Been There, Done That, Staying Put

The Colonel recently returned from a week-long visit to Branson, Missouri, and is hereby declaring all of the boxes on his bucket list checked. I've travelled enough and seen enough for a dozen lifetimes, and my desire to roam beyond the confines of the county into whose clay I have driven my tent stakes has eroded to a point less than a quark from vanishing. I do not wish nor intend to spend another night away from home, this home, ever again.

Excuse me if this sounds a trifle truculent, but I ain't budgin' and I think I've earned the right. I've had more than a hundred different mailing addresses in my life. I've wandered and slumbered on every continent except Antarctica, and the pictures I've seen of that wasteland don't exactly stir any desire to book tickets on the next flight south. Sure, there's a lot of things I haven't seen and places I haven't been--but, I've seen and been to more than any other man of no means could expect.

I've climbed the foothills of the Atlas Mountains, scaled summits in the Sierra Nevadas, hiked to snow capped peaks in Norway, and trudged up the slopes of dormant volcanoes in Hawaii. The only height I wish to conquer from here on out is the hill up to the Big House from the back forty.

I've stood on the lock gates astride the Panama Canal; in the square at Marrakech; on the beach at Diego Garcia; in Tiananmen Square under the portrait of Mao; on sacred ground at Iwo, Anzio, Shuri, Antietam, Shiloh, Yorktown, and Gettysburg; at a guard post in the Korean DMZ; on the Great Wall; in the shadow of Fuji; at the ruins of the Roman Forum; in awe in the Sistine Chapel; and in line at countless chow halls and field messes. The only place I want to spend time standing from now on is in the stands of Vaught-Hemingway.

I've surveyed vistas of God's creation (and often man's impact thereon) from Hong Kong's Victoria Peak, from the North Shore of Ohau, from the summit of Stone Mountain, from the slopes of Moana Loa, from the Kahukus and the Koalaus. I’ve marveled at the Aurora Borealis north of the Arctic Circle, gaped at the Grand Canyon, sighted Hannibal’s Alpine traverse, pointed out Pike’s Peak, flown low over glaciers on the slopes of Denali, and dawdled along the Blue Ridge and through the Smokies. The only view I wish to take in from now on is that from one of a row of rocking chairs on the front porch of the Big House here at the northern end of southern nowhere.

I've sailed the North Atlantic in winter; bobbed about in the Mediterranean; criss-crossed the Pacific; thumbed my nose at the Soviets in the Sea of Okhotsk; sweated circles in the Indian Ocean; been hazed from polliwog to Shellback on the Equator near Singapore; been becalmed in the Sargasso Sea; marveled at flying fish in the Philippine Sea; sailed the Straits of Malacca, Hormuz, and Gibraltar; paddled the Rapidan, Rappahannock, Shenandoah, Chagres, Ocoee, Tallahatchie, Oakmulgee, Alabama, and a dozen other lesser streams. The only other bodies of water I wish to displace from now on are the Tallahatchie, Sardis, and Lake Brenda.

I’ve slept in a jungle hammock in Panama; in the mud at Quantico; in the swamps of Lejeune; in the sand of Oman and Somalia, on rice paddy dikes in Thailand, Singapore, and Korea; in the snow of Minnesota, Wisconsin, California, and Norway [and maybe a neighboring country--I can neither confirm nor deny, but as far as I could tell we skied off of my map and the border ran down the East side...]; in troop berthing on an LST; in a dozen different junior officer staterooms on a dozen different amphibs; in hundreds of hotel beds from flea-bag to five-star; in tents of every description, in sleeping bags, on pine straw, in hay lofts, at the wheel, and on my feet marching to chow at O dark thirty. The only place I want to sleep from now on is in the big bed at the Big House at Eegeebeegee.

I’ve flown in a fighter, in military cargo aircraft of all types, and logged more hours in the back of helicopters than most of the pilots had flying them. I’ve ridden in jeeps, trucks, half-tracks, DUKWs, Amphibious tractors, landing craft of all types, humvees, tanks, and hover craft; on horses, camels, elephants, and one very large dog. From now on the vehicular conveyances on which I want to embark are my tractor, Semper Field, and my truck, Semper Fillit. I will make the occasional exception to drive the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda’s car, when allowed.

I’ve rappelled off of waterfalls, fire towers, buildings, cliffs, and across a dance floor (there is photographic evidence of the latter that will remain locked in my desk drawer until long after my death). I’ve fast-roped from a CH-53E onto the crowded, rolling, and pitching deck of a merchant ship at sea and leaped from helicopters into snow banks and swamps. I've skied down snow-covered mountains and glissaded down scree slopes on two continents, and slid down muddy slopes on two more. The only heights from which I intend to negotiate an ascent from now on are deer stands and toilet seats.

I’ve heard the holler of howler monkeys on Barro Colorado island in Lake Gatun, the scream of a Jaguar on an un-named islet in Madden Lake, the call of a kookaburra in the Australian Outback, the protest of a camel outside my tent in Oman, the roar of Harriers launching from the flight deck over my stateroom, the echo of my voice from a nameless canyon in Tunisia, the whistle, blare, and babble of countless ship's 1MC interrupting my thoughts and ordering my days, and the staccato of muzzle blasts from a hundred rifles on my flanks. From now on all I wish to hear is the whistle of ducks' wings, the crunch of a deer stepping under my stand, God's word preached well and often, and Miss Brenda telling me she [still and inexplicably] loves me.

As long as I have the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda at my side, and fifty-seven acres on which to roam, I have all the space and excitement I need for the rest of my ride around ole Sol. Join me--it may be the only way you'll ever see me.

Patriot Day Dismissal

Searching for words this morning to describe my emotions. That our nation still has soldiers in the field chasing the ever elusive "hearts and minds" eight years after our generation's Pearl Harbor saddens and sickens the Colonel. Our men and women in uniform have performed magnificently--there is no historical parallel to their professionalism and effectiveness. On the other hand, our feckless national political leadership has failed us miserably in the fight against terrorism for an entire generation.

Even if you count Japanese, Italian, and German aggression in the late 1930's as the beginning of the Second World War, our fumbling strategic fight against our current enemy has lasted at least three times as long--and there is no satisfactory end in sight.

Eight years ago, a handful of brave Americans on Flight 93 gave us all the example of sacrificial action required to win wars. They gave everything they had and made a difference. We did not follow their lead. Instead, we sent our sons and daughters to fight a limited war with limited resources, while we continued to live our lives here at home like it was 1946. There was NO sacrifice at home. NONE. Our myopic, self-centered lives were not affected in any way at all.

We spent weeks this summer mooning over the death of a celebrity pedophile whose real contribution to our society will someday certainly be judged as deleterious at best. Some of us may spend a few minutes today remembering the common Americans who stepped from the soft shoes of anonymity into the painful boots of sacrificial heroism. But, if we do, we will be in the minority.

I know what the feeling is this morning--Disgust.

Old Is as Old Does

The other day, the Colonel and the latest generation of Gregory men--the hope of 21st century civilization--were enjoying our traditional (traditions are easily begun and sustained with three-year-olds) after-dinner ice cream sandwiches out on the front porch of the Big House at Eegeebeegee. Caleb, having rapidly dispatched his cold confection well under the 8 second mark necessary to claim victory in yet another of a long list of "races" by which the life of boy is ordered, opined that Pop needed to hurry up and finish his ice cream sandwich so that we could progress to the next race--the traditional after-after-dinner ice cream sandwich front yard frolic.


The tendinitis at the back of my right heel was still smarting from the previous evening's after-after-dinner ice cream sandwich front yard frolic, during which the man curmudgeoned before his time had found it surprisingly necessary to find a higher gear in the race to settle the best of thrty-seven series for the championship of the world in the Eegeebeegee Big House Front Yard Fifty Yard Dash. I failed to find the higher gear that only a year ago had been available and instead found a sharp-stabbing pain at the juncture of heel and Achilles tendon (why couldn't Thetis have dipped him in the Styx holding him by his thumb instead of his heel?!?). I informed Master Caleb that I would not be racing that evening. "Why?," he enquired, using the favorite word of little boys the world over.

"Because Pop's foot hurts, that's why."

"Why, Pop?"

"Because Pop is old, that's why."

"You're not old, Pop!"

"Well, if I'm not old, who is?"

"Nana."

"Pop, what is so funny? Pop, you laugh loud! Pop, you're turning red!"

Today, 09/09/09, is the [censored] anniversary of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's birth and air-breathing beginning of orbits 'round ole Sol. Not trying to make any old age allusions here, but when the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was born, the technology of the time had not detected her presence in the womb alongside her homely and mean-spirited twin sister. [The foregoing gratuitous cheap shot at the Colonel's sister-in-law was included purely for the sake of rhetorical and literary balance and is not indicative of the Colonel's actually feelings, nor does it in any way reflect an accurate assessment of said sister-in-law's countenance and character.] The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's appearance on the scene was an unexpected bonus.

