Winning with Warlike Souls

One of the many famed quotations attributed to General George S. Patton is his assessment of fortified defensive positions, “Fixed fortifications are monuments to man's stupidity. Any thing built by man can be destroyed by him.” Patton also believed that "the only sure defense is offense, and the efficiency of the offense depends on the warlike souls of those conducting it." The Colonel fervently believes that our republic needs to pay heed.

With the 2010 holiday travel season rapidly approaching, and nine years into our phony war with politically and militarily weak Islamic extremists employing terrorism as the only effective weapon available to them, the American people, in particular the traveling public, are stupidly subjected to increasingly onerous inspection regimes that are the TSA version of the Siegfried Line, against threats already discovered and narrowly thwarted, and therefore discarded as an ineffective tactic by the enemy. One could easily, and the Colonel will noisily, make the very good argument that the fixed fortifications through which the American people must wastefully weave in order to use public transportation are more of a hindrance to the protected than an obstacle to those against whose attacks we are presumably protected.

The Colonel is exasperated beyond words at the inexplicable, inefficient, and ineffective way in which the greatest republic in the history of man has frittered away blood and treasure against a flimsy foe. He has said it before, and the Colonel believes it bears pedantic repetition, if the United States had responded to the aerial attack on Pearl Harbor by the Imperial Japanese Navy in the same way we have, FOR NINE YEARS AND COUNTING, responded to the Islamic Extremists attack on 9/11, we would still have a fleet stationed in the middle of the Pacific intercepting individual Japanese aircraft. That may sound to some a cheap and effective tactic, but staying on the defense and giving an enemy time to develop increasingly effective offensive weapons and tactics is simply a recipe for disaster and defeat.

Most disappointingly to the Colonel, he is beginning to believe that the enemy is winning.

The goal of an enemy employing terror as a tactic is to unsettle you psychologically. He can't beat you operationally on the battlefield, but he can cause you to make decisions that are in his favor strategically. Particularly, he can hurt you more on the homefront than on the battlefield and that is the purest definition of success for anyone fighting America. Our response to terrorism has been to punish our population, in order to "keep them safe." That is a win for the enemy.

The goal of an enemy employing terror as a tactic is to incite panic, not only in the populace but in their leadership. Panic leads to decision-making such as that in which a nation's principles are sacrificed in the name of the safety of a relative few. Case in point--the torture of Kalid Sheik Mohammed, justified by the claims that information so gained has thwarted attacks that would surely have killed Americans and allies. The Colonel stands firm in his conviction that the lives of none are so precious as to justify the discard of the American principles of human decency and rule of law to protect.

One of the seminal books in the Colonel's early professional military education was John G. Hubbel's P.O.W.; A Definitive History of the American Prisoner-of-War Experience in Vietnam, 1964-1973. What so deeply impressed the Colonel was not so much the incredible and monstrously inhumane torture endured by American fighting men at the hands of their communist captors, but the reasons for their resilience, chief among them being the sure knowledge that America was better than their captors; that America would never submit its helpless captives to any mistreatment, let alone torture. The Colonel is dismayed that, in our current fight, we have stepped into the gutter with the enemy. That is a win for them.

The Colonel is afraid that this situation is destined to continue its descent towards defeat for America. It is inevitable that our enemy will find a crease in our static, fortified domestic defenses and our populace will pay the price for our leaders' unwillingness to prosecute this war with Patton's "warlike soul."

Limited Membership

There aren't many organizations to which the Colonel confers the dubious honor of his membership, or into which the Colonel has been granted inclusion, for that matter.

The Colonel doesn't belong to organizations that support elected lawmakers and political candidates whose agendas include unconstitutional aims. Therefore, you won't find the Colonel's name on the rolls of the AARP..., nor the NRA, for that matter.

"Why not the NRA," the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon may ask?

The NRA supports congressional candidates who caucused, or would have, with the political party that has done more to undermine the constitutional foundations of our republic than any external enemy would dare hope. Which party was that? The Colonel will give you two guesses and the first one doesn't count.

Other than his local church, the Colonel doesn't belong to any charitable organizations nor materially support any of the plethora of causes that dot the guilt-inducing social landscape. There are no ribbons, of any color, on his lapel, bumper, nor door. The Colonel gives to his church, the Lord of which he trusts to multiply his offerings and use to show His Grace.

Don't trust your church with your tithes and offerings? You belong to the wrong "church" for the wrong reasons.

The Colonel pays no dues to a union, no obeisance to group or gang. No fez on his mantle. No ring on his finger--save the one the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda placed there 34 years ago.

There are these few things in the Colonel's life and heart: He is a black-hearted sinner saved by the grace of God; ecstatically married to his best friend; a proud dad and prouder grandad; an American citizen; an Ole Miss Rebel...; and..., the Colonel is a Marine.

What else could a man ask for?

The Citizen Has Spoken

The Colonel apologizes to the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon for the egregious delay in publishing last week's Tallahatchie Free State election results. There have been several recounts and legal challenges, and, pending resolution of the same, the Colonel was loathe to even post a prediction of the outcome. In fact, the Colonel believes that there will be a ballot initiative on the next election cycle's ballot to call for an amendment of the TFS constitution prohibiting any pre-election polling, exit polling, and press prognostication regarding the outcome of balloting prior to the results of said balloting having been certified by the appropriate election supervising official (in this case, the Colonel).

Anyone with the painful familiarity (born of previous wastage of valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon) with the establishment and brief history of the Tallahatchie Free State will recall that while residency upon and within the boundaries of the sovereign territory governed by the TFS (a virtual republic established as much hand-on-wallet as tongue-in-cheek) here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere is easily attained and loosely conferred, citizenship is a right earned by honorable service in uniform. As the franchise to vote in the TFS will always and only be granted to citizens, and whereas the Colonel remains the only resident upon and within the boundaries of the sovereign territory governed by the TFS to whom the right of citizenship, by virtue of (relatively) honorable military service, has been conferred, the Colonel likewise remains the sole member of the only voting block participating in TFS elections.

Although challenges and vote recount demands by the non-citizen residents of the TFS have obscured the fact, and besmirched his good name, the Colonel is proud to announce that TFS voter turnout last Tuesday was 100%.

The polls aboard Eegeebeegee, the capital of the TFS here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, closed promptly at 0705 (local), exactly five minutes after opening, and the Colonel began the ballot count immediately. At 0800 (local), the Colonel (who, in addition to being height and follicly-challenged, is, by proud self-admission, mathematically-challenged, as well) completed the ballot count and announced the results. The Colonel had won by a landslide, swept back into office as the supreme political leader by a tsunami of popular support from the citizenry of the TFS.

The Colonel's lady, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, looked up from her knitting, gave the Colonel the look that normally precedes the search for the cast-iron skillet more often used as a weapon than cook-ware, and demanded a recount.

Demonstrating discipline born of a military career of immediate and willing response to orders, and cat-like reflexes born of a marriage career of dodging cast-iron skillets, the Colonel began a ballot recount immediately thereafter (heading off the impending skillet search by mere mili-seconds). Endeavoring to prove his commitment to free and open elections, the Colonel invested the better part of two hours--time that he could have otherwise much more fruitfully applied to a supine strategic planning session and eye-lid light-leak inspection--to a slow and careful count. At 1000 (local), the Colonel announced that the ballot cast had indeed been cast by a (in this case, the) bonafide citizen and was unmistakably a (in this case, the) vote for the re-election of the Colonel as the undisputed, beloved, and benevolent leader of the good people of the Tallahatchie Free State.

The Colonel's lady, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, looked up from her ironing (You don't think the Colonel would let her waste all of her day knitting, do you?) and signalled her acceptance of the election results.

"Idiot."

The Colonel thinks his lady may have missed her calling. Seems to the Colonel that the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda would have fit right in on the set of MSNBC's 2010 election coverage.

