War Story

Several times a week, the Colonel has the immense pleasure of sharing strong coffee and significant memories with his ninety-year-old father.  One story that figures prominently in his recollections, and grows richer with each re-telling, is an account from his service in Vietnam. 

In the summer of 1966, then Technical Sergeant Vernon Gregory, USAF, received orders to the US airbase at Nha Trang in the Republic of Vietnam. His specialty was aircraft maintenance, but when he arrived the critical need at Nha Trang -- with the war heating up and air operations increasing exponentially -- was someone to head up an ad hoc "crash recovery crew" whose task was to immediately respond to, and clean up, the aftermath of crashes at the airfield, and, on occasion, fly to remote dirt strips for the same purpose. 

Three sips of strong black coffee stir the synapses and the story rolls out like it's not the hundredth time he's told it, "We got a call that one of our C-123s had landed hard during a resupply of an Army fire base inland. They told me that the airplane was smack dab in the middle of the dirt strip with a sheared off landing gear.  It was stuck; couldn't take off; couldn't move itself off the runway."

A pause -- always the same at this point -- a quick sideways glance at the Colonel as if to make sure the jarhead understands the predicament, and then the story continues, "My boss told me to take who and what I needed, fly up there, and figure out what needed to be done to recover the aircraft."

The Colonel has tried several times to suss out the organizational details, "Dad, who was your 'boss'?"

The answer is always the same, and always a veiled shot at his commissioned son, "Oh, some officer who worked in an air-conditioned office up at Operations.  Rarely saw him."

"Anyway," slight irritation showing at the Colonel's off-topic question, "I grabbed one of my guys and we piled everything we thought we might need on a four-wheeled trailer and loaded up on a C-123. We got up to the site pretty quick and the 123 pilot circled the hilltop where the dirt strip was, and sure enough, the crashed plane was sitting there in the middle of the runway, slewed off to one side and leaning over on one wingtip."   

"The pilot said, 'Can't land. No room. Need to go see if the Army can get you in with something smaller'." 

"So, we flew up to an Army airbase.  I thought they might put us on a big helicopter, but an Army captain said, 'Put your gear on that plane over there and I'll get you in'."

"The plane was a small, two-engine, high-wing thing called a Caribou. We flew back to the crash site and the Army pilot flew the length of the strip and sized up the situation.  I asked him what he thought, expecting him to say that he couldn't land, either.  He said, 'No problem. But you might want to hold on to something'."

The Colonel's dad had learned to fly before he enlisted in the Air Force in early '53, "I wasn't real sure that Army guy really knew what he was trying to do -- that dirt strip was short enough as it was and having a crashed airplane sitting halfway down it was going make landing a real challenge." 

"But this Army guy swung around on final without hesitation and dropped like a rock right on the very approach end of that dirt strip.  I was glad he had warned me to hold on, because as soon as the wheels hit the dirt, he stood that Caribou up on its nose and screeched to a halt not much further than a 'first down' from the C-123."

"As we were unloading our trailer, an Army lieutenant colonel walked up and asked, 'who's in charge?'"

"I told him I was, and while the Caribou taxied around the C-123 and took off, he button-holed me and said, 'You need to get this plane off my strip, ASAP.'"

"'Yessir,' I told him, 'I'm gonna work on it. I need to figure out what parts we need and then figure out a way to get them from Nha Trang up here, so that we can make repairs.'"

"He said, 'Sergeant, I don't think you understand.  My battalion depends on this airstrip.  You've got about a New York minute to get that thing off my strip, or I'm gonna do it for you, and I guarantee you it won't be flight worthy when we're done'."

"Well, we started hustling.  We unloaded our gear from the trailer and jacked up the wing to get the broken landing gear strut off the ground.  Then we rolled the trailer under the wing and let the jacks down.  The weight of the '123 was too much and the tires blew out on the trailer, and I thought, 'Well, that ain't good'.  She still rolled, though."

