  He remembered hearing/feeling only one "thonk!"  He hadn't heard a second "thonk" indicating that his helmet had hit the deck.  

Since he had been standing at his bunk, the Colonel assumed that his helmet had ricocheted off his head and landed quietly there. 

He looked on the bunk.

No helmet.

He looked under the bunk. 

No helmet. 

Then, the concussion-induced fog lifted a bit more and the Colonel heard the unmistakable bellow of an enraged drill instructor. 

The unmistakable bellow was coming from outside the open window next to the Colonel's bunk.

The unmistakable bellow was coming from three floors down. 

This is no lie. The Colonel's helmet had bounced off of his head, out the window of the squad bay, and landed, following an impressive bounce, at the feet of the company First Sergeant -- the senior and most feared of all of the officer candidates' tormentors.

Our names were on our helmets.

"Candidate Gregory!!! Get (insert appropriate unprintable epithet here) down here!!!"

Momentarily, the Colonel contemplated jumping after the helmet.

But, then, falling back on the candidate mantra, "they can't kill us," the Colonel raced from the squad bay, down the ladder well (Marines don't call them stairs), and came to the position of attention at the appropriate distance front and center of 1stSgt King. 

The Colonel believes it was the fact that one of his pupils was dilated and the other wasn't that stopped the First Sergeant's rant on the sorry state of American youth and my questionable parentage in mid-sentence. 

"Candidate, are you okay?"

The Colonel kept his story short -- just the facts -- and made sure he used the third person when referring to himself (Marines talk funny that way). 

"The candidate's helmet fell off the candidate's wall locker, bounced off of the candidate's head, and flew out the window."

I believe it was the phrase "flew out the window" that broke the hard-bitten combat veteran.  He grabbed the Colonel by the arm and barely made it into his office, and out of sight of anyone, before breaking down in uncontrollable laughter.

The Colonel learned two valuable leadership lessons that day.  

Stuff happens, and it's okay to laugh.

Project Predicament

The Colonel's Lady -- the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda -- has been down in her back the last couple of weeks.  She's feeling better -- the Colonel has been a good nurse.

But, the chores are piling up.

And, there's the annual late winter/early spring project season looming on the calendar.

No matter how effective the Colonel is at supervision -- and he's world class -- if his work force is lame, the chore and project completion rate bottoms out down around the speed of smell.

So, the Colonel has been reevaluating the project list for his vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.

As much as he hates it, breaking ground on the cabin down on the shores of Lake Brenda -- to which the Colonel planned to escape when things got too hot (or too cold) up at the Big House -- will have to be pushed to calendar year 2017.  The Colonel's Knotty Room -- completed last year -- will have to suffice for solitude-seeking in the interim.

The Bridge over Caleb's Creek -- completed in 2010 -- requires considerable preventive maintenance, without which the Colonel's vehicular access to the western third of his vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere is in jeopardy.  As it is, the Colonel is practicing the so-far proven effective "high speed transit" across the bridge.  The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda needs to inspect the underpinnings of said bridge and effect repairs as needed ASAP or her man and his rusty red pick-up may end up in a pile of timbers at the bottom of the ten-foot chasm spanned by the bridge.

In the interim, the Colonel has painted a crude Confederate flag on the cab of the truck and is practicing his best Beau Duke "yeehaw!"

Although ground-breaking for the Colonel's Cabin has been delayed, cutting the timber and milling the lumber for it must still be accomplished this year.  The Colonel, ever the loving husband, purchased a lighter weight chainsaw for his lady on her last birthday. 

So, even if her back is not at 100%...

But, listen, the Colonel is not the heel you may think.  He really does have the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's best interests at heart.  Therefore, he has decided that the one and half acre garden will be significantly smaller this year.  

The Colonel is thinking that shaving the planting by approximately a quarter of an acre should account for his Lady's reduced weeding and harvesting capability this season.  The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda has been notified, however, that the 2017 planting season quota must be increased significantly in order to maintain the long-term average yield increase required by the Colonel.

What?!?

Everyone knows that if you aren't steadily increasing output in quantity and quality, you're falling behind the competition.

The same goes for great nations.  Expand or whither to inconsequence. 

   



        

Open Letter to Congress on Women in the Infantry

Senators and Congressmen,

I was commissioned in the Marine Corps through the NROTC program at the University of Mississippi in 1978 and served for over 25 years as an infantry officer.  I also commanded significant portions of the Marine Corps' recruiting effort on two different occasions.