The bonus has been my boon. Happy Birthday, Sweetthing! [Oh, yeah; you, too, Sis.]

High Hopes

Next weekend my Rebels will take the field to begin perhaps the most anticipated and expectation-filled football season since the too-long past national championship contending teams of two generations ago. Ole Miss is ranked as high as #8 in the national preseason polls--frighteningly high; gut-wrenchingly high; get-ready-to-have-your-heart-broken-once-again high. We haven't had a preseason ranking this high since Peyton's and Eli's daddy was at the helm in Oxford, and I wish for the world that we were entering the season un-ranked.

Faithfully following Ole Miss football this past half-century has not been a past-time for the faint of heart. The highs have been the highest and the lows have been the lowest. There have been amazing upset wins against eventual national championship game teams--Georgia in '76, Notre Dame in '77, Florida in '08 come to the Colonel's mind immediately. There have been incredibly disappointing losses against national championship contenders who escaped with extremely narrow wins. And, there have been losses to teams that should have been sure wins--in my first season on campus the fall of '74, South Carolina came to town for Rebel Homecoming and beat us 10 to 7. The Gamecocks went 1 and 10 that year.

There are many Rebel faithful predicting that this is the year we finally play in the SEC title game (we are the only SEC West team not to have--even Mississippi State has been to Atlanta). Some even believe it is possible that we will run the tables and play for the national championship. Well, anything is possible... The probabilities strain the handicapping abilities of even the most proficient odds-maker.

I am so looking forward to this season--and so dreading it.

Day's Day

Back a few years ago, the Colonel was in his last command in the Marine Corps, serving as the leader of the Corps' recruiting effort in the Southeast. Told that I had a call waiting from Colonel "Bud" Day, I caught my breath before picking up the phone. I knew Colonel Day only by reputation, and he was one of my heroes.

George "Bud" Day left high school and enlisted in the Marine Corps in 1942. Following the war, he went back to school, earning his bachelors and a law degree. He had joined the Army Reserve after his World War II Marine service, and was commissioned a second lieutenant in the Iowa Air National Guard in 1950. Following flight school, he served two tours of duty flying fighter- bombers in the Korean War, and then stayed in the Air Force as a career military officer. Although approaching eligibility to retire, Day volunteered for service in Vietnam--his third war. Because of his extensive flight experience and leadership ability, he was tapped to lead an experimental force, flying a two-seat variant of the F-100 Super Sabre, that was given the mission of high speed forward air controllers ("Fast FACs"). The F-100 was fast becoming obsolete, but Day's group of volunteers, all of whom were highly experienced pilots, soon gained a superb reputation for courage and competence.

Forty-two years ago, today, Day and his crew mate were directing air strikes just north of the DMZ when their aircraft was hit and disabled by ground fire. Severely injured as he ejected, he was captured and tortured for several days by the North Vietnamese militia unit that held him in a cave awaiting transportation further north. On his fifth night of capture, and although hindered by a broken arm and eye and back injuries, Day escaped from his captors and spent the next two weeks eluding them as he made his way south toward friendly lines. Within sight of a Marine base south of the DMZ, Day was discovered by an enemy patrol. Shot in the leg and hand in his recapture, Day was brutally tortured daily as he was slowly transported north to his eventual incarceration in the infamous Hao Loa prison--nick-named the "Hanoi Hilton" by the American POWs held there. My brief retelling of this story does it no justice. Day later received the Congressional Medal of Honor for his actions during this time.

Shortly after arriving at the Hanoi Hilton, Major Day and his cell mate, Air Force Major Norris Overly, were joined by a third POW. The Navy pilot was in such bad shape that Day and Overly were afraid for his life. They tended to him the best they could and he survived. That man was John McCain.

Tortured beyond the limits of human endurance on a regular basis by the North Vietnamese, Day remained defiant and provided incredibly forceful leadership example to the mostly younger American POWs. One anecdote from that dark experience has always been particularly inspiring to me. Towards the end of their captivity, sometime in 1971, the number of Americans held had grown so great that instead of the small group and solitary confinement under which most had been kept for years, the POWs were crowded in larger groups in somewhat larger rooms. When the North Vietnamese guards burst into one of these rooms to break up a religious service, Day stood defiantly and began to sing the Star Spangled Banner. When the guards attacked and silenced Day, another POW, James Stockdale (later Ross Perot's VP running mate) stood and took his place. The guards retreated as the entire room stood and sang. Day received the second highest military honor, the Air Force Cross, for his conduct and leadership as a POW.

I had read his story and those of the incredibly brave patriots who suffered in the Hanoi Hilton many times and had recommended its reading to many others. So, as I picked up the phone, I tried to think of something appropriate, not fawning, one colonel to another; but, yet, expressing my admiration and appreciation for his service and heroism. Didn't get the chance. Colonel Day wasn't making a social call.

Day was representing the father, another retired Air Force colonel, of a young man who had unfortunately died immediately following the running of a physical fitness test administered by some of my recruiters. The young man was applying for a Marine commissioning program, and had collapsed at the end of the 3-mile run portion of the test. Day wanted to know what the "government" in general, and the Marine Corps in particular, was going to do to recompense his client for the loss. His client was particularly insistent that his son was due the benefits of a military member. What I should have told Colonel Day was that the matter was still under investigation and that there was nothing I could do or say about the issue, and left it at that. But, I have never been very adept at "leaving things at that" and I went on to volunteer that, in my opinion, his client's deceased son would probably not qualify for any military benefits because he had merely applied, and not yet been accepted, for participation in the commissioning program. Colonel Day commenced to chew my posterior. Mind you, he never raised his voice. But, having been the recipient of more than my fair share of butt gnawings, I know one when I hear one, even when the gnawer is doing so in the most polite way.

I was disappointed. Not in Colonel Day, but in the circumstances under which I was talking to one of my heroes for the first and probably last time. Sure wish my conversation with him hadn't ended on such a note.

This Colonel, sole authority in such manners here aboard Eegeebeegee, capital of the Tallahatchie Free State, located at the northern end of southern nowhere, does hereby declare this day, August 26th, Day's Day. This day shall henceforth be celebrated with quiet solemnity aboard Eegeebeegee in deep appreciation for Day's service and the selfless service of his compatriots.

And the Rest is History...

Everyone told us not to do it. Everyone said it was a bad idea. Too young. Too exclusive. Our parents played it straight, hoping we would split up on our own. Our friends waited on us, knowing it wouldn't last. But, when God shows you "The One" there is only one viable course of action.

Thirty-eight years ago, today, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and I had our first "date." I was 15. The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was [number deleted to prevent unkind calculations]. We started our sophomore year in high school the next week.

By the end of our first month of "dating" it was becoming clear that there was a special chemistry between us. We fought about something every day. It was miserably fun.

For some reason--probably because everyone was rooting against us--we began to keep track of the number of months that had elapsed since our first date. We celebrated the 21st of every month as Our Day. In those halcyon hair-centric high school days, I spent countless hours maintaining my fine blond head-bone covering. My most important possession was a black, plastic comb. We began to mark the 21st of every month with a solemn ceremony during which I carved a small notch in the spine of my comb with my pocket knife (this was in the days when carrying a knife to school was not only condoned, but required).

Two years out of high school, and two years into my matriculation at the "Harvard of the South" (so-named as part of little-known reciprocal agreement whereby Harvard is allowed to refer to itself as the "Ole Miss of the North") the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and I wed--21 days shy of the five year anniversary of our first date.

Besides the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, there will be a handful of readers of this post, wasting valuable rod and cone time, who were along on that "first date" and who may take umbrage at the fact that I can gleefully tell you that you were wrong about my best friend and me. We made it.

Still making it.

Rights and Lefties

Broke out my copy of the American Citizen's Owner's Manual (aka Constitution) the other day and looked in vain for my "right" to health care.

The Preamble to our Constitution reads thus: "We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America." The closest thing to the stealthy "right to medical care" in the preamble is the phrase "promote the general Welfare." Note the word is PROMOTE, not PROVIDE. Government promotion means advocating the concept, and ensuring the environment in which, in this case, our nation's citizens as a whole can reasonably be assured of an acceptable standard of living. Under our Constitution, the government's role is to ensure the environment in which we may fairly pursue the blessings of liberty.

The remainder of the original Constitution, beyond the Preamble, contains only instructions for the organization and functioning of the Federal government. The only mention of individual rights that I can find in the main body of the constitution is an implied right to trial by jury found in Article III. At the urging of Washington and others, Congress proposed a Bill of [Individual] Rights that were ratified in 1791 (in the first successful test of the Constitutional system) as the first ten Amendments to the U.S. Constitution. Provided verbatim below:

I. Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

II. A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the People to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

III. No Soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house, without the consent of the Owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed by law.