"Now we had the aircraft where we could move it without tearing anything else up.  We bummed a tow bar and a tracked vehicle from the Army, and rigged up a chain from the trailer, and slowly pulled the C-123 onto the shoulder of the strip, and out of the way."

"The Army lieutenant colonel walked up and slapped me on the back, 'Outstanding, sergeant! Great work! How would you guys like a cold beer'?"

"I wiped the sweat and dust off my face and said, 'Yessir, I'd love a cold beer'."

"He clapped me on the shoulder, looked me in the eye, and said, 'Wouldn't we all'." 

"An hour or so later another C-123 from Nha Trang landed on the strip and I put my guy on it with a list of parts we needed.  The Army lieutenant colonel walked up as that plane took off and said, 'That was the last flight for the day. Gonna be dark soon'." 

"I asked him where I could bunk overnight, and he looked around the hill, 'No barracks here, sergeant, and we're full up in our bunkers and fighting holes. Recommend you find yourself a place to rack out inside that concertina wire around our supply dump'."  

"I thought about sleeping in the plane, but then it dawned on me that if the bad guys decided to attack, the plane would be a big target.  So, I stretched out between some crates in the supply dump and spent a sleepless night listening to out-going artillery."

"At one point early in the night, I was rustling around in the dark trying to get comfortable, and a voice from outside the supply dump hollered, 'Who goes there!?!.'  I stood up and identified myself and the soldier walking sentry asked, 'What are doing in there?' He must have thought I was trying to steal something.  Anyway, I explained to him who I was and why I was there, and we both agreed not to shoot at each other the next time."

"Next morning, a C-123 landed and a couple of my guys and another pilot from Nha Trang got off with a replacement gear for the broke plane.  A couple of hours later, the gear was fixed and the pilot got ready to taxi the plane and try to take off."

"I asked him if we could load up and go with him back to Nha Trang, and he said' 'No'. That he wanted the plane as light as possible, but that there would be several more C-123 flights into the dirt strip delivering supplies later that day."

"Every time a plane would land, I would go out to it and ask if I could load up and go back to Nha Trang with them.  Each time they would tell me, 'No'. That they either weren't going back to Nha Trang or that they didn't have room."

"Late in the afternoon, I was beginning to think I might have to spend another night on that hilltop listening to outgoing artillery all night.  I was sitting there on my busted up trailer feeling sorry for myself, when a crusty old soldier hollered at me, 'Hey, Air Force! Get your gear ready, the next plane is your ride'!" 

"Got a hot shower and a cold beer that night." 

   

    

Call of the Rain Crow

This summer the Colonel and his father -- the wise and strong-hearted Mister Vernon -- have fallen into a comfortable routine, spending more time with each other in the past year than in all of the previous fifty combined.  As he reflects on the last fourteen months that the passing of his mother made him his father's closest family, the Colonel realizes the enormity of the loss that those fifty years represent.  He is amazed at all that he has learned.

Several times a week, Mister Vernon drives the short distance from his home on the outskirts of Oxford, Mississippi to the Colonel's vast holdings at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, and he and the Colonel sit over strong coffee and talk.

The Colonel has many gaps in his knowledge of his parents' history.  They were always very private people. But the reality is whenever he was with them, the Colonel was shamefully more interested in telling them what he was up to than in asking about their lives.

The Colonel is a bore.

He'd much rather educate than learn, more often than not.

His loss.

This year, however, he has learned to ask questions.  Dad's answers have wondrously filled massive gaps in the Colonel's understanding.

As has been their custom this summer, coffee time has been shared in the shade of a small pavilion in the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's gardens behind the Big House.  The ostensible reason is to watch the antics of the dozens of ruby-throated hummingbirds attracted to feeders into which a small fortune of sugar is poured daily.  The Colonel's ulterior motive is to get his father talking.

