Brain-bucket Bounce

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The seventh was different.

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

Even the simplest things are difficult under stress. 

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

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

The chin strap on the Colonel's helmet broke. 

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

Had been being the operative phrase in this case.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked on the bunk.

No helmet.

He looked under the bunk. 

No helmet. 

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

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

The unmistakable bellow was coming from three floors down. 

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

Our names were on our helmets.

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

Momentarily, the Colonel contemplated jumping after the helmet.

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

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

"Candidate, are you okay?"

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

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

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

The Colonel learned two valuable leadership lessons that day.  

Stuff happens, and it's okay to laugh.

Project Predicament

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

But, the chores are piling up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What?!?

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

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

   



        

Open Letter to Congress on Women in the Infantry

Senators and Congressmen,

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

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

I know you know this.

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

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

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

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

I'm counting on you. 

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

The Beginning of the End

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

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

They are correct in that assessment.

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

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

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

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

The Marine Corps is your daddy.

------------          

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

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

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

The difference is the training.

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

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

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

Now.  But not for much longer.

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

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

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

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

That's the way it has always been.

  

Calendar Chaos

If you live long enough -- and the Colonel has -- the arrival of a new calendar year begins to lose its significance.

Seriously. Why must we celebrate the passing of a day on the calendar that is so arbitrarily granted significance?

-----------

The Colonel bets that the two dozen of you who regularly waste rod and cone time perusing posts hereon have no earthly idea why our calendar year begins on the first day of the month of January.

Allow the Colonel to edumacate you.

The calendar we in the western world today use to track our comings and goings is but the latest in evolutionary refinements to day/season-tracking that dates back to them fellers who first dreamed up the crazy societal-suicidal concept of democracy.  The Greek lunar calendar was adopted by the Romans when they decided to one-up the Greeks in the known-world domination game.

But, there was a big problem with dating things according to a lunar calendar -- the lunar cycle is shorter than the solar cycle.

Yeah, the Colonel knows... the readership just dropped to one dozen.  He congratulates those of you who are still hanging in there --  you are princes among men and women above reproach, with a thirst for knowledge and a taste for the finer things in life.

That, or you have absolutely nothing else of any redeeming value to do with your time at the moment.

Because a lunar calendar caused the most important days of the year to occur on dramatically different dates each solar year, the Romans shifted to a 365 day year, and then this feller named Julius Caesar commissioned the creation of a calendar that accounted for the fact that a solar year (as far as we Earthlings were concerned) is actually 365 and 6 hours long.  This new Julian calendar was instituted in 45 BC and was the calendar of record in the western world for the next 16 centuries. 

But..., the Julian calendar had its own accuracy problem.

See, the Earth actually takes about eleven minutes less than 365 days and 6 hours to complete one revolution 'round ol' Sol.  Because the Julian Calendar added an extra (leap) day every four years, it actually gained a day every 400 years.  As a result, the Julian Calendar's date for the Vernal Equinox had slipped from 21 March to 10 March by the time the 16th Century rolled around.

 

So, in 1582, this feller named Ugo Boncompagni commissioned the creation of a new and improved calendar to account for the discrepancy.

Never heard of Ugo Boncompagni?  Well, he's the man who gave us the calendar we use today.

Ugo was the name his momma gave him when he came into this world on the 7th of January in 1502.  Later on, when ol' Ugo became Pope of the Roman Catholic Church, he took the name Gregory XIII.

His Gregorian Calendar (actually the brainchild of part-time astronomers Aloysius Lilius and Christopher Clavius) accounted for the discrepancy by adjusting in what years (leap years) an additional day would be added.  Whereas the Julian Calendar had leap years every four years, in the new Gregorian Calendar years evenly divisible by 100 are not leap years...

The Colonel knows what you're thinking: "Wait a minute, we had a leap year in 2000..."

Yep, even a Bama grad knows that 2000 is evenly divisible by 100.

Just so happens that Lilius and Clavius figured this thing so well that their equation called for years evenly divisible by 400 to remain leap years.

So, if you wanna see the next usual leap year not have a leap day you're gonna have to be alive at the end of February 2100.

Good luck with that.

In the 16th Century the Roman Catholic Church was pretty much the western world's universal authority on most things large and small.  On the 24th of February 1582, Pope Gregory XlII decreed in a papal bull (not makin' that up) that the day following Thursday 4 October 1582 would not be 5 October 1582.  Nope, to account for the discrepancy inherent in the Julian Calendar, nearly two weeks would have to be leaped.  Friday 5 October 1582 would now be Friday 14 October 1582.