IV. The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

V. No person shall be held to answer for any capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the Militia, when in actual service in time of War or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.

VI. In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district where in the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the Assistance of Counsel for his defense.

VII. In suits at common law, where the value in controversy shall exceed twenty dollars, the right of trial by jury shall be preserved, and no fact tried by a jury, shall be otherwise re-examined in any court of the United States, than according to the rules of the common law.

VIII. Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.

IX. The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.

X. The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people.

No "right" to health care anywhere in the Bill of Rights. Hmmm... What about in the rest of the Amendments to the U.S. Constitution?

Let's see, the Eleventh provided immunity of states from suits from out-of-state citizens and foreigners not living within the state borders; the Twelfth revised Presidential election procedures; the Thirteenth abolished slavery; the Fourteenth clarified citizenship, applied the Bill of Rights to the States, and denied public office to anyone who has rebelled against the United States. No right to health care in any of those.

The Fifteenth Amendment provided voting rights regardless of race, color, or previous condition of servitude; the Sixteenth allowed a Federal Income Tax; the Seventeenth took the power for appointing Senators away from state governors and allowed direct popular election; the Eighteenth prohibited the production, sale, and consumption of alcoholic beverages; the Nineteenth provided women the right to vote; the Twentieth changed the dates of commencement of congressional and presidential terms of office.

The Twenty-first allowed state and local governments to decide whether to prohibit or limit production, sale or consumption of alcoholic beverages; the Twenty-second limited the President to two terms; the Twenty-third allowed representation of the District of Columbia in the Electoral College; the Twenty-fourth prohibited restriction of voting rights due to non-payment of poll taxes; the Twenty-fifth clarified Presidential Succession; the Twenty-sixth lowered the voting age to 18; and the Twenty-seventh dealt with congressional compensation.

No “right” to health care found anywhere in our Owner's Manual. No need to establish a huge federal bureaucracy to run health care.

Want to improve our health care system? Simple enough--enact true tort reform, allow sale of insurance across state lines, and crack down on the crooks abusing the system. Government’s constitutional role is to REGULATE the system, not run it.

“Health Reform” is a power grab by the political elites—nothing more.

Monday Morning MOTOs Vol. II, Ed. 5

Good Monday morning from Eegeebeegee, capital of the Tallahatchie Free State, a virtual republic established as much hand on wallet as tongue in cheek. It is time once again for a regularly irregular installment of the Colonel's Monday Morning Mastery of the Obvious (MOTO) Awards, bestowed for the recipients' steel trap grasp of the obvious despite loss of touch with reality.

The Colonel awards the Monday MOTO bronze medal to Venezuelan strong man Hugo "Castro Lite" Chavez for his "ya think!" assessment of President Barack Obama's foreign policy. According to Reuters, Chavez achieved one moment of clarity in an otherwise rambling radio address, saying that, "President Obama is lost in the Andromeda Nebula, he has lost his bearings, he doesn't get it." Seems it takes one deceitful, power-mad leftist to know another.

The Monday MOTO silver medal goes to South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford who, according to the McClatchy News Service said Wednesday morning during a speech to the Twin City Rotary Club in Batesburg-Leesville, SC that, "A lot of folks were convinced that I was running for president. My political days are over.'' A lot of people were, Governor, and, yes, now your political career has come to a screeching halt. Too bad you weren't a democrat and governor of Arkansas--you would have been a shoe-in.

The Monday MOTO gold medal goes to Hillary Clinton, who, while visiting the Democratic Republic of Congo responded to a student's mis-translated question with a most un-diplomatic, "My husband is not the Secretary of State. I am." Obama was a genius--putting his rivals in positions where the press would catch them, tired and off-guard, saying what was really on their minds. Guess it'll be Biden's turn next.

Will the Real Colonel Reb please stand up?

Greetings Patriots. The Colonel bids you well this morning. I am compelled, in light of recent liberal progressive government hyperventilation regarding the resurgence of militia groups here in these re-United States, to point out that, despite tongue-in-check protestations and references posted herein, I am no "'lutionary"--revo nor counter-revo. The Colonel does not and will not associate himself with camo-clad delusionals; the exception being my duck and deer hunting buddies who regularly don camo and indulge in delusional behavior regarding their prowess at apex predation. My assessment of the militia movements in this country is that the vast majority are made up of "wannabes" who failed the American manhood test (failed to volunteer for military service) early in their adult life and use their militia association to either assuage their lack of manhood or as an outlet for their ignorant racial discriminatory beliefs. I harbor neither need. To paraphrase the late Gidget, the Taco Bell Chihuahua: "I'm a real Colonel."

Given the banishment of the Ole Miss athletics mascot by a university administration participating in the intelligence death spiral of "political correctness," the Colonel also feels compelled to point out that he is the "real" Colonel Reb. The evidence is simple and direct. My military "call sign," granted by my fellow operators, was, not surprisingly given my pride of matriculation at Ole Miss, "Rebel." So, I claim, without a tinge of humility, that I am Colonel Reb.

Okay, maybe I am a bit deluded after all.

Guadalcanal--Gettysburg in the Pacific

One of the most bitterly fought campaigns of the Second World War began this date, 7 August, sixty-seven years ago. The island chain eventually wrested from Japanese control was the first in a two-pronged strategy that rolled back the Axis tide in the Pacific. One of the later islands seized in this drive, Tinian, possessed excellent airfields from which the long-range strategic aerial bombardment of the Japanese home islands culminated in the atomic annihilation of Hiroshima and Nagasaki (and the unconditional surrender of Japan) exactly three years (to the week) after this date's 1st Marine Division landing on Guadalcanal.

A few of the Marines who landed on Guadalcanal's beach and began to push inland through the dense jungle had experience with a similar type of terrain--they had fought in the so-called "Banana Wars" of the twenties and thirties. But chasing the likes of bandits like Sandino in the jungles of Nicaragua could prepare no one for the brutal fight that awaited the 1st Marine Division on "the 'canal." The environment's hostility was surpassed only by the fierce tenacity of the Japanese--twenty percent of the Marines fell prey to a severe strain of dysentery within the first two weeks on the island. Guadalcanal lay strategically astride the supply lines to Australia. The fate of Australia and New Zealand would be controlled by whoever controlled Guadalcanal. Japan's expansionist dreams depended on control of the South Pacific (including, eventually, Australia and New Zealand), and they fought ferociously to throw the Americans off of their foothold in the Solomons. Over the next several months, the Japanese landed reinforcements on one end of the island while the Marines dug in and expanded their beachhead on the other. Fierce battles raged on pieces of terrain that would become immortalized in Marine Corps lore--Lunga Point, Alligator Creek, Edson's Ridge, Matanikau River, and Henderson Field. Marines got their first, but not last, taste of the human wave banzai attack. At sea, the American Navy began to stand up to and lick their Japanese naval rivals, and in the air American pilots defending the 1st Marine Division learned valuable lessons in dogfights against the vaunted Zero.

By December of 1942, it was clear to the Japanese that their land and naval forces were no longer a match for the growing American strength in the Solomons and they began to withdraw their forces and retract their strategic perimeter in the Pacific. It was the beginning of the end for the Japanese. Although two and a half more years of horrendous losses on both sides were to transpire, it was only a matter of time before the gathering strength of the "Sleeping Giant" would overwhelm the Empire of the Rising Sun. Guadalcanal was, in a way, the Gettysburg of the Pacific, and marked the high water mark of Japanese expansion.

I have had the opportunity to meet a few of the Marines who fought on Guadalcanal with the 1st Marine Division. The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda even has a great uncle who fought on Guadalcanal. It was their accomplishments and exploits (and those of their brothers in the other five Marine Divisions that swept across the Pacific over the next three years) that made being a Marine in my time such a special privilege and honor.

First Monday Miss

The Colonel and his bride, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, checked another box on our "To See and Do" list last weekend--and, despite an "Awww, look Eyud" and a pouty face, there was no puppy purchased.

Up near the state line with Tennessee in north Mississippi, the little town of Ripley (pop. just shy of 6000) continues to carry on a tradition that began over a century ago. In 1893, the American economy crashed into a depression that was to last for the better part of a decade. The bursting of a railroad investment bubble (one in a long line of investment bubbles to burst--including the recent dot com and housing bubbles) and a credit crunch caused by runs on overextended banks contributed to what is now known as "The Panic of '93." Unemployment averaged 15% for the next six years. A large proportion of the recently enlarged "middle class" lost their life savings in bank failures and, unable to pay their mortgages, walked away from homes that had been purchased well beyond their needs and means. As the depression rapidly deepened, and prices for export crops like corn and cotton fell dramatically, farming communities were hit particularly hard. To help each other combat the crippling effects of the depression, the farming community of Ripley, Mississippi began to hold monthly "swap meets" on the courthouse square. Originally called "Trade Day," the meet was scheduled for the first Monday of each month and soon became known as "First Monday." Farmers brought their produce to exchange with others and also toted along livestock and firearms to trade as well. As the crowds attending First Monday grew over the years the location of the event was shifted further and further out of the town center to locations that could accommodate larger crowds. Today, First Monday is held on the weekend before the first Monday of each month at a fifty acre site south of town.