Mister Vernon is normally a quiet man.  He reminds the Colonel of the character played by John Wayne in the movie by that name.  So, it takes some gentle probing to stir the memories stored in his ninety-year-old mind.  He's still sharp, and once he starts, the details are amazing.  

The two old men have covered the waterfront.  The Colonel has learned about his dad's life from earliest memories living with his Methodist preacher grandfather in Tunica, Mississippi to exploits in Vietnam.  

The two old men share a love for wildlife, and spend much time discussing the changes in deer, quail, and duck populations over the years.  Mister Vernon's insights into reasons for declines would make game biologists slap their foreheads. 

The other day, a quail whistled nearby as they sipped their coffee.  

"That's the first bobwhite I've heard in several years," the Colonel observed.

Dad took the bait, "When I was a kid, you couldn't walk anywhere without jumping a covey."  Memories connected to flushes flowed behind.  Then, quiet sips of coffee.

A bird called from the pine and brush ringing Miss Brenda's gardens.  It was a low whooping, like water dripping in a well.  The Colonel has wondered for years what bird makes that sound.

"Dad," the Colonel asked. "What is that bird?"

"Rain crow," was the quick answer.

"C'mon, Dad! You just made that up!"

"It's a rain crow."  Dad didn't offer anything else.  Sometimes he does that to make the Colonel ask more stupid questions.

While his father sipped his coffee and studied hummers, the Colonel surreptitiously fished his smart phone from his pocket and thumbed in a search.  

"Rain crow" is colloquial for the yellow-billed cuckoo, Google told him.  The Colonel told his dad.

"Could have told you that.  Ever seen one?"

"Yessir.  Had one fly into a window several years ago."

"They're real shy," Dad offered.  "You won't see 'em in the woods.  But, you'll hear 'em when the weather is hot and humid.  Means it's likely to rain."  

Raining this morning.  The rain crow called it.  

There's been a lot rain in the Colonel's life lately.  The rain crow's call has been nearly omnipresent.

But, a good rain clears the air.  The bad stuff washes out.

Keep callin', rain crow.   

  

          

 

Lifetime Project

The Colonel's project list, containing to-do items large and small, has never been short. But, the list -- there is an actual one, handwritten in pencil, within arthritic fingertip reach of the key board on which this missive is tippy-tapped -- is approaching a length the sight of which is deeply depressing without ingestion of prodigious mugs of liquid morning motivation.

The list has two categories: Projects and Monthly Schedule (for accomplishment of lesser included tasks associated with the aforementioned projects). 

The one project that looms largest is actually the grandest the Colonel has attempted -- The Colonel's Cabin on Lake Brenda (CCLB).

A large proportion of the Colonel's projects (pergolas, the Colonel's Knotty Room office, solar kiln, two bridges, chicken coop, tractor shed, etc.) accomplished since establishment of his HQ here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere a decade and a half ago, have, in fact, prepared him for the CCLB endeavor.

The Colonel's Cabin on Lake Brenda is, for the Colonel, a monumental undertaking. Progress is measured in maddingly small steps, each of which take so much time that the cabin has been dubbed "The Lifetime Project."

It is the largest building project of the Colonel's life and will likely take the rest of the Colonel's life to complete.  The Colonel's plan is to live to the age of 120, so there's roughly a half a century of work left.

On the Monthly Schedule portion of the Colonel's project list is an innocuous three word task: cabin roof cap.

The cabin's metal roof was installed three months ago.  It had to be removed and re-installed twice to get it right, but that's grist for another story.  Suffice to say that the exasperating experience and soaring temps as summer set in here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere kept the Colonel from clambering back up on the cabin's metal roof to install the all-important cap on the roofline.

An unseasonably cool and overcast morning last week (and a tempered memory of the pain experienced during the last foray atop the cabin) provided a opportunity to complete the roof.

An extension ladder provided access and the Colonel clambered up on the metal roof.  The Colonel shortly thereafter found himself back on the top rung of the ladder, subsequent to an expletive laced slip and slide on dew-wetted metal.