The Colonel hears there may be an opening for 2012...

The Undefeated

Two undefeated teams will meet in Oxford tomorrow as the Auburn Tigers come to town to tangle with the Colonel's Rebs. Auburn is 8 and 0; the Colonel and the Hope of 21st Century Civilization Dash One (H21CC -1) are 10 and 0. Every game to which the Colonel has brought his good luck grandson for the past three seasons has been a Rebel victory.

H21CC-1 is going to the Ole Miss - Auburn game tomorrow evening--whether he wants to or not.

The Colonel knows that's a lot of pressure to put a youngster under.

Somehow, though, the Colonel thinks that H21CC -1 will be oblivious to the pressure. It will probably have a lot to do with the sugar high from consuming one cotton-candy stick and a large souvenir cup of carbonated liquid candy bar per quarter. The latter will necessitate frequent visits to the restroom, which should coincide nicely with the Colonel's need for peed.

It was at this point in the season two years ago that the Good Luck Grandson's uncanny ability to secure a win for the home team came into focus. Two years ago, the Ole Miss Rebels (the Colonel is using Ole Miss Rebels as often as possible in the sure knowledge that the PC Police are, even as the Colonel wastes the valuable rod and cone time of the five of you who regularly peruse posts hereon, plotting the demise of those horribly insensitive nicknames) had amassed an unenviable record of 3 wins against four losses. With tickets available for a song, and the Colonel unable to dump any of his season tickets, H21CC -1, then a tender tot of only 3 air-breathing rides 'round ol' Sol, scored a seat. The Ole Miss Rebels were heavy underdogs to a strong Auburn team. The Colonel's Rebs routed the Tigers and the legend of the Good Luck Grandson took flight on the fancy of fans throughout Rows 63 through 65, Section H in the hallowed confines of Vaught-Hemingway Stadium.

The Ole Miss Rebels went on to beat Arkansas and LSU on the road and capped the season with a 45 to nuthin' drubbin' of detested intra-state rival Mississippi State. The first of two straight Cotton Bowl wins followed.

The current Ole Miss Rebel football season has disappointingly dropped to the same dismal record as was recorded in the first half of 2008. Idiot that he is, the Colonel did not bring the Good Luck Grandson to the season opener against lower division Jacksonville State nor to the SEC opener against Vanderbilt. C'mon, Jacksonville State and Vanderbilt? All the Rebels had to do was show up.

They didn't.

The frantic fans in Rows 63 through 65, Section H in the hallowed confines of Vaught-Hemingway (although a huge Hemingway fan, the Colonel never understood why the name of the stadium isn't Vaught-Faulkner) Stadium turned loss-hardened eyes on the Colonel and asked, with no little venom, "You're bringing the Good Luck Grandson to the next game, right?"

The Good Luck Grandson was in attendance for the next two games as the Ole Miss Rebels steam-rolled Fresno State and Kentucky--two teams arguably better than Jacksonville State and Vanderbilt. The legend of the Good Luck Grandson spread far and wide, now encompassing Rows 61 through 65, Section H in the hallowed confines of Vaught-Faulkner (the Colonel likes that better) Stadium.

Friends and fellow fans encouraged the Colonel to take H21CC -1 on the road to Tuscaloosa and Fayetteville, even suggesting that he should petition Ole Miss Athletic Director Pete (the Colonel spits on the floor) Boone for special seating for the Colonel and the Good Luck Grandson. The Colonel reminded his friends and fellow fans that he has been rather, ahem, dismissive of Ole Miss Athletic Director Pete (the Colonel spits on the floor--and gets an angry look from the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda) Boone over the last several years and it is more than doubtful that Ole Miss Athletic Director Pete (the Colonel spits on the floor--and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda heads for the kitchen for the frying pan that is used more often to correct the Colonel than to feed him) Boone would entertain said petition for special seating.

Needless to say, (but the Colonel will say it anyway) without the Good Luck Grandson in attendance, the Ole Miss Rebels lost to Alabama and Arkansas.

The Colonel's Rebs need three more wins for post-season bowl eligibility. Three (counting tomorrow's tilt with the Tigers) home games remain on the schedule. The Good Luck Grandson will be in attendance at all three.

That foot scrambling sound you hear is the Vaught-Faulkner concessionaires racing to increase their cotton-candy orders.

Corrective Action

In addition to making repairs to his mailbox--the victim of a failure of parental supervision--the Colonel must add clearing the brush away from the sign on his drive that reads "If you can read this, you are in range" to his list of projects for the day.

It is times like these that make the Colonel nostalgic for the years during which he lived in base housing or in neighborhoods off-base where his neighbors were all Marines. There is nothing more effective at correcting juvenile anti-social behavior than a fire-team of neighborly Marines. The Colonel is reminded this morning of an episode from one of his assignments at the home of the Second Marine Division.

In 1987, at the outset of his second tour of duty with the Second Marine Division, the Colonel (then a captain) and his lady, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, purchased a home off-base in one of the newer subdivisions of Jacksonville, North Carolina. It was within walking distance of the elementary school to which our children happily and eagerly skipped each morning, and also just down the street from the high school away from which teenage idiots (apologies for the redundancy) with cars happily and eagerly sped each afternoon. The Marines in the neighborhood listened with growing concern as our wives related to us each evening the increasing occurrence of high-speed travel along our street and the failure of Jacksonville's finest to arrest same. An extended weekend granted by the Division Commanding General gave the Colonel and a couple of his comrades in arms the opportunity to be at home during delinquent drive time.

Under the shade of a tulip poplar, and under the influence of a few adult beverages, the three captains sat in lawn chairs with a bucket of tennis balls at their feet. With arms loosened up by target practice at the expense of the Colonel's worthless Labrador (grist for another post), the three sat with growing expectancy for the high school's last bell signalling, "Delinquents, start your engines".

With an admixture of relief and disappointment the three observed the first few cars to pass doing so at or safely around the posted speed limit. Then came a late model sports car, obviously driven by the son of a civilian member of the community (Marines don't make enough to buy their children sports cars), not only travelling well in excess of the speed limit, but, by the sound of its engine, actually accelerating down the street toward the ambush. Three tennis balls impacted the driver's side window in a tight group that would have made Carlos Hathcock proud.

The car screeched to a stop.

A mop-headed teenager leapt from the car and then froze at the sight of the three captains who now stood, reloaded.

"My dad's a lawyer and he's gonna hear about this!"

"Fine! Make sure you tell him exactly where to find us!"

Half an hour later, another late model sports car idled slowly down the street and pulled up at the curb. A middle-aged man climbed out of the car and walked over to the three tennis-ball snipers.

"My son told me that someone around here hit his car with tennis balls," he eyed the bucket of tennis balls and the adult beverage empties at the captains' feet.

"Was my son speeding?"

"Yessir, he was doing about 45 heading for 55."

"Well, he won't do that again," the man loosened his tie and eyed the bucket of tennis balls, again.

"Mind if I join you?"

Range Reminiscence

The inaugural Eegeebeegee Evil Glowing Zombie Rubber Duck Resistance (EEGZRDR--pronounced: exerter) shoot was held Saturday evening here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere. Following the wild acclaim by which the inaugural Eegeebeegee Easter Egg Hunt (manly men hunting eggs the manly man way--with firearms) was received and for which a seasonal intermediate version was demanded by a clamoring crowd of cronies unwilling to wait an entire year for an opportunity to burn prodigious amounts of gunpowder and break lots of things, the Colonel's Number 1 Son, using brains and inventiveness obviously inherited from the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, developed the aforementioned EEGZRDR shoot concept, the scenario for which can be found and perused at http://excellence-in-mediocrity.blogspot.com/2010/10/haunted-gully-of-abbeville.html

The details of the actual execution of the inaugural EEGZRDR will be kept a closely guarded secret for reasons which would be obvious only if the Colonel broke his sworn silence. Even then, the Colonel would be required to track down and (insert favorite euphemism for placing final entry in one's health record) the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon. Suffice it to say that the gist of the EEGZRDR combined four of the favorite pastimes of southern men--spotlighting, shooting, talking trash, and competing for points in spotlighting, shooting, and talking trash.