A few predominantly Catholic European countries adopted the new calendar as decreed.

It took another couple of centuries before the rest of the Western World all got on board.     

This wasn't a very popular papal bull.

Most folks saw it as a way to cheat them out of earned wages.

Anybody with a birthday of 5 through 13 October got no cake in 1582, or the year in which their country eventually adopted Ugo's calendar.

Some major metropolitan areas (such as they were in those days) experienced calendar riots.

It's not as paradox-ridden as the concept of time travel, but the two- century long shift to the new calendar causes serious historians a bit of consternation when trying to accurately nail down the exact date of things that occurred in the late 16th to early 18th Centuries.  The Colonel won't bore you with specifics, and he sees some LSU grads' eyes glazing over...

The Colonel does, however, notice the quizzical look on the faces of some of the more inquisitive of you.  You still want to know why our calendar year starts on the 1st of January, don't you?

Yes, you do!

Allow the Colonel to edumacate you. 

Blame it on the Romans.  By the time of Julius Caesar, the Roman New Year had shifted from the spring equinox (as used in antiquity) to the first day of Janus (January) to coincide with the date on which new Roman Consuls took office. 

The Colonel won't get into the whole BC/BCE -- AD/CE accounting here.

There ain't nobody left to read it.        

   

Christmas Coma

Shortly after taps last night the Colonel lapsed into a post-Christmas chow coma rivalled only by that in which Washington's troops found the Hessians at Trenton.

Had Carlos the Terrorist decided to assault the Colonel's defense-in-depth overnight he would have easily breached all but the last line of defense -- the heavily-armed and steely-eyed Miss Brenda.  Luckily for Carlos, he passed on the chance to test the Colonel's defenses.  

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

Christmas at the Colonel's is all about the chow.

Comfort chow.

No sissified sauteed samples and drizzled plate garnishes allowed -- just heaps of ham, potatoes, bacon-covered green beans, sweet potato pie, and fruit salad; washed down with sweet tea.  

Christmas dinner at the Colonel's is a raucous affair replete with loud retelling of family stories, the truthful kernels of truth at the core of which have shrunk to insignificance and been replaced with inflated lore more beloved for the fun of telling than for any attempt at historical accuracy.  

And, once the story-telling subsides, desserts are served.

No tradition is observed with dessert -- just huge slices of sugar and carb-loaded cake or pie, or both.

As the last of family and guests departed, and darkness fell over the pine-studded and kudzu-clad clay hills here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, the Colonel and his Lady smiled to each other in recognition of another holiday gathering with no familial bloodshed and breathed deeply in the sudden silence.  The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda turned to the Colonel and sweetly admonished him,

"Don't you do it."

"Do what?"

"You know what!"

But, it was too late.  The Colonel's conscious systems were in full safety shutdown mode.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was going to have to finish kitchen clean-up without the Colonel's supervision.

Sometimes a leader must trust his subordinates. 

Okay ladies, the Colonel hears you grinding your teeth.  In the Colonel's defense, his last words to the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda were permission to leave some of the clean-up for this morning.

So, if you will excuse the Colonel, he must beg your leave to head to the kitchen.

He hears the clattering of dishes and needs to assume his supervisory duties.                 

Tad Pad Takedown

One surefire way to limit readership is to bloviate at length about one's sports team.

It's a padlock guarantee to glaze the eyes of even the thirstiest reader.

The Colonel knows this.

But he ain't smart and you can't make him.

Besides, the readership of this blog would have to be measured in negative integers if it were to get any smaller.

Thanks, Mom, for hanging in there.

Yesterday afternoon, the Colonel attended an Ole Miss Rebels basketball game.  He last attended a Rebel basketball game over 40 years ago.

Let's be clear right up front.  The Colonel loathes the game of basketball.  At five - six and three quarters (and, never forget the three quarters) he never saw much future in pursuit of the sport. 

The Colonel loves football.  His diminutive stature never seemed to be the bar to playing football that he allowed it to be with Naismith's invention.  The Colonel's football instincts were far too ingrained in his sports psyche long before he ever tried to play basketball -- in his short roundball career, he once fouled out without ever leaving the bench.

The Colonel would rather watch purple and gold paint dry while suspended by his thumbs from hooks in the ceiling, than to watch an entire basketball game.  