"Grab me a rag out of the back of the truck," the Colonel asked the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda politely and relatively gently.

"Quit yellin' at me," she answered. "And watch your language.  You haven't cussed like that since you dropped the tongue of the trailer on your finger."

"YOU dropped the tongue of the trailer on my finger."  The Colonel may have a faulty memory about the little things, but he remembers distinctly being afraid to take his glove off for fear of finding a severed finger in it.

The Colonel detected the "I ain't helping you any more if you're gonna treat me like a errant lance corporal" tone in Miss Brenda's voice, which coupled with a look that can cook a steak medium rare, signals: "CAUTION, Colonel, CAUTION!"  He moderated his tone and amended his request, "Please bring me a rag. I need to wipe the dew off the metal roof."

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda fetched the rag and the Colonel wiped a path up the metal to the ridge of the roof.  He perched there straddling the ridge clinching every muscle between his hairless hat rack and his little toes to prevent slipping into a split for which his thigh muscles were not sufficiently stretched to accommodate.

"Why are you making that stupid face?," the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda asked. 

"I'm -- grunt -- tryin' -- pant -- to keep -- wince -- from slipping!"

"Stop yellin' at me!"

"Sorry! Please get the first section of roof cap out of the back of the truck and pass it up to me."

"Okay.  Don't fall."

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda gives the Colonel some of the most unnecessary admonitions.  The Colonel was doing everything in his power to keep from falling.  He ignored the urge to say so and asked her to "please hurry."

"I'm moving as fast as I can," she retorted. 

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is not as fleet of foot as the Colonel.  Frankly, she is far more ornamental than she is athletic.  But, from the Colonel's painfully clinched perspective, she was moving at a snail's pace.

Molasses moves faster.

A turtle crawled alongside and craned its neck to look back at her as he sped past.

Sloths look like hummingbirds by comparison.

Thirty-seven and an a half minutes later, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda reappeared at the foot of the ladder.  The Colonel was clinched so tightly that sweat was squirting from his brow in long arcs watering the grass round about the cabin.

"I can't find the roof cap."

"C'mon, sweetie! They're in the bed of the truck!"

"Don't yell at me, knucklehead!  You said they were in the back seat of the truck, not the bed of the truck!"

"Did not!  I said they were in the 'back of the truck'." 

"Well, the 'back' is not the same thing as the 'bed'.  You need to be more clear with your instructions."

The Colonel looked heavenward for strength and a squirt of sweat launched from a pore in a pain-scrunched wrinkle in his forehead, arcing gracefully in the early morning sunlight.

"Ooooo, look! A rainbow! How pretty! Hold still while I take a picture."  The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda began fumbling in her pocket for her cell phone.

"Sweetie," the Colonel asked plaintively, "while you have your phone out, would you please call 911.  I'm dying up here!"   

"Quit exaggerating, knucklehead.  You're a long way from even lapsing into unconsciousness." 

"Please bring me the roof cap."  The Colonel recognized that the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was correct -- he was a good four or five minutes away from passing out.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda slowly disappeared from view, perfecting her pantomime of walking in waste deep wet concrete.  Seventeen and a quarter minutes later a clang of metal from the vicinity of Semper Fillit (the Colonel's rusty red pick-up) announced her completion of half of the requested roof cap retrieval process.

"Is this it?" The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's voice barely reached the Colonel's tinnitus-ravaged ears.

"I don't know, Sweetie.  I can't see you!"

"Don't yell at me, knucklehead!  I'm not a construction worker -- I don't know what all this stuff is."

"Just bring it!"

"Okay.  But don't yell at me if it's not the right the part."

The Colonel wishes to report the following:

He is safely off the roof of the Colonel's Cabin on Lake Brenda.

The roof cap is installed.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda still loves the Colonel.

Estimated date of cabin completion:  Christmas... 