The Colonel, remembering that last Friday was the 33rd anniversary of our wedding, took the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda out to dinner and a movie--"Squirrel!!--and asked her where she would like to go the next day for Day Trip. She said, "I wanna go see 'First Monday,'" and so bright and early Saturday morning, we snuck out of the house before the hope of twenty-first century civilization (and their parents) woke up and headed for Ripley.

First Monday is pretty much your basic flea market with the added attraction of livestock and dogs for sale. And, you haven't lived until you munch on a corn dog and a funnel cake while watching vendors stuff sold chickens in sacks. As we sauntered along the lane dedicated to dogs for sale, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda sighted a yellow lab puppy on the tailgate of a pickup, yanked her hand out of mine and ran like a ten-year old over to pet the third most destructive force on the planet (behind a platoon of Marines and two grandsons). The man with the dog whipped out a set of "papers" and offered that this "registered, full-bred labbadoor" (sic) could be hers for only $25.

"Awww, Eyud, its so cute! He's got papers and is only $25! The boys would love him."

The Colonel was born at night--not last night. I didn't just fall off the turnip truck. I might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I'm not crazy. I didn't just re-enlist of the way to lunch. I didn't just...okay, you get the idea. I wasn't going to buy a papered puppy for just $25. Everybody knows that if you don't pay at least $500--you ain't gettin' a good dawg.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda put on her best pouty face, but the Colonel was not swayed. I stood my ground, grasped her hand, and leaned away from the tailgate-soiling pup until Miss Brenda's hand let go of the dog's neck. With her momentum going in my direction, I looked around for something much more appropriate for our attention--"Look, Sweety, that guy's got fishing poles and pocket knives for sale--two for a dollar."

It was a narrow miss. We'll get the boys a dog for a house-warming gift when they move into their own place.

The Christian's Fleet of Faith

The Colonel had the opportunity to lead a devotional for Wednesday Evening Prayer Service. Text follows:



As a Marine, I spent a lot of time on Navy ships. My sailor friends reminded me often, that despite the fact that we Marines spent a lot of time wallowing in the mud ashore, I was first and foremost a Naval Officer. They impressed upon me from my earliest training just down the road here in the building on campus that formerly was known as McCain Hall, that I needed to understand the fundamentals of naval warfare just as much as the fundamentals of warfare ashore. So, I learned how to talk sailor--they have a different word for everything: a wall was not a wall--it was a bulkhead, a door was called a hatch, the floor was referred to as the deck, left was port, right was starboard. They didn’t even use the simple "yes, sir"—it was aye, aye sir.

Later on in my naval career, I learned about the capabilities and tactics of navigating and fighting a single ship. I learned that rarely did a single ship sail and operate alone. No matter how powerful and capable a single ship was, it was not near as strong and capable as it was when combined into a balanced fleet of ships each possessing unique characteristics and functions. This fleet team was able to operate farther and influence a much greater patch of territory on the globe than a single ship. At the heart of each fleet is one or more capital ships—a battleship, for example. The other ships in a fleet support, defend, and add their capabilities to that most powerful ship. All of the ships in a fleet, large and small, have critical roles. Lose a particular type of ship and the fleet operates at much less than optimal strength and effectiveness—sometimes loss of a key small ship leaves the fleet vulnerable to crippling attack, or leaves the fleet unable to accomplish an important mission.

There is a Christian Fleet of Faith. It is composed of several separate and distinct “ships,” each of which possess unique characteristics and functions. By themselves, each of these “ships” has some ability to operate and have positive effect on their own. But, each of these “ships” also has functions and characteristics that lend themselves to increasing the effectiveness of the rest of a Christian’s fleet. Let’s look at each one of these ships separately for a minute and see how each one complements the other and makes the whole fleet stronger.

The first “ship”, Worship, is the “battleship” at the heart of your fleet of faith. We find the first instance of man’s worship of God in the book of Genesis—12:7 As the relationship between man and God grew, so did our understanding of worship as our primary function with regard to God. Worship of God is the first thing we do when we accept Jesus as our Savior. In the ninth chapter of John’s Gospel, the disciple tells of Jesus giving sight to a blind man. In verse 35 John tells us that Jesus asked the man “Do you believe in the Son of Man?” Let’s look at the response—verses 36—38. What did the healed man (Can’t call him the blind man anymore!) do immediately upon believing in Jesus? He Worshiped Jesus! Worship is the first and most important thing in our relationship with God. Just as a fleet would be weak and ineffective without its battleship heart, so the Christian’s fleet of Faith is powerless without worship. I won’t belabor this point—it is obvious to you. Instead I want to focus on the other supporting ships in our fleet.

If Worship is the battleship in our fleet of faith, then the twin ships Membership and Fellowship are the heavy cruisers. A heavy cruiser is powerful, but not as powerful as the battleship. A heavy cruiser can operate alone, but not for very long. Its real mission is to defend the battleship so that the battleship can focus on striking the enemy and not waste effort defending itself. Likewise, membership in a church family and fellowship with brothers and sisters in Christ strengthens our worship. From membership, and participation, in a Sunday School class we study scripture and learn God’s will in our lives. In the fellowship of that Sunday School class we share our spiritual and physical needs. In that group of Christian brothers and sisters we share in worship and minister to others. There is no other group in any church family that is as powerful as a Sunday School class. Period. Let me say that again—there is no other group in any church family that is as powerful as a Sunday school class. I won’t argue that point—I’m right. If you are not in a Sunday School class, your fleet of faith is suffering from a weak fellowship. If you are not in a Sunday school class, there is one that, among the many that meets every Sunday at 9 am, is just for you. And since you already know how to find your way to this room, there is a class that meets right here every Sunday morning. Stand up, Miss Brenda. This, for those of you who have never met her, is the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda. Now you know where a class meets and you know someone in that class. Join us in fellowship. This is too easy. So, let’s move on and look at another ship in our fleet-- Discipleship

If Worship is the battleship heart of our fleet of Faith and Membership and Fellowship are the heavy cruisers that support and defend the heart of our fleet, then Discipleship is the Marine landing force of the fleet. Jesus gave several missions to our Christian Family Fleet of faith. In the 22nd chapter of Matthew’s gospel, the disciple quotes Jesus telling the Pharisees the greatest commandment in the Law was “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.” –that’s worship. Jesus went on to say that “the second is…You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” Jesus told us to love and support each other in the Church Family—that’s fellowship. He told us to love others outside of the Church Family—putting that love into action is discipleship. Jesus gave us a mission we call the Great Commission. In the final verses of his Gospel, Matthew quotes Jesus giving this mission to his disciples and by extension to all believers: “All authority has been given to Me in heaven and on earth. Go, therefore, and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I commanded you…” Jesus was very specific about what His mission for us was. Just as it makes no sense for a fleet to exist without a mission, it makes no sense for us to exist as a church family without one. But, the mission of discipleship cannot be accomplished at long distance. A fleet given the mission of capturing a piece of enemy territory cannot accomplish that mission by standing offshore and lobbing shells onto the land. The Marines have to go ashore and get up close and personal with the enemy. Supporting fire from ships and aircraft is important—but boots on the ground win battles. So it is with discipleship. Jesus commanded us to go ashore—not sit safely on the ship.

So, our Fleet of Faith has at its heart the battleship of Worship, it has the supporting and defending heavy cruisers of Membership and Fellowship, and the Marine landing force of Discipleship… there ares two more ships in our fleet of faith we need to talk about.