The Colonel's number two son, who inexplicably excels at the game, reminded the Colonel a couple of weeks ago that yesterday's basketball game was going to be significant well beyond the importance of the non-conference match-up with a team whose RPI (the Colonel doesn't know what that is, but it adds a little basketballism to this treatise, does it not?) would matter less to the post-season tournament hopes of the Rebel roundballers (more gratuitous sport slang for authenticity sake) than the color of their socks. 

The game against Troy would be the last ever played in the Tad Pad.

C. M. "Tad" Smith Coliseum, named for a Rebel sports great from early in the last century, was built 50 years ago.  It's round, domed profile mimicked that of more well-known sports domes of the era.  A Rebel frat rat, fueled by a flask of Rebel Yell, could squint through his swimming double vision as he stumbled across the parking lot of the Tad Pad and imagine that he was about to attend a game, or a concert, in the Super Dome.  

With respects to the architects and builders of the edifice in question, the Tad Pad was -- and the Colonel is searching for the most delicate language possible -- a dump.

The Colonel apologizes to any dumps he may have just slandered.

The Tad Pad was supposed to be a multi-use arena, and it was.  

Kinda. 

In the old analog days, students filed into the coliseum to line up at tables in hopes of finding a seat in a too-quickly filled class for the next semester.  The pain of this contributed, in no small way, to the Colonel's antipathy for the building.

For the last two years of his matriculation at the Harvard of the South (by reciprocal agreement, Harvard is allowed to call itself the Ole Miss of the North), the Tad Pad was the second thing he saw every morning on his way to class.  The first was the sight of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda -- the Colonel and his bride lived in an efficiency apartment in married student housing across the street for the even then crumbling coliseum.

The Tad Pad is finally being replaced.  Next to Vaught-Hemingway Stadium, a beautiful new multi-use arena is set to open for business next month.  The Pavilion at Ole Miss (to be renamed in honor of the next rich Ole Miss alum to shell out several million for the honor) will vault Ole Miss basketball into regions of recognition the team's play could never reach on its own.

So, the Colonel felt honor-bound to participate in the send-off of the venerable venue.  He joined several thousand likewise lured to the otherwise avoidable game by one dollar general admission tickets.  

The crowd, aged from 90 to 9 months, was missing a critical component.  Weren't many students in attendance -- they are home for the holidays.  

Nevertheless, the home crowd managed a modicum of meaningful, it not necessarily raucous, support for the Rebel B-ballers as they took to the Tad Pad court for the last time.

Did the Colonel mention that his consideration of the game of basketball ranks in the range of his appreciation for root canal surgery?

Near the end of the second period, Number Two noticed the Colonel's uneasiness and leaned over to reassure him.

"Don't worry, Dad.  It will be over soon."

He lied.  

Must get that from his mother.

In typical Ole Miss fashion, in the waning minutes of the game, the Rebels surrendered a 10 point lead to a team they should have dominated by twice that.  At the buzzer, the score was tied.

If the Colonel believed in mythological sports gods, he would have been convinced that the basketball gods were high-fiving and pointing gleefully at the look of absolute horror on his face.

The Colonel, who would rather play touch football with a pack of porcupines than watch thirty seconds of basketball, was in his own personal version of sports hell.  Overtime at a basketball game. 

Then, the unimaginable happened.

The Colonel found himself on his feet.

The Colonel heard his own voice screaming appreciation for the sweet swish of ball through net.

Filing out of the Tad Pad, the Colonel heard himself ask,

"Hey, when's the first game in the new Pavilion?"

Well..., the Colonel needs to be there for history's sake, doesn't he?                                     

Is this what you want, America?

Tarawa, November 1943

The earliest memories of his childhood in the Corps, at the very beginning of the Colonel's career as a U.S. Marine, are the reminders from the Marines whose service predated his own that the Marines from their generation were tougher, had it harder, than the Marines from the Colonel's generation.

At the time, the Colonel will readily admit, that was entirely the case.  The Marines who trained the Colonel's generation of Marines were veterans of vicious combat in Vietnam, Korea, and, in some cases, World War II.

The Post-Vietnam force was a hollow one, and for the most part it's members were coddled compared to the generations that preceded it.  

The Colonel finds himself in the curious position of proclaiming that the generation of Marines that followed his own are far tougher and far better trained.

The Colonel's generation saw limited combat throughout the 80's and 90's.  Grenada, Lebanon, Panama, even the first Gulf War were cakewalks in comparison to the wars fought by the generation of Marines who have been in action for the last decade and a half.