...of 2036.  

           

                

 

Why Bethlehem?

It's easy -- and wrong --  to think of Christmas as some sort of beginning.

Our first impressions of Christmas, once our eyes are opened to the falsity of Santa, are often of an infant born in a barn -- the beginning of the perfect and sacrificial life of Jesus. 

We Christians profess to believe that the crucifixion wasn't the end of Jesus' life.  But, what if the Colonel told you that the birth of the Messiah wasn't the beginning of the life of God's Son?  What if he told you that the Son of God wasn't born on Christmas?

Over twenty-seven centuries ago -- seven centuries before the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem -- a man by the name of Micah was born in the village of Morashet on the coastal plain southwest of Jerusalem.  A contemporary of the great prophet Isaiah, Micah also spoke out in condemnation of the Hebrew people whose hearts and practices had turned from God.  He accurately prophesied the destruction of the two capitals of the divided kingdoms of Judah and Samaria.  His statement regarding God's requirement of His people is one of the most clear and concise in all of scripture:               

"He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God."  -- Micah 6: 8 (NIV)

The prophesy of Micah that gets the most attention this time of year is: 

"But thou, Bethlehem Ephratah, though thou be little among the thousands of Judah, yet out of thee shall he come forth unto me that is to be ruler in Israel; whose goings forth have been from of old, from everlasting." -- Micah 5: 2 (KJV)

The first part of this verse gets all the attention.  It's the part that Herod's scribes quoted to him when asked about the prophesy of which the scriptural scholars from Persia (the "wise men") came to see fulfillment. 

That last part is the most awesome part -- in the Colonel's not-so humble opinion: "... whose goings forth have been from of old, from everlasting."  The Hebrew phrase translated "from everlasting" in the King James version of the Bible actually means "eternity."

Eternity.  No beginning.  No end.

What Micah was inspired to prophesy wasn't that the Son of God would be born in Bethlehem.  The Son of God was never and would never be born.  As John said:

"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made." -- John 1: 1-3 (NIV)

The truth is the Son of God has had many incarnations.  One of the Colonel's favorites is the encounter with Joshua on the Plains of Jericho, as the "Commander of the army of the Lord" (Joshua 5: 13 - 15).  How do we know that this was the Son of God?  Look closely at verse 15.  This resplendent warrior who Joshua approaches with no little trepidation is no mere angel (although angels are themselves indeed awe-inspiring).  This warrior identifies Himself and then tells Joshua to worship Him: "...take off your shoes, this is holy ground." 

The ground in front of Jericho is not holy in and of itself -- no more so than was the ground on which God told Moses to remove his footwear.  What made the ground on which Moses stood holy was the presence of God. What made the patch of ground between the Jordan and Jericho holy was the presence of the Son of God. 

Still not convinced?  Think this was just an angel sent from God to give a battle plan to Joshua?

Angels do not accept worship.  John tried to worship an angel:

      

       "Then the angel said to me, 'Write this: Blessed are those who are invited to the wedding supper of the Lamb!' And he added, 'These are the true words of God.' At this I fell at his feet to worship him. But he said to me, 'Don’t do that! I am a fellow servant with you and with your brothers and sisters who hold to the testimony of Jesus. Worship God! For it is the Spirit of prophecy who bears testimony to Jesus.'."  -- Revelations 19: 9 - 10 (NIV)

The Colonel believes that the Son of God -- the Word of God (John 1: 1) and the Commander of the Army of the Lord (Joshua 5: 15 and Revelations 19: 13 - 14) -- has existed for eternity.  

He is God.  

As God, He is the greatest being that has ever existed and is exalted above all others.

He is the agent of creation.

He is the sole source of salvation -- the final and absolute sacrifice for our sins.



So..., why be born human as Jesus? 

And, why Bethlehem?

Why not Rome? 