This morning as the Colonel and the Hope of 21st Century Civilization, Dashes 1 and 2 (H21CC-1, -2) policed brass on the firing line, the Colonel was reminded of his time shooting and policing brass on Marine Corps rifle ranges. In particular, the Colonel was reminded of rifle qualification week on the Quantico rifle range 27 years ago this week. The Colonel remembers that range week clearly for its coincidence with two seminal events in the history of his beloved Marine Corps.

Early the Sunday morning prior to that qualification week, the 23rd of October in 1983, the Colonel, then assigned as an instructor at The Basic School (the training ground on which Marine officers are prepared for their first assignments leading Marines), turned on the television and saw the pulse-quickening news of the bombing of the Battalion Landing Team 1/8 headquarters in Beirut, Lebanon. The projected casualty toll on the Marines and sailors ashore there for duty as peacekeepers was hard enough to bear, but the Colonel was particularly concerned as one of his earliest mentors in the Marine Corps--Lieutenant Colonel Larry Gerlach--was in command of BLT 1/8 and was almost certain to be among the casualties.

The next Tuesday morning, as the Colonel and his fellow Marines sat in the dark on the 200 yard-line awaiting sunrise and the beginning of the day's rifle qualification practice, the talk about the tragedy in Beirut was interrupted by news that another Marine battalion landing team was participating in an invasion of the Cuban satellite, Grenada. It was a surreal moment. On one side of the world, fellow Marines were digging the bodies of their comrades out of the rubble of a massive three story building leveled by a truck bomb. On this side of the world, Marines were conducting an amphibious assault landing for the first time since Vietnam. As the Colonel and his range mates sat digesting the news and wondering what it would mean to them, their reverie was broken by the range loudspeakers announcing the instructions that all Marines can recite by heart:

"Attention shooters! That first relay, move up to your firing positions and assume a sitting position. This string of fire will be fifteen rounds. Five rounds sitting, five rounds kneeling, and five rounds standing. Shooters, you are in your prep time."

It snapped the minds of the shooters back to the task at hand, but with a bit more of a sense of importance given to it.

Lieutenant Colonel Gerlach survived the blast that leveled his command's headquarters, though gravely wounded; Grenada fell quickly to the Marines of BLT 2/8 (with a little help from an Army airborne brigade and two battalions of Rangers); and the Colonel qualified "Expert," for the fourth time.

Likely the Colonel will ever handle a firearm or clean up afterwards without reminiscing about some experience from his time in the Corps. And, that's probably a good thing. At his age, the Colonel is starting to celebrate the fact that he has memories at all.

Officially Offensive

During a pre-season intra-squad scrimmage open to fans, an Ole Miss Rebel quarterback escaped the defensive pass rush and lofted a long pass downfield to a open receiver who leaped to catch the ball and fell into the end zone for a touchdown. Cheers turned to groans as fans noticed a yellow flag on the field signifying a penalty that would nullify the touchdown. As the groans faded to silence, a plaintive voice called from the stands, "C'mon refs! It ain't the Bama game!"

It was both prologue and portent.

The Colonel waits with great anticipation for the sure to come "tell all" book by some guilty-concioused or disgruntled former Southeastern Conference football official. When that book hits the shelves, the Colonel will race to the store for his own copy and thumb quickly to the chapter entitled "Ole Miss must never be allowed to beat Alabama."

Last Saturday's game at Bryant-Denny is case in point for the claim that more flagrantly false fouls are called against Alabama's opponents, in general, and Ole Miss, in particular, than in any other games in the league. The only thing worse in the SEC than the officiating in Alabama football games, in general, and the game in question, in particular, is Les Miles' clock management.

Alabama is tough enough to beat. Having to play against them and the officials is too much to ask. Alabama should have been penalized on every down for having 15 on the field.

Not that the Colonel believes that the outcome of the game would have been any different had a) the officials not flagged the Rebel defense for roughing the kicker (the offending defender was clearly blocked into the kicker) and the Tide had to settle for 3 instead of the 7 it easily got after the penalty, b) the officials not flagged the Rebel special teams for offsides during an onside kick (the flag didn't hit the turf until well after the play was whistled dead and it was clear that Ole Miss had the ball), and c) the officials not called a foul on a Rebel player who was not even on the field, and gave new life to a sputtering Bama drive. The Colonel's Rebels could have figured out how to give the ball game to the Tide without the officials' help, thank you very much.

It has been thus for at least the nearly four decades during which the Colonel has subjected himself to the agony of Ole Miss Rebel football.

There is a bright side of this situation on which to look. Soon, his alma mater will no longer be known as the Ole Miss Rebels and the Colonel can find another team for whom to root. It will need to be a team with an inoffensive mascot--the Colonel ain't going through that battle again.

Hmmm. How 'bout them Scalawag State Carpetbaggers!

No End to Reconstruction

As the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon are painfully aware, the Colonel wasted his opportunity for a quality college education and attended the University of Mississippi instead. It could have been worse, the Colonel supposes--he could have gone to Mississippi State.

Ole Miss grads are a conflicted lot. An Ole Miss grad rarely refers to his alma mater as the University of Mississippi. He is an Ole Miss Rebel.

Ole Miss grads are, by and large, fiercely patriotic Americans, in spite of and to the horror of the decidedly liberal, America-despising administration and faculty. An Ole Miss grad loves the Union more deeply than any yankee who sneeringly still refers to southerners as unreformed Confederates. You want proof? The Colonel will stack the list of Ole Miss grads who demonstrated true love of country by service in uniform against any school north of the Mason-Dixon line.

Ole Miss grads are, for the most part, dyed in the wool traditionalists, in spite of and to the horror of the largely liberal and tradition-despising administration and faculty. Yeah, an Ole Miss grad would wave Beauregard's battle flag at a football game if allowed. He doesn't attach a desire to return to the horror of slavery to that gesture. It is more a matter of regional pride and yankee hate. The Colonel knows hate is a strong word. That's why he used it.

Ole Miss grads, tradition-loving to the end, are in mourning this morning. The nearly century-old symbol of Ole Miss, Colonel Rebel, has been replaced by a Black Bear. The Mississippi--Black Bear connection is tenuous at best. Teddy Roosevelt, while on a Mississippi Delta hunting trip, refused to shoot a black bear whose status was not exactly in accordance with the ethics of "fair chase." The media of the day reported on the incident and a capitalistic toy maker capitalized on the story and marketed a small stuffed bear doll--calling it "Teddy's Bear."

This Ole Miss grad bemoans the idiotic headlong rush that the University of Mississippi has taken--straight into the arms of the liberal elitists whose tyrannical bent is to force all to conform to their opinion of what is proper, correct, and inoffensive. The Colonel has said it before, but it bears (pun intended) repeating: The line beyond which something is considered politically incorrect or offensive incessantly encroaches on tradition and common sense. The line never remains static. There will never be an armistice of accommodation agreed to by the elitist minority who believe themselves socially superior to the majority.

The sad thing is, the University of Mississippi's administration has taken its "politically correct" steps of sidelining Ole Miss traditions to ingratiate themselves with liberal elitists who will, in fact, never be satisfied until every vestige of the unique traditions of Ole Miss are taken down. The nicknames Ole Miss and Rebels are odious to them. They will not rest until those are gone, as well.

"Reconstruction" officially ended a century and a half ago. The liberal elitists who denounce hate with every other breath are so consumed by their hatred of every American tradition that they, if allowed, will eventually reconstruct America to the point of self-destruction.