Thirty-seven years ago, this month, the Colonel graduated from the Marine Corps' Infantry Officers Course (IOC).  In 1978, IOC was a six-week course that "qualified" its graduates for assignment of the Military Occupational Specialty (MOS), 0302 (Infantry Officer).  All Marine lieutenants, regardless of eventual MOS (aviation, logistics, artillery, armor, etc.) must first graduate from the Basic Officer Course at The Basic School (TBS) at Quantico, Virginia.  TBS, in theory, prepares all Marine officers to serve as infantry platoon commanders.  In fact, prior to establishment of IOC in 1977, Marine officers assigned the 0302 MOS went straight from TBS to their infantry platoons.

Over the years, IOC has incrementally raised its standards and increased its rigor to the point that today it is arguably one of the  physically toughest and most mentally challenging schools in all the world's militaries.   Thirty-seven years ago every lieutenant in the Colonel's IOC class finished the course.  Today, a not-insignificant percentage fail to even pass the initial evaluation.  The Colonel would like to be able to say that they fail because they aren't as tough as the Colonel's generation.

He can't.  Not by a long shot.

The Colonel took, and still takes, pride in being as hard as a set of woodpecker lips.  There weren't many in better shape, nor as inured to hardship as he was.  But, he has serious doubt in his super-confident military mind that he could have passed the initial evaluation for today's IOC.   Oh, and the course is now ten weeks long -- each and every day as challenging as the most challenging day in 1978's six-week course .

The Colonel thinks that is a very good thing.

For the past 14 years, young infantry Marines have fought in battles that compare favorably in terms of ferocity and deprivation with any of the most famous battles of our Corps -- Samar, Belleau Wood, Iwo Jima, Chosin, Khe Sanh, to name but a few of the many absolutely horrendous fights from which U.S. Marines emerged victorious and the lore of which animate our Corps today.  The fight for Fallujah in Iraq a decade ago will go down in history and be held in the same awe as any battle of the Pacific war against Japan.

Those young Marines, volunteers all, deserve the very best battle leadership possible.  Their officers should be the most qualified our nation can afford to place at their head.  And, we should never stop increasing the quality and ability of those officers.  To do otherwise is a treasonous disservice to those young Marines they will lead and to the mothers and fathers who give their children to the Corps' care.  

In the current fight, Mom and Dad can rest in the assurance that the officer leading their son into battle is so physically and mentally capable that he will continue to operate and make sound battlefield decisions under the most demanding conditions imaginable (and even conditions far more demanding that most can imagine).

The Colonel credits the superior American political leadership of the 1980's to the world-class military America fields today.  Today's U.S. Armed Forces are without peer -- as it should be.  

The political leadership 30 years ago set the priority of quality of force and military prowess over political correctness and social engineering.   

Today, the reverse is the case.

For the first time in its proud history, our Republic, which used to pride itself on its moral and ethical superiority, will now consciously send women into combat as infantrymen, er... persons.  

To quote the current temp help in the Oval Office, "That's not who we are, as Americans."  

The Colonel cares not that other nations have women in their infantry formations.  Our nation should not be in the business of adopting other nations' practices.  

We are better than they are.  

Just because the Israelis have women in their infantry units doesn't justify American women serving likewise.  The Colonel has trained with the Israelis -- they are good against Arab armies; they wouldn't last a day against most western armies.

No other infantry fighting force on the planet can stand toe-to-toe with American infantry.  

No. Other. 

Period. 

End. Of. Discussion.

Our physical fitness and training standards are unmatched.  

Of two dozen who have tried over the last couple of years, no woman has even made it through the first grueling week of IOC.  

Neither did lots of men.

But, mark the Colonel's words, the physical standards for IOC will be gender-normed before the next year is out.  

The result will be an Marine Infantry Officer Course whose standards will be lowered to allow women to pass.  The argument, by men and women who have never served in combat, will be that the standards are unreasonably high today.  

Oh, and the women who pass the course under lowered standards will step in front of 40 enlisted Marines who know.  Not fair for those young ladies -- a brand new infantry second lieutenant has a hard enough job gaining the trust and confidence of his men. 

Is that what you want, America?  Do you want America's premier force in readiness -- the world's finest combined arms battlefield dominator -- reduced in effectiveness against the enemies of our Republic and the freedoms its Constitution enshrines?

It will be.