The Obama administration is once again bypassing the Congress and enacting its social agenda, this time with regard to the Armed Forces of the United States.  The decision to open infantry (and other front-line combat units) to women will ultimately lead to the lowering of the physical standards and high levels of training that have made the US Army and Marines the world's measure of combat effectiveness.  It is inevitable that as women fail to meet the current high physical standards (particularly for service in infantry formations in the Marine Corps) those standards will be lowered to grant women admission.

I know you know this.

What you may not grasp are the implications for recruiting.  This action is being sold in part as a way to, paraphrasing the Secretary of the Navy's own words, "make the other half (women) of American society available to fill the ranks."  It will not.

During my tours on recruiting -- both during time of war -- the critical node was the recruit's mother.  Annual Youth Attitude Tracking surveys always found that American mothers are the single most influential person in a recruit's decision-making.  Those same surveys show that mothers are also the least likely of all of the influencers to recommend volunteering for military service.  And, a mother's influence wanes little even after a potential recruit reaches the age of majority. Convincing "Mother" that her daughter could join the Marine Corps without fear of assignment to a frontline combat organization was, and remains, a challenge of the highest magnitude.

As you well know, although today's military is touted as an "All Volunteer Force," it is in fact an "all recruited force." The vast majority of young men and women who enlist in the US military do so only after contacted by a recruiter and sold on the benefits of service. What you may not know is that a significant percentage of male recruits are assigned to duty as infantry against their wishes -- it is not one of their top three choices.  Opening infantry to women will inevitably mean that women who meet the minimum physical standards will be forced into infantry units.  Instead of opening up the female half of the population to recruiting, this will have the opposite effect.  Mothers will not be willing to allow their daughters to join if there is a chance they will be forced into the infantry.

It is time for Congress to act.  The Secretary of the Navy has given the Marine Corps less than 6 months to implement full integration of women in recruit training and assignment to infantry units.  You must prevent this.  

I'm counting on you. 

Very Respectfully,
Thomas E. Gregory
Colonel, USMC (Ret)

The Beginning of the End

The recent liberal agenda-driven political decision to open American Army and Marine Corps infantry units to women, and the consequent decision by the Obama Administration to force the Marine Corps to fully gender integrate its recruit training (effective practically immediately) make perfect sense to anyone who has never served in an infantry unit in combat or in serious preparation for combat. 

Liberals hate the Marine Corps.  They view Marines as extremists.

They are correct in that assessment.

But the fact is: real Americans want an extreme Marine Corps. 

America wants the Marine Corps to set the bar; to send a loud and clear message to the Republic's enemies; to be the force on which it can depend without one moment's worry.

The Colonel does not mean to impugn the effectiveness of the other U.S. armed services.  They are very good.  But, they ain't the Marine Corps.

Search your feelings, my Army, Navy, and Air Force friends; you know it's true.

The Marine Corps is your daddy.

------------          

Thirty-seven years ago this week, the Colonel -- then a second lieutenant -- was assigned command of an infantry platoon.  Third Platoon, Company G, 2d Battalion, 2d Marine Regiment, 2d Marine Division, to be exact.  He commanded infantry units at every level from 40-man platoon to 3500-man regiment over the next two decades.

In between stints in Marine infantry units, the Colonel commanded significant portions of the Marine Corps' recruiting effort, as well as serving on joint and combined (with other nations) staffs.

The Colonel has served and trained with best in the world, here and abroad.  He knows that there is not a nickle's worth of difference between the young man or woman who joins the Marine Corps or the other armed services in this or any other western nation.  

The difference is the training.

Are there American warfighters better than the Marines at what they do?  Certainly!  The SEAL's standards and training produce men who man for man are better fighters than Marines (although, Special Operations Marines are quickly closing the gap).

There just aren't enough SEALs to really make a difference.

There are enough Marines, and they do make a difference.

Now.  But not for much longer.

Lowering the physical standards for service in the infantry, in general, and the Marine Corps, in particular -- inevitable, in order to meet the social engineering goals of the socialist politicians currently calling the shots -- will reduce American infantry to the status of less than world class.  

World class infantry wins wars, if allowed by world class political leadership. 

When the history of this Republic is written centuries hence -- those Chinese historians will marvel at the rapidity at which America rose to pre-eminence and then just as quickly forfeited its superiority.  They will marvel at the stupidity of American leaders, and issue stern warnings to their own leaders to avoid the same mistakes.

They won't.  The Chinese leadership of the 23rd Century will think themselves infallible after their nation rules the world for a 100 years.  They will begin to tinker with what made them great.

That's the way it has always been.