Two thousand years ago, the greatest power in the region (the world, for that matter) was the Roman Empire.  Rome was the epitome of opulence, power, and prestige.  Anyone born of high nobility in Rome automatically garnered the attention of the known world. 

Why not Athens?  

While power and authority emanated from Rome, Greek philosophy and culture permeated and propelled Roman political influence.  Athens was the historical locus of wisdom and higher thought -- the home and soapbox of Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle.  Birth in Athens granted one a certain philosophical privilege and provided the world's best incubator for developing one's message.

Why not Alexandria?

Founded by Alexander the Great in 332 B.C. and ruled by the dynasty of Ptolemy (one of Alexander's closest companions in arms), Alexandria boasted the world's greatest repository of human knowledge on the planet -- the Great Library.  Even though partially destroyed during Julius Caesar's warring in 48 B.C., the Great Library remained the foremost center for the studies of mathematics, geography, medicine, physics, and astronomy at the time of Christ.  Access to the Great Library's scrolls provided any serious student the foundation for world-changing invention and scientific progress.

Yet, as Micah prophesied, the Son of God became flesh in Bethlehem.  

The Son of God could have been born of nobility in Rome, of philosophical renown in Athens, or of educational privilege in Alexandria.

The Son of God -- the commander of the army of the Lord -- could have not been born at all.  He could have ridden out of the wilderness at the prime of manhood as the greatest, most educated, most philosophically profound warrior the world has ever known (which He is), and brought the Roman Empire to its knees within a fortnight.

The Son of God -- the Word of God -- could have stood on the Areopagus, spoke God's will in a monosyllabic utterance, and brought all of humanity to it's knees in recognition and worship (which He will).

The Son of God -- agent of creation -- could have used Mousiem bona fides to gain attention and changed the world with the ultimate advances in medicine and physics 

Yet, God sent His Son to be born in the humility of a hovel in a tiny afterthought of a village at a wide spot on the road in one of the most remote and underprivileged corners of the Roman Empire. 

Bethlehem was at the shallow rocky end of deep dusty nowhere.  

God's Son became flesh in the most humble of ways in the most underprivileged of settings, so that His remarkable life and ministry of salvation would spring not from any man-made source, but would be the physical manifestation of love and saving power solely the province of God.

The Son of God most high was born as any of us -- a helpless baby; to live a sinless life -- without blemish as a perfect sacrifice; to die willingly at the hands of men He came to save.          

What really amazes the Colonel is that all of this was God's perfect plan all along.  God showed man His Son at critical times in the life of His people.  God inspired man's prophetic promises of the Messianic ministry of His Son.  God sent His Son to die for man's separating sin.  

The Colonel is looking forward to the next phase of the plan.  

The Colonel's Cabin on Lake Brenda

The Colonel is building a cabin.

As he, and several of his immediate family and not-so-immediate friends, have toiled on the project for the past several months, said project has been identified, mostly by the Colonel, as "The Colonel's Cabin on Lake Brenda."

The name is, frankly, meant more as irritant than identifier.

The Colonel's winsome bride -- the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda -- takes issue with the name.  Honestly, she takes issue with the entire project.  Several months ago, she caught the Colonel drawing up plans on his project clipboard.

"What are you working on now, Knucklehead?" The Colonel could tell that Miss Brenda was genuinely excited about the Colonel's newest building plans, because she was standing with her hands on her hips and scowling at the Colonel in that loving way she always disguises her excitement over the Colonel's newest building plans. 

"The Colonel is planning on building a cabin down on Lake Brenda," the Colonel answered, not looking up from his architectural labors.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," Miss Brenda intoned in her special way of disguising her excitement over another of the Colonel's unending building projects -- you know: hands on hips, scowl. 

"But," the Colonel responded, "what else am I going to do with all that lumber in the solar kiln?"

"That's not what I'm talking about, Knucklehead.  I wish you wouldn't refer to yourself as 'the Colonel.'  It's like fingernails on a chalkboard every time I hear it."  