Don't say the Colonel didn't warn you.  

Saving Christmas

There are two times of the year for which the Colonel's disdain-o-meter pegs.

One is that foul-breathed, runted dragon of a month, February, whose wanton waste of space on the Colonel's calendar drives him to rabid mental and physical excess, seeking a minimizing temporal distortion.

The Colonel has never been convinced -- and many have tried -- that the month of February holds any redeeming value.  It is the desert wasteland on the annual landscape through which one must traverse, maddening inexorably with thirst for something -- anything -- of intellectual or manly pursuit with which to sustain one's self.

If February was a man, the Colonel would challenge him to a duel.   

Every stinkin' day. 

The other time of year that wrings the Colonel's rag is Christmas.

Yeah, that's right.  The Colonel hates Christmas.   

Well,... it's not so much that the Colonel hates Christmas.  The reason for the season is his raison d'etre. 

The Colonel hates what everybody else has done with Christmas.

The Colonel hates the artificial amplification of cheer pumped into every human activity, and the subsequent disdain in which anyone is held who doesn't routinely sidle up to the helium tank to have his balloon bloated with faux spirit.

The Colonel doesn't mind being told to "have a Merry Christmas."  He just doesn't appreciate the cheerful condescension from most whose demeanor in the other eleven months of the year bordered on sullen with a side order of disgruntled.

The Colonel ain't no hypocrite -- he'll remain sullen and disgruntled all year long, thank you very much.

The Colonel hates the ubiquitous donation hustlers, parked outside Sam Walton's ultimate expression of capitalism, ladling out guilt for not responding to their call to give.  Oh, don't think the Colonel didn't notice the subtle quickening of bell-ringing pace as he brushed by.  And, telling him "Merry Christmas?"  Might as well have yelled out "Scrooge!"  

The Colonel hates that Christmas has become in many minds the counter-attack campaign season in the cultural long-war.  Keep Christ in Christmas?  The Colonel didn't take Him out.  Seems to the Colonel that anyone who needs to be reminded to keep Christ in Christmas many not have ever had Christ in their hearts.

It just might be that anyone who feels the duty to not-so gently remind others to keep Christ in Christmas, or who respond with crusader-like outrage at perceived assaults on Christianity, may need to do a little recentering of their lives on Jesus' teaching. 

In the Colonel's not-so humble opinion, keeping Christ in Christmas starts and ends in his own heart.  If he does what Jesus would have him do, the Colonel is convinced, without a shadow of a doubt in his military mind, that the Spirit that animates his faith will do the rest.

He might even start to like February.

Christmas doesn't need men to save it.  Christmas is salvation.               

Centurion Logic

The Colonel has far more books than shelf space, and loves each as a personal treasure.  For a child who attended 12 different schools before he even started high school, books were the Colonel's educational salvation.

And he was in dire need of salvation.

His favorites are histories; particularly the ones that dive deep into the waters of connection and causation.  Names and dates are important as milestones, but the clash of motives and means are the critical components to understanding the arc of history.

The Colonel swims constantly in the sea of history.  Its mineral rich waters permeate his being and enrich his understanding...

Well..., as much as the understanding of an Ole Miss grad and knuckle-draggin' Marine can be enriched...

The Colonel will readily admit that he ain't smart and you can't make him.   But, it doesn't take a particularly bright person to read and comprehend most of the books from which the Colonel derives his understanding.

We're not talking quantum physics, here.  This treatise is about history; and, while the treatment of historical topics is subject to the world view of the historian and must be evaluated with that in mind, at least there ain't no stinkin' equations to solve.

In his life-long study of the history of nations, one theme constantly jumps off the pages and slaps the Colonel across his frown-framed jowls:

     -- The single most important motivation is survival, followed closely (upon survival's guarantee) by prosperity. -- 

It is not the duty of any nation's leaders to care about the survival and prosperity of any other nation, particularly to the detriment of their own.

This old centurion has lived by one code the entirety of his adult life:  

     -- All geo-political decisions boil down to one question:  What is best for the Republic?  All other nations DO NOT matter. 

When the president of our Republic says, and the Colonel quotes him verbatim, 

      "What I’m not interested in doing is posing or pursuing some notion of American leadership or America winning or whatever other slogans they come up with that has no relationship to what is actually gonna work to protect the American people and to protect people in the region."..., 

....then it is time for that man to go.  He no longer places the survival and prosperity of the United States in a place of supremacy in his thoughts and actions.  