It's enough to drive this unreconstructed Rebel to drastic measures--the Colonel is going to put his Ole Miss Alum ball cap on his head and go drive his tractor.

New Wrinkles in the Gray Matter

For the first three plus decades of his adult (the word is used loosely) life, the Colonel's accumulation of wrinkles in his gray matter centered on the art and science of leading men in that manliest of dance forms--the battlefield ballet. Upon his retirement from the Marine Corps, the Colonel attempted to retrain as a businessman.

Business was good, but the Colonel wasn't good at it.

In truth, learning to be a good capitalist wasn't all that hard. Having to deal with undisciplined civilians was the Colonel's undoing, however. After playing for years on a BCS team, it was more than difficult for the Colonel to subject himself to playing on the sandlot.

So, the Colonel tucked his two masters degrees into his Marine Officers Qualification Record, placed them out of sight in the bottom desk drawer, bought some acreage and a tractor, and became a farmer.

A bib-overall clad, ball cap-wearin', grass stem-chewin', kudzu-hatin' farmer. Really. How hard could being a farmer be? Looked like the perfect occupation for this Type A looking for a Type B lifestyle.

Turns out the Colonel had a whole new education ahead of him. Here's just a representative sampling of the things the Colonel didn't know four years ago:

A sawmill produces more sawdust than lumber.

Sawdust is inedible, and difficult to breathe.

Tractors and ditches don't mix.

Rolling over is not a trick one should teach his tractor.

Tractors don't swim.

A chainsaw doesn't discriminate.

Extension ladders don't have seatbelts.

A gravel drive will drive one crazy.

Tractor implements are not designed for high speed turns.

A post hole-digger quickly become odious in one's sight.

Chickens don't give live birth.

Roosters don't lay eggs.

Rain is not guaranteed.

The term "Ready-mix" on a bag of concrete is not synonymous with easy-mix.

High-water marks should not be ignored.

Stumps and bush-hogs don't mix.

The intensity and half-life of skunk-spray is directly proportional to the proximity of the spraying skunk to one's front porch.

Nothing is more valuable than a neighbor with a bigger tractor.

Nothing holds more promise than a freshly plowed field.

Jump and Dive Qualified Tools

On February 7, 2008--a scant ten months after the Colonel and his lady (the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda) planted their flag on the last place they will ever live in this world--a tornado tore through the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere. It destroyed homes, rearranged the landscape, and scattered neighbors belongings along the two mile stretch of country road at the end of which the Colonel's vast holdings sit. While the Colonel's home was spared all but relatively superficial damage, many of his tools and belongings that had been strategically placed in the last place he used them turned up missing.

Over the next weeks and months, the Colonel patrolled the grounds of his vast holdings picking up litter and finding many items tossed hither and yon by the twister. The Colonel found the wheel to his wheelbarrow down near Lake Brenda. But, alas, no barrow.

The Colonel plotted the supposed trajectory of the airborne wheelbarrow from its last known resting place adjacent to the last place it was used, drawing a line connecting the last known resting place adjacent to the last place it was used and the position of the found wheel. Allowing for wind shift and the Coriolis effect, the Colonel then plotted a cone of probability under which the wheelessbarrow would have precipitated from the twister's winds. The placid surface area of Lake Brenda occupies the vast majority of the area under the cone of wheelessbarrow precipitation probability. The ever-widening area within the cone of wheelessbarrow precipitation probability down range of the far side of Lake Brenda was grid-searched without result--excepting multiple scratches incurred during a thorough investigation of a large and labyrinthine briar patch.

The Colonel, summoning synaptic connections not used since the first year of the Reagan Administration, therefore deduced, after lengthy calculations rivalling that used to plot Apollo 13's free return lunar orbital burn, that the wheelessbarrow precipitated into the deeper, out-of-sight reaches of Lake Brenda. The Colonel considered putting out to sea in his boat and dragging the lake for the errant wheelessbarrow. Then, the Colonel remembered that this is Mississippi. Seeing someone dragging bodies of water around here makes the sheet and pillow case crowd a tad edgy.

So, the Colonel gave up on ever recovering the barrow and reuniting it with its wheel.

Last July, as the daily high temps soared well north of the century mark on Herr Fahrenheit's scale, it ceased raining here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere. For the past three months it has been drier than a forgotten pot roast. Daily, the surface level of Lake Brenda dropped visibly, exposing greater and greater swaths of shoreline and making the sheet and pillow case crowd hereabouts increasingly edgy.

And then this week there was, poking above the surface of Lake Brenda like the nub of the Lady of the Lake's Excalibur-sliced arm, a form that looked for all the world like the handle of a wheelbarrow. The Colonel donned his chest waders and waded out to investigate. It wasn't the Lady of the Lake's Excaliburless arm.

Unfortunately, the ravages of tornadic precipitation and multi-year immersion left the wheelessbarrow irreparable. It will, sadly for it, given the horrible experiences it endured, live out the rest of its life as either a rustic planter or a fish shelter.

Some things that tornado did will never be undone.

The Colonel and Mr. C

Five years ago today, the Colonel's second favorite person in the whole wide world (the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's position atop the leader board is unassailable) began his air-breathing ride 'round ole Sol. Caleb Thomas Gregory, the Hope of 21st Century Civilization-Dash One (H21CC-1), and his little brother (H21CC-2), have enriched the Colonel's life in ways that, prior to their assault and seizure of the high ground of his heart, were unimaginable to the man curmudgeoned before his time.

Grandsons give one a reason to get up earlier than normal. It takes a little extra time each morning to down the four mugs of caffeine delivery brew required to boost the Colonel's heart rate to the elevated levels that will provide sufficient oxygen to the internal systems vital for maintaining a prolonged chase. Raising grandsons is not a sprint--it is a marathon. A very fast-paced marathon.

Grandsons keep one's powers of persuasion fine tuned. A three-year-old boy is a single-minded creature, whose death-grip grasp of a particular want (e.g., candy, toy, fishing trip, puppy) will test the will of even the most iron-spined grandparent. Particular wants, upon which a three-year-old's attention has been focused, require the most imaginative distractions to break the laser lock. Also, particular want distractions, like camouflage, must be continuous to be effective. Any break in grandparental concentration will, almost certainly, result in reacquisition of the grandson particular want target upon which said grandson was previously fixated. Even in a target-rich environment.

Grandsons are especially good for one's self-esteem. Everything the Colonel does is MAGIC to a pre-schooler. The most simple sleight of hand can be multiplied to a plethora of slightly different permutations and so maintain the illusion of master magician in the mind of both fool and fooled.

Grandsons help one to overcome fears which, once banished in one's youth, have reappeared in old-age to prevent osteoporosis-exacerbated injury. For example, there was not a tree in the land that could not be fearlessly ascended in the Colonel's youth. A few years back, the Colonel noticed that his tree-climbing fervor had been replaced by a ground-loving fever each time he climbed into a lofty tree-stand for the purposes of apex predation/selective cull of the local deer herd. H21CC-1 is a veritable tree-climbing monkey who cannot understand why the Colonel prefers to remain earth-side. H21CC-1 is a veritable tree-climbing monkey who is too quickly mastering the art of challenging the manhood of others with taunts--while perched precariously several scores of feet in the fragile uppermost branches of one of the Colonel's taller leaf bearers. The Colonel still hasn't learned to ignore manhood challenging taunts. Maybe that skill will come when the Colonel turns 60. Until then, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda will have to keep the medicine cabinet well-stocked.

Ten years from today the Colonel will celebrate, with great regret, H21CC-1's fifteenth birthday. On that date, as happens with all human males, H21Cc-1 will lose his mind. Some time toward the end of the following ten-year span, H21CC-1 will reacquire his sanity. The Colonel may not be there to welcome him back. So, the Colonel has ten years from this point to plant seeds that will withstand that 15 to 25-year-old drought and vigorously germinate with the return of the rains of reason.