The least considered but clearly most important ship in any fleet is the supply ship. The other fighting ships of the fleet can only carry so much fuel, food and ammunition. They have to be resupplied often. Without its supply ships, a fleet quickly becomes ineffective. In a Christian’s Fleet of Faith, the supply ship is Stewardship. Without stewardship, the battleship of Worship, the supporting and defending heavy cruisers of Membership and Fellowship, and the Marine landing force of Discipleship are far less effective—often completely ineffective. But, not because God needs a paltry tenth of our money to accomplish his designs. He doesn’t need “our” money. God took two tiny fishes and five small loaves and fed thousands! Do you believe God is Great? Amen? He’s the Mighty Yahweh, the Great I Am. He’s the Divider of the Red Sea, the Deliverer of Israel. He dropped the mighty walls of Jericho; He crushed the camp of a hundred thousand Midianites, both with just the toot of a horn! He’s the God of Abraham to whom he gave a son by Sarah when he was a hundred years old and she was 91! Do you believe God is Great? Amen? Listen to this: My God is so great that He looked two thousand years into the future and saw me, one of billions on this earth, dead in my sin and rebellion against Him, and He sent Jesus, His only son, to give His life as a blood sacrifice to cover my sin from God’s eyes. Do you believe God is Great? Amen? Believe this: Every bit of “our” money, every penny, is God’s to begin with. Can I get an Amen? Do you believe that everything we have comes from God, because God created and owns everything to begin with? Amen? So, God doesn’t need for us to give Him one red cent. It is his already, and believe me, he will take it back if he wants it. God doesn’t need us to give him an offering. But, We Need to give God an offering. Our tithes and offerings are not for God’s needs! Our tithes and offerings are for OUR Needs! And for OUR blessings. Malachi spoke for God when he told the people of Israel “Bring the whole tithe into the storehouse, so that there may be food in My house, and test Me now in this says the Lord of hosts, if I will not open for you the windows of heaven and pour out for you a blessing until it overflows.” I don’t believe there is anything else about which God has given us permission to test him.

Here is my testimony. A Sunday School teacher led me to salvation when I was nine years old. A missionary taught me to eat the meat of the word when I was a teenager. A church family, right here at Abbeville Baptist Church, ministered to me and my new bride for two years starting thirty-three years ago. They loved us, taught us, fed us, and stayed in our hearts as we wandered the globe for the next three decades. Brenda and I believe without a shadow of a doubt that God brought us back here two years ago as part of a blessing to us for exercising the faith we learned here. This church taught us to tithe and to give. We didn’t give much—we didn’t have much. God didn’t need our tithe and our offerings for this church. But, we needed to give it. Folks, we had nothing but each other in those days—and there wasn’t much of that to go around, either! And yet, we never lacked for anything we needed. There was no way our budget supported tithing on paper —there was not enough income to cover our needs let alone to give a tenth off the top to God. We finally stopped trying to budget a tithe and just trusted God. We tithed and then budgeted the rest. Let me say that again, we tithed, and then budgeted the rest. God blessed us with more than we needed, and we lived our lives that way from that time on. Okay, I’ll admit to you that there were a couple of times where we were tempted to skip a tithe in order to get ahead of the budget curve. But, you know what happened? The car broke down. The refrigerator quit working. God disciplined us for our lack of faith and we got right back on the tithe wagon before He started taking anything else back. I am convinced that if we had not continued to tithe first and budget the rest, we would be in debt up to our eyeballs and living somewhere else. From the time Brenda and I began to share our dreams 38 years ago, we wanted to be right where we are now. I am certain that we are blessed with the fulfillment of that dream because of our faithfulness to give back to God. There is no other explanation. That’s my testimony.

Someone taught me a long time ago that the true measure of our faith is not what we say, but what we do? Do you believe this? Amen? If so, what does our giving say about our faith?

The Christian Fleet of Faith has the battleship of Worship, the supporting and defending heavy cruisers of Membership and Fellowship, the Marine landing force of Discipleship, and the supply vessel Stewardship. There’s one last ship in the Christian Fleet of Faith—Leadership.

As Christians we are to discern and subject ourselves to God’s will by the leadership of the Holy Spirit. That’s something we’ve all been taught from day one in our church experience. Further, we are commanded to subject ourselves to the leadership of the man God appoints to pastor his church. We know this. But, did you know that as a Christian you are called to be a leader, too?

Napoleon often remarked that every private in his army carried a marshal’s baton in his knapsack. What he tried to instill in his army was the belief that every man in the army was a leader who could step up and take charge in a given situation that called for that man’s appreciation of an opportunity on the battlefield. We Marines have a similar belief that every Marine is a Leader. All American armed forces believe the same thing. I believe that Jesus considered us all leaders. The Great Commission calls for us to share the Gospel and LEAD others to Christ. Each one of us in this room, beyond the age of accountability, is a leader. Someone in our lives looks to us for our wisdom and example—a child, a sibling, even a parent; could be a co-worker, a neighbor, someone we may not even know by name. Like it or not, you are a leader. And, our Fleet of Faith will not be near as effective as it could be if we do not accept the responsibility as Christian leaders. I’m not talking necessarily about a formal leadership position in the church—I’m talking about the leadership we provide to our children by teaching them about their Fleets of Faith—Worship, Membership, Fellowship, Discipleship, Stewardship, and Leadership. I’m talking about the Christian example of Faith we provide to the new brothers and sisters in Christ who look to us for leadership. In his first letter to the Corinthian church, Paul said “for if the bugle produces an indistinct sound, who will prepare himself for battle.” The context for this was his instructions regarding prophecy and speaking in tongues, but the message is clearly one regarding standard setting and setting the example by leaders. Paul was using the Roman army as an example for his point. The Romans had a series of distinctly different bugle calls by which roman leaders ordered their soldiers’ daily lives. One call woke them in the morning, another told them to stop to eat, another to get back to work, another to put on armor and assemble for battle. If a leader, through his bugler, produced a call that was misunderstood, a soldier might start cooking lunch when his leader needed him to get ready to fight. The lesson for us is that as leaders we must clearly pass on the teachings of Christ and lead by example. If we send mixed messages—saying one thing, but doing something different—then those we should be leading will not be prepared to battle against sin or to grow in their faith to the point that they are receiving the blessings God is prepared to give them. If a fellow Christian is not being blessed, we might do well to look at our leadership example to them. We may be the ones leading them astray. And, I believe that one of our greatest leadership failings is in the matter of stewardship. The example of our giving, and how we manage our finances, is perhaps the single greatest impression we leave on our children and others regarding the strength of our faith in God.

Do you believe God wants you to be a leader? Say Amen, shake your head yes. Do you believe God wants your Fleet of Faith to be effective in accomplishing His work here on Earth? Say Amen, shake your head yes. Is there some “ship” – either Worship, Membership, Fellowship, Discipleship, Stewardship, or Leadership -- that is weak or missing from your Fleet of Faith? Say amen, shake your head yes. My prayer is that God will convict us of the weaknesses in our faith and make us miserable until we bend to his will.

From Fire to Freedom

Sometimes a severe trial by fire prepares one for an even more demanding crucible.

Thirty-two years ago today, the USS Forrestal, the lead ship in the Forrestal class of true "supercarriers," and named for James Forrestal, Secretary of the Navy during the Second World War, was on "Yankee Station" in the Gulf of Tonkin off the coast of North Vietnam conducting strike operations against communist targets. Just before 1100, as Forrestal's embarked air wing was preparing to launch the second strike of the day, a disastrous chain of events began to unfold that would involve the carrier's crew in a fiery fight for the very life of their ship.

On the crowded stern half of Forrestal's flight deck a score of strike aircraft were fueled and armed and preparing for taxi to the catapults on the forward half of the flight deck. One of the aircraft parked on the starboard side of the flight deck, a two-seat F-4B Phantom II, was armed with a pod of air-to-ground Zuni rockets. As the aircraft switched from external to internal power, an electrical surge inexplicably caused one of the rocket motors to ignite. The rocket shot across the flight deck and into the aircraft parked along the port edge of the deck. The rocket hit and ignited an underwing fuel tank on a single-seat A-4E Skyhawk. As firefighting teams rapidly responded to the fire, fuel tanks on adjacent aircraft overheated and ruptured, adding their fuel the fire. As the pilot of the stricken plane scrambled out of the cockpit and leaped to the deck, one of the bombs slung externally under the aircraft "cooked off" in the intense heat of the fuel fire and exploded. The pilot, and most of the firefighting crew, were killed in that explosion. As other bombs cooked off, pilots of adjacent aircraft also abandoned their cockpits. One, Lieutenant John S. McCain III, rather than climb down onto and then off the wing of his jet (which would have led him into the middle of the growing conflagration), climbed out onto the nose of his plane and jumped clear. While helping another pilot escape, McCain was hit by shrapnel from an exploding bomb but managed to get away from the exploding inferno with his life. It was a miraculous escape, by any estimation.

The fire on Forrestal got much worse before it was gotten under control. With most of the first line firefighters killed in the initial blasts and much of their specialized firefighting equipment destroyed, the remainder of the crew responded with improvisation that in some cases actually aggravated the situation--such as when seawater pumped onto the fire washed away the foam fire retardant initially sprayed on the deck and carried burning fuel below decks. By the time the fire was out, 134 men were dead and scores more grievously burned.