"Oh, Sweetie!  The Colonel just adores the way you lovingly disguise your true feelings.  You are SO funny!"

"Okay, Knucklehead.  Whatever.  Now, what is it you're planning on building?"

"Gonna build a cabin on Lake Brenda."

"I really wish you wouldn't do that."

"Why not?  It'll be fun. Besides, there's a couple dozen logs at the sawmill waiting to be cut and there's no room left in the solar kiln.  Gotta do something with the lumber."

"That's not what I'm talking about.  I don't think you can seriously call that mud puddle down there a 'lake.' And, I'm not too keen on it being named after me."

"Well, 'Lake Brenda' wasn't the Colonel's first choice, either.  But, you didn't like it when I tried to call it 'Colonel Rebel's Reservoir.'  And, you refused to let me call the dam 'the Colonel's Causeway.'"

"Whatever.  Just don't refer to that scum-covered waterhole as 'Lake Brenda' in public.  It's hard enough holding my head up in town after the Memorial Day speech you gave last year.  You're lucky you haven't been sued for slander."

"What part of the speech was 'slanderous'?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe when you called the Mayor a 'woke revisionist'."

"Well, she is!"

"You are incorrigible!"

The Colonel was stunned by the word.  "Wow!  Great vocabulary word, Sweetthing! And, not only did you use it correctly in a sentence, but you also correctly identified the Colonel's greatest character trait."

"Well," Miss Brenda replied, "let's not get on to the subject of your character.  I don't have my Funk and Wagnull handy."   

"Wow!," the Colonel exclaimed.  "You are on fire!  A great vocabulary word and a 'Laugh-In' reference!  Oh, how I do love our witty repartee!"

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. You know you love it, too."      

"No.  Thank you for not referring to yourself as 'the Colonel.'"  

"Oh. Pardon the Colonel for his lingual lapse."

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda let out a long, low sigh in that way she feigns exasperation with the Colonel, when he knows she is really just disguising her inexpressible love and admiration. 

"Well," she asked finally, having exhausted her feigned exasperation disguising her inexpressible love and admiration, "why do you need a cabin?

"Need?  The Colonel doesn't 'need' anything.  He just wants to build a cabin."

"Well, Knucklehead, your cabin is going to need a bed.      

 

The "Great Task Remaining"

Today marks the 158th anniversary of President Lincoln's "Gettysburg Address."  He spoke for only a few minutes.  Others preceded him at the podium with loud, lengthy speeches; and, when Lincoln spoke, many in the crowd struggled to make out his words.  Not until much later, after they were published in the newspapers, did these words strike a chord that resounds even today: 
 

"...The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.  It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

A little over four months had passed since the titanic battle at the quiet pastoral crossroad college town in Pennsylvania.  A few men in the final grey-clad assault against the Union Army's defenses actually reached the rock wall behind which their brothers in blue had poured hot lead into, and decimated, their ranks.  Historians have since marked that spot as the "High water mark of the Confederacy."

Only it wasn't.

At least it wasn't the northernmost invasion of the North by Southern forces.

That distinction actually belongs to the Battle of Salineville, fought in Northeastern Ohio three weeks after the Battle of Gettysburg.  A Confederate cavalry force under Brigadier General John Hunt Morgan struck deep into enemy territory and was eventually cut off and defeated by Union forces under the command of one Brigadier General James M. Shackelford, to whom the Colonel is distantly related on his mother's side.   

The Colonel digresses.

The point of this post, for which the thousands of you who regularly display enormous erudition and enhanced cultural consciousness by imbibing liberally of the literary libations poured out hereon have waited patiently for the Colonel to make, is that the "great task remaining before us" to which Lincoln referred in his remarks honoring the sacrifice of those "who gave the last full measure of devotion" was not accomplished with the end of the American Civil War. 

Lincoln's "Great Task" remains ever before us.  Like God's perfection, it is an unachievable goal toward the achievement of which we must never cease to strive.  