The Colonel loves a mission.

Rebel ROTC Reunion, 2010

For the past ten years, the Colonel has had the great pleasure of reconnecting with old (the word is achieving greater accuracy lately) college chums at an annual reunion of a very select group of Americans.

Thirty-six years ago this fall, the Colonel (then a brash, clueless, eighteen-year-old) began his matriculation at Ole Miss. The Colonel's father told him that he could go to school anywhere he wanted, but that if the Colonel went to Mississippi State, the Colonel's father would pay his way. There were a couple of factors that weighed in favor of that course of action:

1) Mississippi State was just down the road from home. (This was also a factor weighing against the MSU COA.)

2) The Colonel wouldn't have to change mascot allegiance if he went to State--his high school, Balboa High in the Panama Canal Zone, had a bulldog for a mascot.

But, there were several factors weighing heavily on the side of the Colonel's matriculation at Ole Miss.

1) Ole Miss was two hours away from home--close, but not too close.

2) Ole Miss was only an hour away from Memphis, where the Colonel's high school sweetheart, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, was going to go to school.

3) While the Colonel had been offered a full ride ROTC scholarship from the Army that would have allowed him to go to school just about anywhere he could get accepted, the Colonel's nascent manhood had been seriously challenged by a shrewd Marine and the Colonel had accepted the Marine Corps' offer of a full ride scholarship (see reference to brashness and cluelessness in the second paragraph above). The only school with Naval ROTC (the Colonel's scholarship was officially a Naval ROTC Scholarship--Marine Option) in relatively close proximity to both the Colonel's parental home base and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's college coordinates was... (insert opening bars of "Dixie" here) Ole Miss.

So, the Colonel became a Rebel.

Well, officially, that is. Big "R" Rebel, now. As his parents will loudly attest without the slightest prompting, the Colonel was a little "r" rebel from birth.

As early as he can remember back into his formative years, the Colonel knew that he would return the favor of citizenship in this great nation with the honor of military service. The Colonel had his heart set for many years on attending the Air Force Academy. The Air Force Academy, unfortunately for them, did not share the Colonel's desire for his association with them. Fine by the Colonel!

At Ole Miss, the Colonel joined one of the biggest and most exclusive fraternities on campus. The members of this fraternity shared, with an almost alarming consonance, the Colonel's passionate patriotism and sense of obligation to nation, and the Navy and Marine officers and enlisted men, for whom the leadership and professional development of that fraternity was their duty, instilled an amazingly ambitious and further unifying set of values, and inspired an ever-tightening bond of brotherhood between and amongst the Colonel's peers.

In that already potent fermentation, yet another leaven was present. In those years the Navy and Marine Corps sent highly qualified enlisted men to colleges, at which an NROTC unit existed, on a set of programs known as the Navy Enlisted Scientific Education Program (NESEP) and the Marine Enlisted College Education Program (MECEP). These NESEPs and MECEPs were, in the appropriately descriptive naval terminology, "old salts." It's safe to say that the Colonel and his NROTC cohorts learned nearly as much about leadership and the naval profession of arms from this group of old salts as was learned from the official instructor staff -- often not exactly according to the official NROTC syllabus. And, in most cases, far from what could have easily been their temptation, the NESEP/MECEP old salts kept their disdain for the college boy ROTC midshipmen to themselves.

The final, sweetening, ingredient to this pot, was a small group of young ladies who served as "little sisters" to our fraternity. In the ROTC fraternity they were called sponsors. This was in the mid-seventies -- blessedly before the emasculation of society by the intolerant idiocy of political correctness.

This past weekend, a representative sampling of this amalgam of all that was right about America (in juxtaposition to the wrong-headedness that spilled from the toxic brew of the sixties and seventies and poisoned society with its post-Vietnam, boomer-logic, horse's back-sided-ness), assembled, on the occasion of an Ole Miss Rebel football game, to recreate, reminisce, and remember.

The stories have grown only slightly more outlandish than the nearly four-decade-old events about which they are told, and the descriptions and dialog are now recreated in euphemistic language appropriate for the wives, children, and grandchildren in attendance. But, oh, what a rollicking ride down memory lane. The Colonel went to bed that night and dreamt he was nineteen again.

He awoke relieved that it was only a dream.

The Colonel looks forward to seeing you great Americans next year!

Rooster Reduction Regime

Sometimes one needs to just sharpen his ax and get with the program.

The five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon are painfully up to date on the status of the Colonel's chicken herd. On the odd chance that an errant blog surfer has been tossed broken-boarded upon the desolate beach that is the Colonel's Corner and knows not the history of the poultry predicament here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, the Colonel will recap.

Back on the first Saturday after the first full moon following the northern vernal equinox, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and the Colonel were wandering aimlessly around one of the Colonel's favorite stores -- Tractor Supply -- and were interrupted in their aimless wandering by a faint peeping. Upon investigation, the peeping was found to be emanating from a large galvanized tub full of yaller chicks. The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda insisted on adopting eight of said yaller chicks. The Colonel then spent the next two months constructing a critter-proof chicken coop, with integral hen house, into which the Eegeebeegee chicken herd moved after reaching the age at which the brooder box could no longer contain the peepage and poopage attendant to eight Rhode Island Reds.

The mouth-breather at Tractor Supply who assisted the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda in choosing just the right chicks, assured her that she had chosen all hens.

Imagine the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's, and the Colonel's, surprise when the majority of the guaranteed all-hen herd began exhibiting decidedly un-hen-like behavior. As the weeks went by and each of the herd's hen names were grudgingly changed to rooster names, a cold, hard reality asserted itself. All but one of the Eegeebeegee poultry posse were of the, ...um, roosterly persuasion.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and the Colonel conducted a frantic search for good homes for the excess roosterage. An add ran in the local fishwrap:

Roosters, free to good home. Yard broken. Good with children. The number to call is BR 549.

There were no calls.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and the Colonel began stopping traffic on the road past Eegeebeegee and offering roosters to passersby.

There were no takers.

The one hen began to lay. There was wild joy and celebration about the Colonel's vast acreage, until an accounting was made of the cost per egg. With a production rate of one per day, balanced against the cost of feed and coop construction costs, the price of Eegeebeegee eggs was approximately $37.50 each--slightly above the price per egg at the local grocers.

With no takers for the excess roosterage and egg production costs threatening to bankrupt the whole enterprise, the Colonel was forced to take matters into his own hands. This morning, while the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was up the road purchasing pullets, the Colonel was making room for them in the coop.

The Colonel will probably be the only one with enough stomach to chow down on the smoked chicken this evening. Fine by me.

Rebel of Arabia

At the Ole Miss -- Vanderbilt game in Oxford on Saturday the pre-game activities included a flyover by a B-52. For the increasingly disenchanted members of Rebel Nation, that thrill turned out to be the highlight of the afternoon. It is shaping up to be a typical Ole Miss football season, replete with missed opportunities, broken plays and broken hearts. The Colonel actually appreciates the poor play of our football team--it stirs slumbering synapses of nostalgia that remind him of those halcyon days spent on campus, where the fun of college was interrupted many a fall weekend with a trek across the Grove to witness gridiron debacles.

Another memory was stirred from deep in the Colonel's fogbound faculties on Saturday. As the B-52 grew from a dot on the northern horizon and lumbered in full-throated roar overhead, the Colonel was reminded of another B-52 flyover nearly three decades ago.

In 1982, the Colonel, then a First Lieutenant, was assigned to the headquarters staff of the 31st Marine Amphibious Unit (MAU), embarked on amphibious shipping in the Western Pacific. The Colonel's job title was Training Officer, but owing to the fact that he was the most junior officer on the staff, the position's duties really should have been described by the job title: SLJO (Stinky Little Jobs Officer). Whenever somebody was needed to run some demeaning errand, deliver some unwelcome message, or represent the command at some uncomfortable event, the Colonel's boss would call him aside and begin his orders with the imperious intonation, "Rebel, this is more important than whatever you are doing at the moment..."