John McCain could have gone with the Forrestal back to Norfolk where months of extensive repairs were required. Instead, McCain and others volunteered to transfer to the air wing on another carrier, USS Oriskany, also conducting strike operations against the North Vietnamese. Almost three months to the day, October 26, 1967, since his escape from the fiery maelstrom on Forrestal's flight deck, McCain was shot down over Hanoi. Severely injured in his ejection and subsequent capture, the North Vietnamese initially refused him treatment and expected him to die. When they realized who McCain was, the grandson and son of admirals, they reluctantly tended to his wounds on the assumption that some propaganda advantage might be gained. When his father assumed command of Pacific Command and the war effort in 1968, the North Vietnamese offered to release McCain as a "humanitarian gesture." McCain recognized this devious ploy for what it was, and refused repatriation until all of the POWs shot down before him were released. The communists of course refused this and McCain would languish in agony from his wounds and frequent torture until all of the POWs were released in 1973.

In the summer of 1977, the Colonel was experiencing the not-so desperate, yet grueling non-the-less, crucible of Officer's Candidate School at Quantico, Virginia. Sometime in July of that year--the date escapes the few remaining cognitive cells lying fallow in the recesses of my brain housing group, but had to be near the tenth anniversary of the Forrestal tragedy--then Commander McCain, still on active duty, was invited to speak to our class. I don't remember many of the details of the hour he spent on stage in front of the 250 of us seeking to follow in his patriotic footsteps. I was impressed, however. Not much else from that sweltering summer on the banks of the Chopawamsic remains as indelibly marked in my consciousness as the humble seriousness of the man who quietly recounted, not so much his heroics, but the heroics of the others who shared the incredible privation of imprisonment at the hands of the communist Vietnamese sadists. There was no empty sloganeering--just a plain spoken recounting of men enduring a crucible their civilian contemporaries safely back at home could not conceivably comprehend nor appreciate.

The man is no saint. But he is an American hero, from a generation that shamefully produced too few. He and his comrades sacrificed their very freedom so that the rest of us could enjoy ours. And now he is enjoying the freedom only a fiery trial can peacefully provide.

The Colonel has a sneaking suspicion that the Senator may be almost relieved not to be imprisoned by the office he sought last year.

"Raindrops are falling on my head..."

A steady rain has fallen here at the northern end of southern nowhere for the better part of the last eighteen hours, and the weather guesser says he thinks it will continue to do so for the rest of the week. The persistent precipitation has not, and will not be allowed to, dampen the Colonel’s spirits for the following reasons:

First Hug. Number One son and his bride, she of the highly exalted and fiercely protected position of Provider of Grandsons, are staying with the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and the Colonel while they prepare for transition to their own abode. As a result, the Big House here at Eegeebeegee, capital of the virtual republic, The Tallahatchie Free State, has perceptively shrunken in its accommodation of the Colonel’s two grandsons, and the hope of 21st Century civilization, Caleb and Taylor. Caleb and his “Pop”, as the Colonel has chosen to be addressed by his granchillin’ (in tribute to my grandfather, Vernon “Pop” Gregory), are, thanks to much time spent together in the first year and a half of his life, bonded buddies who share loving hugs at greeting and farewell. Different story with his little brother. Taylor demonstrates perhaps a much more finely tuned judgment of character than his big brother and has heretofore refused, rebuffed, and otherwise denied the gruff ole Colonel’s request for a hug. Until this morning. Mr. T graced the Colonel with a warm, albeit brief, hug at first greeting this morning. Heart melting stuff—even for the man curmudgeoned before his time. Let it rain!

Filling the Lake. Number Two son and the Colonel belong to a brainless brotherhood known as duck hunters. Said brotherhood participates in perhaps the most idiotic and masochistic endeavor (outside of following Ole Miss football) known to man. Duck hunting is best described as interminable hours of cold, wet, windy, muddy misery, infrequently interspersed with brief moments of feathery delight. Said pursuit is made even more idiotic and masochistic when our ever-changeable climate produces years of below average rainfall necessitating arduous decoy bag-hauling and brush-busting to reach shrunken water holes to which a paltry few waterfowl venture from the flyway to frequent. The best duck seasons are those preceded by prodigious precipitation that fills our local flood-control reservoir to overflowing. Let it rain!

Tempering the Temperature. The Colonel’s temper has, with the accumulation of orbits round Ole Sol, cooled significantly from the white hot intemperance of youth to the simmering stew of older age; except when the outside temperature climbs above ninety. There was a time when I gloried in a bath of sweat while laboring or working out in temps pushing triple digits. Not so, no mo’. Interrupt the Colonel on a hot summer day whilst in the midst of a strenuous task and you are likely to witness an eruption rivaling Vesuvius, complete with explosive molten exhalations and fiery rain. Not bragging, mind you—the foregoing is more of an embarrassing admission. Needless to say, the Colonel’s temper has embarrassed him fairly regularly during the first stifling hot days of this summer. A rain-bearing cold front is, therefore, a welcome relief to the Colonel as well as to those around him. Let it rain!


Of course, I might get a case of the “red eye” if my driveway gets washed out.

The Korean Case

Precedents established in exhausted expediency always complicate future endeavors.

Fifty-six years ago today, the antagonists arrayed against each other in bloody stalemate on the Korean peninsula agreed to an armistice to halt active combat operations and bring an end to the three year war that had begun with a communist North Korean attack of South Korea. The communists’ goal was to reunite the Korean peninsula, divided by the Russians and the Americans at the end of the war against Japan in late summer of 1945. The June 1950 Northern aggression, at least tacitly approved of by the Russians and Chinese, quickly routed the over-matched Southerners and the few American forces diverted to the melee from their cushy occupation duties in Japan. In a matter of weeks, the remaining effective South Korean and American units had retreated to a small perimeter around the southern port city of Pusan--ceding virtually the entire peninsula to the communists.

The United States, who eight and a half years previous had answered Japan's aggression with a formal, unilateral declaration of war, went this time to the newly created United Nations for a mandate to conduct "police actions," as Harry Truman called it. There was no formal, unilateral American declaration of war (as mandated by OUR CONSTITUTION). Instead, we experimented with a world government (in violation and ignorance of OUR CONSTITUTION). The results were just as unsatisfactory at this first attempt to change human nature and subvert nationalism as they have been at every juncture since. Without a formal declaration of war, the United States attempted to win the Korean conflict “on the cheap.” No formal declaration of war meant that there was no basis for rallying the American people and marshaling American resources for the express goal of defeating an enemy. Whereas during the Second World War, in which a formal state of war existed between the United States and the Axis Powers, the American economy was virtually entirely devoted to the production of war material (there were NO private vehicles produced by American car companies; sugar, gas, and rubber were rationed), during the three years of the Korean conflict, the American population experienced virtually no sacrifices at all.

A “surge” of limited American military power reversed the North Korean gains in the fall of 1950. American forces not only liberated the South Korean capital, Seoul, but pushed the communists all the way to the Yalu River—the border with China. When the Chinese entered the war against American forces on their doorstep in December of 1950, destroying the better part of two US divisions, the United States should have formally and unilaterally declared war on the Communist Chinese. Instead, American politicians, caring more for their re-election prospects than for the good of the American nation, demurred of definitive action and sought to prevent another round of the public privation it took to achieve victory in the recent war with Germany and Japan. The result was stalemate and wastage of American blood and treasure.

After two and half more years of meat grinding along the trenched front stretching across the Korean peninsula, newly inaugurated President Eisenhower sacrificed the communist enslaved peoples of China and North Korea to the ease and comfort of the American people. The Armistice, not a Peace Treaty, signed by China, the United States, and the two Koreas in the late summer of 1953, did bring a Peace, of sorts, to the Region. The cost to the United States was high—a permanent American “trip-wire” presence in South Korea against the prospect of a resumption of hostilities. The cost to the Koreans was even higher—the two continued to squander a vast proportion of their respective GDPs on armies squared off against each other across what became, and is still, the most dangerous border in the world. Lucky for the South Koreans, their American allies developed an insatiable desire for cheap goods the production of which eventually spurred the development of their economy to the point that it vaulted from the primarily agrarian to the rapid standard-of-living-raising industrialized nation ranks. The personality cult-oppressed people of the northern half of the peninsula were not nearly so lucky—they just continued to starve. And China? Well, Mao’s subsequent “cultural revolution” had a death toll second only to the infanticide since Roe v. Wade. And, ultimately, Communist Chinese (and Soviet) support of the nationalist socialist designs of Ho Chi Minh resulted in the near destruction of American society in another undeclared war American political leaders (and I use that word loosely) attempted to fight on the cheap rather than sacrifice domestic goals (see Johnson’s “Great Society”).