The rest of the world DOES NOT matter, Mr. President.  You are the President of the United States of America; not the world.

When we start annexing other parts of the world (the Colonel recommends we start with Latin America), THEN you can start "protect[ing] people in th[at] region."

It's Centurion Logic. 

Place Jihadism on Life Support

A common refrain among the squeamish, spineless, neo-hippies dominating American political thought today is that "an ideology can not be destroyed solely through the application of military force."

That belief is as wrong as it is common; brainlessly mimicked by mellifluous minas with no more idea of the true cost of liberty than a toddler coddled in a cocoon of child-proof protection from even the slightest physical harm or mental over-stimulation. 

Ideas may never die, but they can be placed in an iron-lung of immobility from which they can be studied and pitied for their irrelevancy.

Malevolent ideologies only gain relevancy when people grant those ideas power over them -- either through weakness of mind and spirit, apathy, or slovenly greed.  

Malevolence must always be met with force, early and often, or later and always it will seek to strip all within its ever-widening scope of influence of every means to resist until it is undisputed lord and master.  

Force.  Overwhelming, unflinching, decisive force.

The kind of force these re-United States used to win the two most important wars in its history -- the War of Southern Secession and the War with Germany and Japan. 

The ideology that drove Japanese Imperialism still exists in the minds of men.  The idea was not destroyed.  But, the nation that attempted to enslave Asia under that idea's banner was destroyed.  Peace with the Japanese people has been a multitudinous blessing for the world for the seven decades since.

Ditto Nazism and Germany.

George W. Bush failed to lead a crushing crusade like that in which his father participated in his youth.  Paris suffered yesterday as a result.

Clearly, there will never be a war to end all wars.  War is the ceaseless responsibility of the righteous; a requirement of good men until the Perfect Man returns.    

  

Thanks for the Memories

Veterans Day observance at church yesterday morning included a video of Bob Hope entertaining troops overseas, and set the Colonel's memory machine whirring back 30 years.

In 1985, the Colonel, then a captain, was in the middle of an assignment at The Basic School (TBS) -- the Corps' basic officer training school through which all brand new Marine second lieutenants pass before going on to their primary military occupational specialty school.  After serving as a staff platoon commander in two student companies his first year, the Colonel spent his second year in the Command and Leadership instructor branch teaching Drill and Ceremonies and overseeing the Unarmed Combat Course; not-so perfect preparation for his final assignment on the staff -- Chief of Student Support.

The Colonel isn't sure how the position got that title, or if the position and title still exists.  The Chief of Student Support (CSS) at the Basic School in 1985 wasn't "Chief" of anything, and there was little in the actual day-to-day that involved supporting students.
   
CSS was a catch-all job of disparate responsibilities.  

As the school's protocol officer, the Chief of Student Support orchestrated the steady stream of VIP (generals, congressmen, foreign dignitaries, etc.) visits to the world's premier basic military officer training ground.  

Each student company -- eight or nine per year -- had a formal Commanding General's Reception, a formal Mess Night, and a formal graduation ceremony -- CSS was responsible for teaching the corresponding preparatory classes and supervised the conduct of each. 

A handful of foreign military officers (FMOs) were members of each Basic Officer Class -- CSS was responsible for tracking their comings and goings and official correspondence with their respective embassies. One particularly interesting requirement was to take all twenty-five or thirty FMOs to a pre-season Redskins game -- that experience, alone, is gist for several blog posts!

CSS was also nominally charged with purview of the administrative section that maintained each second lieutenant's nascent record book -- the Officer Qualification Record.  The Personnel Officer, a crusty old warrant officer, invited the Colonel into his office for a cup of coffee right after he was assigned the CSS job and told him that he had an open invitation to come drink a cup of joe anytime.  Otherwise, he'd let the Colonel know if there was ever a problem.  

There never was.

The Basic School had a flag football team that played in the Quantico base league.  After a disappointing start to the season, the Commanding Officer called the Colonel into his office and commissioned him "Coach."  The Colonel played more than he coached, and the season remained in the "disappointing" category. 

But, perhaps the duty for which the Colonel was most unprepared was supervision of the Basic School Chorus.  The Chorus, 40 or 50 lieutenants with more ambition than skill, performed at formal events -- mostly Mess Nights at which they..., ahem..., excelled at bawdy drinking songs.  And, that leads us back to Hope.