Being both not-so-bright and eager to please, the Colonel would accept his boss' assessment of the relative importance of the mission now assigned, salute smartly, and step off in the enthusiastic attack. Even when it began to slowly dawn in the dimly lit interior of the Colonel's brain-housing group that most of the missions to which he was so assigned were not-so-important, he still endeavored to attack each one as if the outcome of some great campaign weighed in the balance and depended solely on his diligence.

In the fall of 1982, the 31st MAU was scheduled to make an amphibious landing on the southern coast of the Sultanate of Oman and then conduct training exercises with the Sultan of Oman's Army. Ordinarily, the Colonel's job during exercises of this sort was to act as a watch officer in the Landing Force Operations Center, maintaining situational awareness of the course of the landing and the subsequent exercise, and regularly briefing the boss on highlights and decision points. It was a job the Colonel actually looked forward to.

But, three or four days prior to the exercise, the Colonel's boss called him aside and imperiously intoned, "Rebel, this is more important than whatever you are doing at the moment. The Omanis have requested that we exchange liaison officers. There's a helicopter leaving in an hour for the Omani HQ. Be on it."

The Colonel responded with his customary, "Aye, aye, Sir!," and headed to his stateroom to grab his gear and a change of socks. An hour and fifteen minutes later, the Colonel stepped off the helicopter at the edge of an encampment that looked like something straight out of the movie "Lawrence of Arabia." A bewildered-looking Omani officer climbed aboard and took the Colonel's seat; the look on his face turning to near abject horror as the chopper lifted off--evidently it was his first helicopter ride. The Colonel completely understood how that young Omani felt--this was about to be the Colonel's first camel ride.

To the Colonel's surprise, he was greeted by a red-headed officer wearing the uniform and insignia of a major in the Sultan of Oman's Land Forces. "Hello, Leftenant," he said with a toothy grin and a clipped British accent, "Major Tony Martel, aide de camp to General Hamadi."

The Colonel snapped to the rigid position of attention, saluted and introduced himself, "Sir!, Lieutenant Ed Gregory." Major Martel extended his hand and grinned, "That shall be the last 'sir' and salute for me, Ed. Call me Tony."

The Colonel doesn't know if it's still in practice, but in those days, and owing to a long and close relationship with Great Britain, the Omanis had an agreement with the British by which experienced Commonwealth officers could take leaves of absence for several years and serve with the Omani military as "contract officers." As inducement, the Sultan of Oman offered considerably more in compensation than did the Queen. These "contract officers" filled many positions in the middle grades (captain to lieutenant colonel), and also acted as mentors and trainers to the junior Omani officers.

Tony Martel escorted the Colonel into the camp and our first stop was the officers' mess tent where "tea" was being served. There, the Colonel (then just a lowly lieutenant, remember) was presented and introduced to the General and his officers, and, much to his embarrassment, received a standing cheer. This was not going to be the usual "stinky little job!"

Over the next several days, the Colonel was treated to tours of the training grounds that included visits with local inhabitants. One afternoon we visited a Bedouin encampment and received an invitation to stay for the evening meal. The images from that evening were straight out of the pages of National Geographic. We sat in a billowing tent around a large brass tray heaped with rice and goat. Across from the Colonel sat the smiling Bedouin chief, resplendent in white robes with a large traditional rhino horn-handled dagger belted at his waist. Next to the chief sat his frowning body guard, his robes criss-crossed with bandoleers of cartridges for the ancient Enfield rifle on which he leaned. This man's frown never left his face and his eyes never left the Colonel for a moment during the entire evening--he clearly wanted this infidel to make a wrong move!

On the day of the start of the exercise, the Colonel sat next to the Omani General in a makeshift reviewing stand on a promontory overlooking the beaches across which the battalion landing team from the 31st MAU would conduct an amphibious landing. The coastline ran roughly north and south. The landing beach was to our north and the sprawling Omani army encampment was to our south. As the hour for the landing approached, the Colonel explained to the General the phases of an amphibious operation. The Colonel had been told that there would be a low flyover of some sort just as the landing craft were approaching the beach to demonstrate the aviation delivered ordinance that would be employed to support the landing. As there was an aircraft carrier operating in our area, the Colonel expected that we would see a couple of fighter bombers high overhead and was scanning the horizon out to sea to see them first and be able to show them to the General.

The landing craft were drawing ever closer to the beach, and the Colonel was beginning to grumble to himself about the unreliability of Navy Air, as no carrier aircraft were anywhere to be seen. In frustration, the Colonel widened his scan and turned to look behind us to the south. No more than a half mile in the distance, and at an altitude that could not have exceeded 500 feet, the unmistakable head-on profile of a United States Air Force B-52G Stratofortress filled a significant portion of the view. As the bomber bore in, filling an exponentially increasing portion of the view south, the Colonel had just enough time to touch the General on his elbow, catch his eye, and jerk a thumb over my shoulder, before the huge plane was upon us.

As our perch was several hundred feet above sea level, and the bomber's crew were obviously attempting to bring their beast over the beach as low as possible, the B-52 thundered so low over our position that it seemed one needed to duck or get a haircut courtesy of the Strategic Air Command.

The Omani General bellowed something about Admiral Ackbar.

The Omani camp exploded.

No bomb had been dropped. But, no bomb was needed. The sonic blast from eight jet engines sufficed.

Over the years, the Colonel has tried to find words to describe the aftermath of the flyover on that camp. The words have always escaped him, and do to this day. There is a scene from a movie that fits, however. In "Lawrence of Arabia," Lawrence's Arab army catches a Turk army in retreat and falls upon it. As the massacre subsides, Sir Lawrence Olivier's character wanders the battlefield in search of Lawrence. Picture the carnage in the background. That's what the Omani camp looked like after the flyover.

Likely the Colonel will ever see a B-52 in flight without remembering the non-lethal leveling of that Omani camp by the penultimate icon of lethality.

Replacing the Colonel -- 38

The Colonel's alma mater is in the throes of a political correctness induced mascot replacement controversy. The University of Mississippi has been known as the Ole Miss Rebels since early in the last century. The Ole Miss mascot was a caricature of a southern planter named Colonel Rebel. A few years back, Colonel Rebel was banned from sports events, and this summer, the University officially "retired" Colonel Rebel as the school's mascot--supposedly in an effort to further distance the school from its racially insensitive past.

For the past couple of years, Ole Miss has been trying to find a replacement mascot. The problem is that when you are the Ole Miss Rebels, it's hard to find a mascot that reflects what that name infers without being odious to some. As a result, the handful of mascot candidates to which a year-long mascot search has been narrowed range from woefully lame to downright embarrassing. One candidate is actually two muppet characters named Hotty and Toddy (after the school cheer).

Really?

This Colonel has a better idea.

As much as the Colonel would dearly love to see Colonel Rebel return to his rightful place on the sidelines as the official mascot, he is ready to yield, and proffer another thought.

Why not have Chucky Mullins represent Ole Miss? Why not replace Colonel Rebel with Chucky Mullin's number 38?

For the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon, and who may not have a clue who Chucky Mullins was, allow the Colonel to elucidate.

Twenty years ago this weekend, in a game against Vanderbilt, Safety Chucky Mullins made a career and life as he had known it-ending tackle. He was paralyzed from the neck down. Even before his accident, Mullins was known for his never-say-die attitude and courage on an off the field. Not recruited by Ole Miss, Mullins told then coach Billy Brewer that if given a scholarship Brewer would not be sorry.

Turns out that was the understatement of the decade.

Mullins eventually returned to school and inspired all with whom he came in contact. His always positive attitude and can-do spirit made you almost forget he was confined to a wheel chair.