Since the end of the Second World War, and following the horribly unconstitutional precedent of our Korean experience, the illegal war-making of the United States has continued with alarming regularity. Without formal declarations of war (required by OUR CONSTITUTION), the United States has dabbled in open-ended military adventurism the world over without much to show for it beyond frustration and embarrassment. The case can be made that every American president from Truman to Obama has committed the impeachable offense of extra-constitutional war-making. But, don’t take my word for it, break out a copy of your American Citizen Owner’s Manual (aka: United States Constitution) and see for yourself.

Short of that larger point, however, is these re-United States' currently quagmired quest to eliminate (or at least marginalize) radical Islamic terrorism—the so-called War on Terror. Because there was no formal, Constitutional, unilateral declaration of war against the nations employing terrorism as a political weapon, or aiding and abetting those who were, there was no basis for rallying the American people and marshaling American resources for the express purpose of defeating an enemy of America. As the Colonel’s kids can quote with eyes rolling, near term sacrifice is the only sure route to long term gratification. Attempting to fight a war on the cheap, without marshaling the nation for victory, may prevent public privation in the short term, but having never achieved victory it actually results in much longer delayed fulfillment of our ultimate gratification goals.

It's clearly a case of pay me now or pay me more later. We continue to pursue the latter course of action--to our nation's great detriment.

Uplifting Lift-off

What a difference a decade makes.

Forty years ago today, the most ambitious mission of exploration ever attempted by man left the launch pad and rocketed moonward. At the tip of one of the greatest controlled explosions ever created, and at the apex of one of the greatest technological efforts ever attempted, three men carried the fascination of the world and the pride of a nation away from the Good Earth toward a rendezvous with what for most of man’s history had only been a strangely shape-shifting light in the sky. Armstrong, Aldrin, and Collins placed their names at the bottom of the world’s list of explorers whose names are immortalized for taking a chance—Jason, Zhou, Yang, De Gama, Erickson, Columbus, Magellan, Polo, Lewis, Clark, and Pike, to name a few.

Thirty years ago today, the most ineffective and embarrassing American president since Grant accused the American people of slumping into a self-absorbed “malaise.”

In ten years’ time, the psyche of the American people plunged from pride at the penultimate achievement of man’s innate drive to know the other side of the mountain to self-pity and national loathing. A nation tired and leery of strong, purposeful leadership in the office of President voted for change and elected a pseudo-intellectual populist, and the nation drifted from prominence to purgatory. A desultory dance with a sputtering economy and a hapless response to events in Iran doomed the Carter administration and relegated it to an embarrassing one-term footnote in American presidential history.

In another ten years the nation was back on its feet, the sole survivor of the super-power struggle between socialist tyranny and free-market republicanism. Here’s hoping history continues to repeat itself.

Monday MOTOs; Vol II, Ed. 4

A good and kind Monday morning to one and all from the northern end of southern nowhere. The Colonel is ensconced in the highly esteemed Chesty Puller Chair of Curmudgeonly Commentary topside at the Big House aboard Eegeebeegee, capital of the Tallahatchie Free State, a virtual republic and government in opposition established as much hand on wallet as tongue in cheek, and this morning brings the latest regularly irregular Monday installment of the Colonel's awards for Mastery of the Obvious (MOTO), as displayed by the great, near great, and ingrate to such an inane degree as to be impossible for the Colonel to spare commentary thereupon.

The Colonel's MOTO Bronze Medal this week goes to Senator Barbara Boxer of the Peoples' Republic of California who, according to Rob Hotakainen of McClatchy Newspapers warns that "if the Senate doesn't pass a bill to cut global warming, there will be dire results: droughts, floods, fires, loss of species, damage to agriculture, worsening air pollution and more." This fear mongering would be nearly enough to cause the Colonel to call his senator in support of the legislation were it not for one tiny little detail--droughts, floods, fires, loss of species, damage to agriculture, and worsening air pollution have been occurring, with the exception of damage to agriculture, since Creation, and including damage to agriculture, since man cultivated the first plant. Senator Boxer and her ilk demonstrate the height of hypocrisy, worshiping on the one hand at the altar of "undeniable" Darwinism and refusing on the other to allow nature to take its course. Survival of the fittest, Senator (I dare not call you "Ma'am" as I understand that term—considered one of respect in every other locale in these re-United States--offends the sensibilities of the political--ahem--ladies from the soon-to-be-bankrupt state of California) applies to ALL organisms and species on the planet (man, and his institutions, included) or it applies to none.

The Colonel's MOTO Silver Medal is bestowed this week upon the Apologist in Chief for his trap-like grasp of the situation in Afghanistan. In an interview with Britain's Sky News, President Obama opined regarding current operations that "...we still have a long way to go. We've got to get through elections. We've got a serious fight on our hands and we've got to deal with it smartly but we've got to deal with it effectively." The Colonel's not-so-humble opinion, provided ad nauseum to anyone he cornered and to anyone who has wasted valuable rod and cone time perusing posts on this weblog, is that we would not have had such a "long way to go" had we fought this war brought upon us nearly seven years ago like a WAR and not pussy-footed our way with minimal application of power and treasure as if our fight against Islamic extremism were only a weekend hobby. If we had fought our war against Japan and Germany like we have pursued this fight, the year 1949 would have found us still mucking about on Guadalcanal--seven years after our first landing on a Japanese-held island--and would have found us still participating in the minuscule and ineffective air raids against German targets we began with a paltry force of bombers flying from British airfields in 1942. Further, in the last sentence of the quote above the President contradicts himself and displays an unfitness for warfighting rivaling that of his predecessor. The so-called, and grossly misnamed, War on Terror, could have been and should have been wrapped up three years ago, following a ruthlessly effective series of campaigns against the supporters of the terrorists. Remember, we CRUSHED Germany and Japan (who possessed the largest and most effective military forces in the world at the beginning of that conflict) in 3 and 1/2 years and they have been among the strongest of our allies since. But, alas, Americans no longer have the stomach for winning.



And finally, the Colonel's MOTO Gold Medal is awarded to Senator Connie Mack of Florida for his criticism of the Obama administration's stance regarding the situation in Honduras. During a House Foreign Affairs Committee hearing during which the members discussed the forced removal of the Honduran President by that nation's military and congress for his attempt to illegally change his nation's constitution, Senator Mack opined that, "By calling this a coup and by early statements insisting on the reinstatement of Mr Zelaya, the administration now stands with the likes of (Hugo) Chavez, (Evo) Morales and (Daniel) Ortega, and not with the Honduran people." Even the most casual observer can readily ascertain that the Obama administration, in league with the liberal leadership of the party in power in Congress, stands with anyone who would dismiss even the most sacrosanct of constitutional laws and principles and drive their nations clearly into the socialist lane. No surprise here, Senator.

Spirit of the Pioneers

The Colonel is proud, and a bit jealous, of his #1 son and daughter-in-law team. They don't realize, and would quickly assume a glazed-eye stuporous state were I to indulge my desire to provide them an hours-long dissertation on the historical context, that they embody the spirit that centuries ago animated freedom-seeking American pioneers to leave behind the comforts of the East, load their worldly goods in wagons, and trek into the relatively unknown West to begin again.

For #1 son, pulling up stakes and plunging into the unknown is of little terror, given the bi-annual practice his father's career in the Marine Corps forced on him. Uprooting and replanting comes almost naturally to him. My daughter-in-law, she of the highly exalted and fiercely protected position of provider of grandsons, has been uprooted from the only hometown she has really ever known, has boxed her every possession and treasure, and has followed her husband from the comfortable sandy shores of the Redneck Riviera to the hills at the northern end of southern nowhere. This is no small event. Despite our best attempts, the Colonel and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda have not been able to identify with the trauma and trepidation she is experiencing, and our encouragement, born of our nomadic wanderings the first fifty years of our lives, that this move is no big deal and that she will survive it and thrive, does not seem to reassure her. Understandable--I'm sure Rebekkah Boone gave ole Dan'l the gimlet eye the first time she was uprooted and transported westward into the wilds.

But, the Colonel is of the envious belief that they are embarked on a grand adventure that will strengthen them like it steeled their pioneer forebears, not to mention this old bear and Miss Brenda. Further, the Colonel is convinced that the greatest blessings come to those who seize God's hand and plunge into the unknown. And that they have done.

Two centuries ago American pioneers faced hardships unimaginable to the comfortable, spoiled generations currently occupying beakers and Petri dishes on the laboratory desks of the American experiment. They endured the physical challenges of hunger, hard labor, and lawlessness. They also withstood the emotional challenges of isolation and culture shock. Many succumbed. Most survived. Most of the survivors thrived. There is a lesson in this for today's Americans.

If they would only read a little history beyond the public school pablum.

Objective: Project

Old habits and other learned behaviors die hard with a traditionalist like the Colonel. Take, for example, the methodology by which projects are identified and attacked here aboard Eegeebeegee, capital of the Tallahatchie Free State, secretively situated at the northern end of southern nowhere.