Bob Hope was one of six honorees at the 1985 Kennedy Center Honors.  For Hope's portion of the evening, the producers of the show invited each service's choral group to perform in a uniformed ensemble salute.  

There was only one problem with that.

The Marine Corps ain't got no dedicated choral group.  

We got a band.  Even got a Marine of two in that band who can sing a drinking song solo.  But, we ain't got no bunch o' singin' Jarheads...

When the Commandant of the Marine Corps was told that the Corps wasn't going to be represented on the stage that night, he remembered a recent Mess Night at TBS for which he had been the Guest of Honor.  

The Basic School Chorus sang that night for the Commandant.

The next morning, shortly after the CO of TBS got off the phone with the Commandant, the Colonel was called into his office and told that The Basic School Chorus was going to sing for Bob Hope.

And, oh, by the way, President Reagan was going to be sitting next to Hope. 

The Colonel remembers a lot of trips to a lot of bosses' offices to receive a lot of off-the-wall assignments, but he remembers none for which he felt so completely unprepared.

The Colonel must have blanched at the assignment, because the C.O. quickly reassured, "Don't sweat it, Ed, the other services will do the singing.  The lieutenants will just be there to be seen."    

So, on December 8th, 1985, the Colonel and the Basic School Chorus bussed up to D.C., spent a long day in rehearsal, and then provided Marine window dressing for the event.  

If you check out the video of the 1985 Kennedy Center Honors program -- particularly the part honoring Bob Hope -- you'll see Marine second lieutenants on stage lustily lip-synching "Thanks for the Memories" for Bob Hope.  What you won't see on that stage is Captain Gregory lip-synching -- lustily or otherwise.

You see, the Colonel was one of approximately eighty hard-chargin' Marine captains assigned to teach brand new second lieutenants at TBS.  By and large, the Colonel being one of a few notable exceptions, the captains assigned to teach at The Basic School were "the best of the best."  There was no little egotistical chest-bumping among that crowd, as you can well imagine.  

There wasn't about to be photographic evidence of the Colonel singing.  There would have been no end to the grief from his fellow captains.

So, instead, the Colonel (in his dress blues, mind you) stayed backstage during the show.

But, backstage was where the action was!

The Colonel (thanks entirely to the aforementioned dress blues) was the center of attraction.  Lucille Ball gave him a hug.  Michelle Lee gave him a hug.  Carol Burnett gave him a hug. The Colonel shook hands with Walter Cronkite, Jimmy Stewart, Chevy Chase, Mikhail Baryshnikov, Rex Harrison, and Kirk Douglas.

Did the Colonel mention that Lucy gave him a hug?

Thanks for the memories, Bob!  
   

And Then There Were Five

A little over thirty years ago, the Colonel and his Lady, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, conducted an after-action review of their attack to achieve life goals they had set not long after they had become a steady couple.  

Their early attraction had turned to addiction and instead of attempting to kick the habit, the Colonel and Miss Brenda had decided to make a life of it.  They dreamed together, and the longer they dreamed the more those shared dreams became shared goals.  Anyone who is blessed with the extreme good fortune of knowing the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda knows that once she sets her heart and head on something the world just needs to get off the tracks and let the Brenda train roll on through.

By the time they had been married eight years, the Colonel and Miss Brenda had pretty much put checks in all of the goal boxes on the Gregory Family timeline.

Finish college. Check.

Start a career.  Check.

Actually, those were Miss Brenda's personal goals.  The Colonel didn't really go to college -- he went to Ole Miss -- and serving as a Marine infantry officer wasn't as much a career as it was perpetual play time with rather dangerous activities and a more than likely opportunity for loss of limb or life.  

Good times...

The Colonel digresses.

So, thirty years ago, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda reminded the Colonel that there was a rather large box still to be checked on the timeline for the Ed and Brenda Show.

See, as far as the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was concerned the early goals were set in concrete by now and the Brenda Train was barrelling down the track...  

Oh, did the Colonel mention that the goals included three children -- two boys and a girl?

Yeah, well, the Colonel will proudly state for the record that he is incapable of producing anything but male progeny (and, so far, male grand-progeny).  Two boys joined the family in rapid succession and it became clear that if the Colonel and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda were going to include a little girl in the gang (per the set-in-concrete life goals), it was going to require actions outside of the traditional birds and bees route.

The Colonel and his Lady decided to adopt.

A year later, 29 years ago -- today, a precious four and a half-year- old little girl joined, and completed, the family.  