A year later, a pulmonary embolism ended Chucky Mullins' life, but not his legacy. The Chucky Mullins Courage Award is presented yearly to the Ole Miss football player whose conduct on and off the field best exemplifies the courage displayed by Mullins. For a few years, the award winner wore Mullins' number 38 jersey. After Ole Miss retired his number (the only other number retired by Ole Miss was Archie Manning's number 18), the award winner wore the number 38 prominently on the shoulder of his jersey.

At the end of the tunnel from the Ole Miss locker room sits a bust of Chucky Mullins; each player and coach touches the head of the man whose name means Courage before running on to the field.

Ole Miss doesn't need an embarrassingly lame mascot replacement. Ole Miss has Chucky Mullins and the number 38. Every other school in the nation has some sort of personage, animal, or plant for a mascot. Some schools share the same mascot. No other school honors a player hero as mascot.

This is a no-brainer.

Thinking Ahead

The Colonel, as the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon can attest, is not exactly the most regular of writers. Some weeks, when the mood strikes, he'll punish his meager readership with a veritable blitzkrieg of blog posts. Then there are weeks when he is blessedly silent, allowing respite to those whose lives are so rudely afflicted by his curmudgeonry.

Often the Colonel opines on topics of interest or disgust gleaned from mass media. At other times certain dates awaken a memory of a history lesson learned or a personal lesson earned. Last week was a week that had a plethora of both--a target-rich environment of idiots and scoundrels, and a treasure trove of historical highlights and personal memories. The air waves and data streams abounded with opportunities for the Colonel's opinionated comment.

And, yet...it just seemed too easy to wade into the fray.

Don't misunderstand the Colonel. Ain't much he likes better than a good scrap--the bigger the melee the better. And this time of year seems to provide more melees per metered mile than any other season.

But, for some reason this past week it just felt too much like piling on to chime in with the Colonel's two cents worth. Could it be that the Colonel is developing a nascent sensibility--a sensitivity to other's opinion--a hesitancy to strike out in his customary hyper-criticality?

Nah.

The truth is the Colonel recognized a fight well-joined and saved his ammo for the next engagement.

While he waits on that next firefight, the Colonel will leave you with this thought:

Nine years ago, after a long night of watching skyscrapers collapse over and over, the Colonel woke the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda as he left for the office and told her to get ready. The Colonel was convinced that a major war was in the offing and that his bride needed to be ready to send both her husband and her sons off to fight.

When the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda asked "do you really think so?", the Colonel responded with "There's not a doubt in my military mind."

There still isn't.

For those who think that the minor campaigns in Afghanistan and Iraq, once concluded, will mark the end of America's latest war, the Colonel must regrettably inform you that harboring that thought is fool-hardy at best.

The real war hasn't even gotten started yet.

And, when it comes (and it will come most likely sooner rather than later), Americans will look back wistfully on the last decade. The real war will be more than the entertaining distraction that the Afghanistan and Iraq campaigns were for the majority of Americans. The real war will require real sacrifice. The real war will require a massive draft. The real war will challenge most Americans personally in ways only our grandparents and great-grandparents were.

The Colonel hopes he's wrong--but knows he isn't. And, you know he isn't either.

Ova-tion

The Colonel was torn over the appropriate title for this post. "Bombs Away" was a first thought. "First Fruit" crossed the ever-widening synaptic gaps in the amorphous goo lying fallow in the dark and largely infertile recesses of the Colonel's brain-housing group. "Opening Ova" richochetted randomly in the Colonel's cranial cavity.

The Colonel settled on... well, the memories of the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon aren't that short...

As the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon (and whose memories aren't short) will remember, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and the Colonel started a chicken herd back on the first weekend after the first full moon after the Spring Equinox. In those early halcyon days of chick wrangling, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and the Colonel were concerned that our chicken herd would be an all-hen harem, sans rooster.

Turns out those fears were ever-so slightly unfounded.

Actually, worry over the presence of a rooster in the Eegeebeege Chicken Herd turned gradually to concern for the rooster ratio and finally to dismay at the realization that of the surviving original seven Rhode Island Reds ALL were roosters, save one.

The only thing that matches this circumstance for embarrassment was the Rebels blowing a 21 point halftime lead this past weekend against our FCS home opener practice patsy and letting them take us to double overtime. And, since we were in such a giving mood this weekend, we decided to give them the game.

The only way last Saturday could have been any more embarrassing would have been if the idiot administrators at my alma mater had decided this would have been the best weekend to introduce the new mascot. We still don't know what will replace the irreplacable Colonel Reb, but this Colonel will bet you a punch in the jaw, and give you fifteen minutes to assemble witnesses, that whatever the new mascot is, it will be more embarrassing than flatulence in the choir loft.

But, the Colonel digresses.

With a rooster-to-hen ratio of six to one, never has more hope been placed on the feathered shoulders of any chicken as have been laid (pun intended) on those of one Rhode Island Red hen, callsign: Olivia.

More hope than a fifteen-year-old who just spent his last five dollars on a jar of acne cream.

Doug Flutie had less hope riding on his last pass in the '84 Boston College-Miami game.

This afternoon, amid much cackling and and scratching in the hen house integral to the Eegeebeegee Chicken Coop, Olivia turned hope to elation. Never, in the annals of barnyard fowl, has the arrival of one egg been the cause for such celebration.

If there had been goal posts in the Colonel's backyard, he and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda would have torn them down.

We'll probably have it bronzed.

Fuggedaboudit!

When it comes to its military preparedness, the United States seems caught in a repetitive boom and bust loop. We are entering the bust backstretch at a time we can least afford to.

At the close of the Second World War, a nation that had almost miraculously mobilized for (and won) a global total war and built the most incredible fighting force ever assembled on the planet, before or since, just as quickly de-mobilized and dismantled the vast majority of its land, sea, and air forces. In the short three and one half years that marked the United States' active participation in the great mid-20th Century conflagration, that nation took several unproved warfighting theories from the drawing board to practical application, combining theoretical vision, technical know-how, and an unmatched industrial base to build a strategic air force, a carrier battle group-centric navy, a mechanized/armored army, and amphibious forces. The latter, viewed as wasteful in terms of manpower and irrelevant in future warfare, and the Marine Corps whose stock in trade had become amphibious warfare, were placed on the chopping block of defense downsizing and efficiency.

Here we are again.

The Colonel has been blessed to work for many fine leaders and mentors over the years and one of the best of them, John Keenan (in whose regiment the Colonel served as a battalion commander and regimental executive officer), now Editor of the Marine Corps Gazette, writes http://www.mca-marines.org/gazette/august-editorial in the August issue of that fine professional journal, that our Corps faces challenges to its existence today as great as those it faced in the post-WWII years. Colonel Keenan references the earth-shattering news that for the first time in its storied 235 year history, the Marine nominated to be the next Commandant is not a ground combat officer, but (gasp!) an aviator. In the classic Brooklynese for which he was beloved by his Marines, Keenan dismisses the uproar over this "break with tradition" with "fuggedaboudit!"

Now, there's some fratricidal fog-clearing for you!

General Granville (callsign: "Granny") Amos will, if confirmed, inherit the reins of a Marine Corps faced with hard questions about its relevance and place in an "efficient" U.S. military establishment. While Marines like to boast that we provide nearly 15% of U.S. combat power for 5% of the Defense budget, the need for the primary mission (amphibious operations--i.e., opposed landings on hostile shores) for which the Corps equips and trains, is once again up for debate.