At the beginning of my career in the Corps I was taught the military method for identifying mission objectives and their subordinate supporting intermediate goals. Way up the food chain from my position at the pointy end of the spear, some ancient Marine with stars on his collar would wave his wrinkled hand across a map and squads of colonels and majors would translate his grand gesture into circles on the map identified as Landing Force (LF) or Marine Expeditionary Force (MEF) objectives; e.g. LF A or MEF B. By the time orders for the capture of these valuable pieces of real estate reached my level as a rifle platoon commander, I was normally tasked with securing a left or right portion of a small hill or road junction on the long way to accomplishment of the star-studded ancient and wrinkled Marine’s ultimate objective. Early on in my career, the Marine Corps philosophy for mission assignment was, in a word, autocratic, and seemed, in another word, arbitrary. You got your mission with no explanation for why. During the 1980’s the Corps’ warfighting philosophy underwent a revolution of sorts guided by the nebulous and amorphous tenets of what became known as Maneuver Warfare. Among the many not-so valuable concepts foisted upon Marines by the “Maneuverists” in and out of the Corps, was what, in the Colonel’s not-so humble opinion, was the most valuable component of this new philosophy—the explanation (Commander’s Intent) of what the star-studded ancient and wrinkled Marine wanted to accomplish by securing the objective a squad of majors had deciphered from the wave of his hand across a map. Every subordinate commander down the chain added their intent for the objectives they assigned to their subordinates. In theory, a lance corporal in the last rank of the last squad in my rifle platoon would understand why the star-studded ancient and wrinkled Marine wanted a particular objective taken or enemy unit attacked, as well as the reason for the accomplishment of all of the subordinate objectives of the commanders between the lance corporal and the star-studded ancient and wrinkled one. Just as Napoleon asserted that every private carried a field marshal’s baton in his back pack, we Marines began to bandy about concepts like General Krulak’s “Strategic Corporal,” positing that even the smallest unit leader could take action that might be decisive to accomplishment of the largest military, or even political, objective. Finally, I was taught to look to the “desired end-state” whenever deciding on how to prosecute targets of opportunity.

Later I learned the military method for identifying and attacking known or suspected enemy targets. During the planning for an operation, we would develop a List of Targets. The List of Targets identified and enumerated every conceivable fixed location at which an enemy force might be located or from which an enemy force might need to be denied access. From this list was drawn the targets to be attacked to accomplish the results desired in the particular mission at hand. This mission-specific Target List (confuse the two at peril of a butt-chewing) became the reference document in a fire support plan that prioritized, integrated, and scheduled the fires of all of the weapon systems (those with effective ranges and power beyond the organic small arms of the maneuver unit) available to deliver lethal doses of lead poisoning in support of the maneuver unit tasked with accomplishing the mission. Each significant element of the maneuver element, tasked with a distinct objective in the overall mission, was assigned a block of alpha-numeric target identifiers; e.g. AW001 to AW010 by which to identify and request fires on particular targets. The maneuver unit’s Fire Support Coordinator would, in consonance with the commander’s intent for the operation, schedule, prioritize, and allocate specific fire support means (artillery, aviation, naval gunfire, etc.) for attacking each target.

A couple of stints as an instructor, first at the Marine Officers’ basic pre-assignment training (known as TBS, for, I kid you not, The Basic School) and later as the Marine representative on the staff at the Air Force’s Command and Staff College, necessitated attendance at each Service’s Instructional Management Course where I learned to break down each task or lesson to be taught into subordinate tasks or learning objectives.

The Colonel’s apologies for the frantically boring droll above, but it helps explain my methodology (and the pathetically warped mental processes) by which even the most mundane tasks and projects are identified and accomplished. A little over two years ago, the Colonel and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda established our latest, and last, in a long line of operational bases here in the kudzu-clad hills of north Mississippi. Before the dust from the truck that had delivered our well-traveled worldly belongings had fairly settled on the gravel drive, we began to survey the piney-woods and clay bank blank canvass surrounding the big house on the hill, and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, not to be confused in any way with the afore-mentioned star-studded ancient and wrinkled Marine, waved her hand grandly over the grounds and issued her commander’s intent to her assembled staff—me (and I can out-staff a whole squad of majors!)


“This place will be our place. It will be covered in flowers in beds, shaded by broad-leafed trees and augmented by ornamental shrubbery. It will have dressed paths and walkways. That pond you insist on calling a lake will have a dock and an adjacent tree-shaded sitting area. You may have that area adjacent to the house for your Man Toy Storage and Saw Dust Production facility—however, it must match the house and not be an eye-sore. The drive from the road to the house will begin with a pleasing entry and will be lined with trees and ornamental shrubbery from beginning to end. There will a vegetable garden protected from unauthorized deer and rabbit browsing. While you many not intentionally bait deer and turkey into the back yard, you may have the fields below and behind the house for your wildlife foodplots and attendant apex predatory pursuits. There will be a place for everything and everything in its place—and I want everything under a roof and behind a door. There is no desired end-state beyond the realization, which I hope makes an impression somewhere in your thick skull, that there shall be no end to the improvements and beautification projects aboard Eegeebeegee. Are there any questions? I didn’t think so—move out!”

With that commander’s intent and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda’s desired end state firmly ensconced in the few remaining cognitive cells lying nearly fallow in the deep recesses of my bald-pated brain-housing group, I began the tedious staff work of converting said intent into primary and intermediate objectives by which the broad (No, I didn’t say, the broad’s) commander’s intent and desired end state might be accomplished. A thorough mission analysis (accomplished in much the same manner in which the Colonel conducts his strategic planning sessions—eyes closed meditatively while remaining in a well-disciplined stationary semi-reclined position) revealed the stated Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda (MB), and implied Eegeebeegee Work Force (EWF), objectives; a very small and random exemplary sampling of which is provided below:

MB Objective A: Beautification of the immediate Big House grounds.

EWF Objective 1: Move all twelve mature crepe myrtles from their incorrect positions immediately adjacent to the house to more aesthetically pleasing positions anchoring flower beds.
EWF Objective 2: Build flower beds.
EWF Objective 3. Move all ornamental shrubbery from incorrect positions immediately adjacent to the house to more aesthetically pleasing positions in flower beds.
EWF Objective 4. Protect crepe myrtles, ornamental shrubbery, and flowers from cold and dry conditions by surrounding with mulch.
EWF Objective 5. Stimulate the economy via purchase of a chipper with which to make own mulch out of Eegeebeegee’s prodigious brush and tree prunedge.

MB Objective F: Beautification of the Colonel’s Man Toy Storage and Saw Dust Production Facility.
EWF Objective 55: Build porch on front of the CMTSSDPF (CoManToyStoSawDuProFac for you Navy types).
EWF Objective 56: Harvest cedar for conversion to lumber for the CMTSSDOF porch. EWF Objective 57: Stimulate the economy via purchase of saw mill for conversion of cedar logs into lumber.
EWF Objective 58: Stimulate the economy via purchase radial arm saw and thickness planer for conversion of rough cedar lumber into finished boards for stringers and deck planks.
EWF Objective 59: Stimulate the economy via purchase of compressor and pneumatic nail gun for securing deck planks to stringers.


It goes on for volumes to which I will not subject the meager readership of this wanton waste of rod and cone time. Suffice to say, the Colonel is bogged in an operational quagmire, extraction from which cannot be imagined accomplished in what remains of this ancient and wrinkled Marine's lifetime. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Who's "the king," now?

The Colonel is sinking rapidly into a state of deep depression. Michael Jackson has just assumed room temperature and the entire world, addled by a fawning obsession with celebrity, thinks that is the most important story on the planet. If H comes out with a statement about this drug addicted, pernicious pedophile's passing, I just might submit my secession papers.

For the record, I have never owned any recording, in any medium, of Michael Jackson's (ahem) music. There aren't many (ahem) artists whose estates, record labels, and agents I have so subsidized. In fact, I rarely submit the few remaining cognitive cells lying fallow in the recesses of my bald-pated skull to the mind-numbing assault on my not-so delicate sensibilities that has masqueraded as music for the past five decades; with the exception of the occasional dalliance with Boston or the Eagles--hey, you have your vices, I have mine.

The Colonel's point in this rambling rant is that the superficiality of popular culture and the mindless crush at the rope line of celebrity has reduced our capacity to think critically about what is actually of the most import in our lives and our times. There is a bloody revolution taking place in the name of freedom in Iran, and my bet is there will be more sympathy expressed today by talking heads and pandering politicians regarding the passing of a degenerate so-called king of pop, than will be uttered in support of the freedom fighters in Iran.

Besides, I thought the drug-addicted musician from Memphis was "the king."