Her Chinese name was unpronounceable, so the four voted on a 'murican name for the fifth.

Jessica Ann.

The Colonel likes to think that God had that planned all along.     



    

Finding Soldierly Solace

The Colonel has been officially retired from the United States Marine Corps for an even dozen years now. 

After spending the better part of three decades immersing himself completely in the role and mindset of a warfighter, the first several years out of uniform were..., well..., difficult.

The Colonel spent the first year -- the entire year, everyday -- fishing.

He was living in Panama City, Florida.  What else could anyone expect the Colonel to do?  The Colonel and his boat, SemperFish, became as one.  They glided the bays and bayous in self-imposed solitude, seeking elusive finned quarry and finding a measure of solace the need for which the Colonel was initially unaware.

In fact, as excited as he was to finally take off the pack, the Colonel grieved for several years after leaving active duty.

He grieved loss of daily contact with Marines -- men and women with whom the Colonel shared bonds unfathomable to the uninitiated.  

He grieved loss of a worthwhile mission.  There was nothing in his new civilian life that provided the meaning and adrenal gland workout of preparing young men for battle -- on any battlefield. 

He grieved loss of identity.  The Colonel had achieved rank and authority far beyond his wildest dreams and further beyond the wildest imagination of anyone who knew him in the less-than-stellar early years of his career.   When he put in his papers, the Colonel was commanding a regiment of Marines recruiting a new battalion of young men and women for service as Marines every month.  The Colonel went from the dead sprint of that challenge to the slovenly loaf of a fisherman overnight.  He soon began to wonder who he was.   

And, then, when he got most of the way through the grieving process, the Colonel re-engaged.  He was too old and set in his military ways to learn to be a true civilian, but he figured he could mold and shape enough of his military mind and mindset into acceptable thought and behavior for success in the civilian world.

It worked.  To a point.

But, the strain of adapting to the slovenly thought and behavior widely acceptable in the civilian sector, and the constant stress of navigating the minefields of political correctness and others' "feelings," proved too much for the Colonel's self-discipline, and when the cracks began to appear they rapidly widened into chasms from which toxic anti-social molten ejecta spewed and set fire to so many of the Colonel's carefully crafted military to civilian bridges that no retreat back to normalcy was possible.  
   
So, the Colonel withdrew from the civilian battlefield.

And, now, he finally thinks he's found his place.  He doesn't fit in anywhere and he doesn't care.

Don't pity the Colonel.  Or do.  He doesn't care.

The Colonel doesn't hate you.  He just doesn't care.  He hopes and prays the best for you, but he doesn't care what you hope and pray for him.

The Colonel doesn't even care what you think about what he writes...


...just don't stop reading, okay?   



    

One of Those Mornings

It's one of those mornings.

It's Monday, but the Colonel has never hated Mondays.  His (semi) adult career was actually so much fun and most often so rewarding that the Colonel really looked forward to getting back together post-weekend with some of the greatest people, and finest story-tellers, on the planet.

No mistake, the Colonel loved him some weekends.  All Marines live for the weekend...; well..., Marines live to FIGHT -- anywhere, anytime, against anybody -- but, making it to the weekends (or any break in training for that fight) was always the unspoken goal of the week.

The Colonel liked Mondays because many of the Marines with whom he worked always had great weekend liberty stories to tell with great relish and little regret.

Since he retired, and then re-retired to the farm here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, the Colonel has come to view Mondays as pretty much the same as any other day of the week.

In fact, what DAY of the week it happens to be matters so little to the Colonel anymore that the only reason he even has a calendar  is to keep track of hunting and college football seasons.

More than anything else nowadays, the weather determines the Colonel's daily activities.  

This morning it's raining -- for the first time in what seems like a month of Mondays.  It has been so dry here aboard the Colonel's vast holdings that Lake Brenda has passed quickly through the pond and puddle stage and is bordering on the stage for which the appellation "mudflat" is most appropriate.  The Colonel's catfish are growing legs and heading north -- with or without documentation.

Rainy mornings didn't used to be any deterrence to the Colonel's mission of preparing young men to travel to exotic lands, meet new people, and... win hearts and minds.  The Colonel was raised by hard men whose mantra was "If it ain't rainin', we ain't really trainin'."

But the Colonel is no longer in the business of preparing young men for deployment abroad and employment in the manly art of breaking things and wreaking havoc in the homeland of the Republic's enemies.  If it's rainin', the Colonel's writin'.

And so, he has.