MacArthur's master-stroke amphibious landing at Inchon, Korea, 60 years ago this September, helped put down the anti-amphibious movement for a time, but the exigencies of our oft-warned against "land war in Asia" (Vietnam; where, from a macro view, the Marine Corps' battlefield activities were scarcely distinguishable from those of the Army) and the fearsome capabilities of our primary enemy (the Soviet Union/Warsaw Pact) during the Cold War, relegated amphibious capabilities to the back burner. After Vietnam, the Navy did build some new, more capable, amphib ships, and Marines did get some new battlefield weapons systems, but fielding of actual ship-to-shore systems has been, for all practical purposes, non-existent. The amphibious vehicle with which the Marine Corps would conduct an opposed landing on a hostile shore today, is (with some up-gunning) the same vehicle Marines have had since the early 1970s. Ditto the vast majority of the Marine Corps' helicopter fleet.

And, that's the problem.

The Marine Corps has greatly-improved ship-to-shore systems in the pipeline. The amazing and revolutionary tilt-rotor MV-22 Osprey is slowly replacing the CH-46 helicopter (introduced in 1964!). But, the Osprey is very expensive. And, don't get the Colonel started on the mis-information campaign that has been waged by the conventional helicopter lobby, who would have you believe that the Osprey is too dangerous and not very effective. Suffice it for the Colonel to say--t'ain't so! In the Colonel's not-so-humble opinion, the Osprey is magic.

To replace, the aging, 7 miles-per-hour in the water, amphibious assault vehicle (AAV-7), the Corps has been developing a new high-speed (40 knots in the water and capable of keeping up with the speedy M-1 tank on land) Expeditionary Fighting Vehicle (EFV)--the cost of which makes the Osprey look cheap, by comparison. The EFV is still years away from operational service--if ever.

We won't even talk about the enormous cost of the V-STOL Marine version of the still-in-development F-35 Joint Strike Fighter, needed to replace the aging AV-8B Harrier.

So, the real quandary for defense planners and budgeticians is, even if one can make a very good case for the need for the Marine Corps specialty of launching from ships and kicking the bad guy's door down to allow the Army to enter and do what they do best (and, nobody does it better), how does the United States afford to field a state-of- the-art amphibious capability?

The short answer is, surprisingly the Colonel is sure, for the five of you who regularly waste rod and cone time perusing posts hereon and know of the Colonel's feelings for his beloved Corps, No.

No, the United States cannot afford to maintain a credible modern amphibious capability, and a Marine Corps dedicated to, and trained and equipped for, that mission.

But, the Colonel will argue, not-so-surprisingly for the five of you who regularly waste rod and cone time perusing posts hereon, that the United States cannot afford not to maintain a Marine Corps equipped and trained for amphibious warfare.

First, while the Colonel can quickly and easily draw up on a napkin the plan, organization, and training required for subsuming the Marine Corps into the United States Army as the 1st Amphibious Corps, the truth is that America wants there to be a separate and distinct Marine Corps. Marines have a place in the American psyche. No efficiency study will ever include that fact, but that doesn't make it any less so.

Second, the Colonel is one of a dwindling few, it seems, who still believes in American Exceptionalism. Attendant to that belief is the sure knowledge that America, with the responsibility for guarding the principles of freedom, as only America can, must never succumb to the miasma of defeatism, also known as "isolationism." We must keep all of the capabilities needed to keep the peace, or restore it by force of arms. We must be ready to answer any call for help. When we find ourselves incapable of answering those calls, we will no longer be exceptional.

So, to those who will in the coming months and years, in the name of cost-cutting, argue for elimination of unpopular and expensive military capability (such as amphibious warfare), the Colonel, with apologies to his mentor, says, Fuggedaboudit!

Not Smart and You Can't Make Me

A recent accidental reader (obviously not one of the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon) commented on the Colonel's reference to Islamo-fascism thus: "...I find it hard to respect any 'educated' writer who uses the term Islamo-fascist." The Colonel takes great umbrage with that remark.

The Colonel has never, ever claimed to be "educated."

The five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon know full well that the Colonel didn't even go to college...; the Colonel went to Ole Miss instead.

And, immediately following the four years of study-avoidance that marked his matriculation at what has since become widely known as the Harvard of the South (by reciprocal agreement, Harvard is allowed to call itself the Ole Miss of the North), the Marine Corps proceeded to heavily plaster over any vestige of the liberal arts education (a more accurate term would probably be minimal exposure) the Colonel had accidentally accrued whilst whiling away the last of his care-free youth in the kudzu-clad hills of North Mississippi with a liberal slathering of the fine art of leading men in the killing of the enemies of our nation and the destruction of their tools and toys. And, given that the Marine Corps is considered by most to be the single largest repository of the nation's Cretins and Neanderthals, anything that organization taught the Colonel can, therefore, in no way be mistaken for an "education."

Granted, the Colonel did have ample opportunity to further his, ahem, "education" over the years. Sadly, those opportunities were wasted in the most egregious fashion. A year as a student (and two further years as the Marine representative on the instructor staff) at the Air Forces' postgraduate equivalent Air Command and Staff College were mainly spent making fun of aviators and mocking the airpower zealots' mistaken belief in the primacy of strategic attack from the air.

Oh, there was that year spent coincident at the local extension of the ubiquitous Troy State diploma mill, from which the Colonel received a masters degree in Human Resource Management. But, it turns out that what the Marine Corps had already taught the Colonel about leading men in combat was quite easily translated into what was required to make the grade in case study analyses of the corrective actions needed to make boys and girls place nicely together in an office setting.

Yeah, and there was that summer at the Armed Forces Staff College in Norfolk. That's where the Colonel bought his first set of golf clubs.

The Colonel did suffer a year of incarceration behind enemy lines in Newport, Rhode Island where he attended the Navy War College and received that highly esteemed and universally applicable Master of Arts in National Security and Strategic Studies.

Actually, it turns out that knowing how to employ joint and combined military hard power in consonance with diplomatic and NGO soft power to influence the strategic will of another nation is not that readily applicable in the private sector as one might think. Not in the Colonel's experience, anyway.

So, it seems that the Colonel's decision to settle on a 100 acres and buy a tractor is perhaps the most educated thing he has ever done.

Sharing Sharia

To the blissful many, whose sacrifices on the altar of American freedoms are counted mostly in losses of temper at an inconvenience, and whose understanding of history is restricted to the pacifist pablum provided in a grade school textbook authored by a draft-dodger, the controversy surrounding the plans for an "Islamic Cultural Center" adjacent to the site of the 9/11 Islamo-fascist attack on America amounts to nothing more than a debate over the need for our society to honor our freedoms of speech and religion and "build bridges" to the Islamic world that so misunderstands our desire to live in peace with them.

See the desire to build the "Islamic Cultural Center" at the site of the Islamo-fascist attacks for what it is--the traditional Islamic tradition of erecting monuments (in the form of mosques) to Islamic triumphs. We Americans may kid ourselves into believing otherwise--the Islamic world will see it as a monument to a triumph. We Americans may come to view the mosque at Ground Zero as a symbol of outreach to the Islamic world--much as our President views it (and the mission of NASA, for that matter)--but it will be viewed in a much different light by the rest of the world.

We have allowed ourselves to be shamed into seeing the issue as one of respecting the cherished American ideals of religious tolerance and freedom of speech by a culture that respects neither.

Most in our nation have blindly accepted the lie that America is not at war with Islam. The Colonel asks those who purvey such nonsense simply, "Since when?"

Islam has been at war with Judeo-Christianity and the rest of the religions of the world since the middle of the 7th Century. And, at every site of an Islamic victory, a mosque has been erected in commemoration. The name for the planned Islamic Cultural Center at Ground Zero says all we need to know. Cordoba House.

A Muslim army captured Cordoba, a city in present-day southern Spain, in 711. By the end of the first millennium, Cordoba had become one of the great Muslim cities of the world. Cordoba eventually became one of the greatest Caliphates in the Islamic world, considered even greater by the fact that Cordoba represented the Western-most expansion of Islamic influence. Present day Islamic apologists and sympathizers point to the fact that Cordoba's library at the Great Mosque of Cordoba was the greatest in the world.

Berlin had a great library, too, in 1943.