"Government of the people, by the people," and, "for the people" is not an easy thing to achieve.

It is, in the history of man, nearly an impossibility.

Therein lies, the Colonel believes, the true measure of the greatness of our republic.  The American people are world-renown for achieving the impossible.  Need an example?  Just look at the impossible leap made, in less than a citizen's lifetime, from the sandy dunes of Kitty Hawk to the dusty plains of the Sea of Tranquility.  

The Constitution, with which, and on which, the American Republic was founded, is not so much a blueprint of a form of government as it is an aspirational torch lighting the way for Jefferson's inalienable right to pursue freedom.  

It is claimed that the Constitution contains guarantees of our rights and freedoms.

It does no such thing.

In our republic, the people, as Lincoln so clearly understood, guarantee their own rights.

In our republic, the people guarantee their own freedom.

And when a government oversteps the constitutional authority given to it, not by the Constitution, but by the people, the people must guarantee their own rights and freedoms with a box of ballots; and failing that, when due to clearly unconstitutional governmental trampling and usurpation, with a box of bullets.

The Colonel has his hopes on the former and his money in the latter.              

Armistice Day Salute

The Colonel never really knew his maternal grandfather.    Eubanks McCrary was not much more than a name, a few faded photographs, and a handful of anecdotes -- the Colonel was a mere toddler when the man died.

The one thing about the man that had always been intriguing was the fact that he had served in the First World War.  Shame on the Colonel, but only of late has he begun to research the history of his grandfather's service. 

A few years ago, the Colonel's mother granted him custody of a small clutch of her father's documents.  When she handed them to him in a legal envelope, it felt to the Colonel like being entrusted with a most fragile fragment of our family history.  Of no inherent value in and of itself, but, to this increasingly sentimental soul, a treasure trove of not-so-trivial trivia about a man with whom the Colonel wishes for all the world to have spent acknowlegeable time.    

On the Colonel's desk this morning rests the contents of that envelope: a photograph of Grandmother and Grandfather McCrary taken several years before his death; a copy of their marriage license (married on Christmas Day, 1923); and a non-descript, paper-thin leather envelope with the faint embossing of an eagle and the words "Honorable Discharge from the U.S. Service." 

Protected within that folded leather is a two-sided document.  On the front above the seal of the United States (appropriate to this day that the eagle's talons grasp both the arrows of war and the olive branch of peace -- our nation's enemies still have a choice) are the words, "Honorable Discharge from the United States Army."   On the reverse, a summary of Private McCrary's service under the words, "Enlistment Record."
 
There are terse, handwritten blank-fillers to the right of line headings such as Name:..., Grade:...; Date and Place of Enlistment:...; etc..., but from them a quick snapshot of the man can be gleaned.
 
Eubanks McCrary, from Columbus, Mississippi, was inducted into the United States Army on May the 27th, 1918.  He was 22, single, and by vocation, a farmer.  Upon his discharge a year later he was described as in "Good" physical condition and of "Excellent" character.

Near the bottom of his Enlistment Record are four tight lines available for "Remarks." Into that small space the practiced hand of a military professional entered a shorthand account of Private McCrary's service to his nation in the Great War:

No A.W.O.L.  No absence under G.O. 45 WD 1914
Co. D. 4th Tr. Reg Camp Pike, Ark5/27/18 to 7/10/18.  Co L C.P. July ARD 7/10/18 to 9/22/18.
Co. B. 161st Inf. 9/22/18 to 10/7/18. Co. B. 137th INf 10/7/18 to 5/6/19. Cas Det 4th Rc Bn 162nd DB
5/6/19 to date of discharge.  Served in France.  Sailed for France 7/18/18. Arrived U.S. 4/28/19 Entitled to travel pay to Columbus, Miss.  

Immediately following his induction into the Army, Private McCrary reported to Camp Pike, outside of Little Rock, Arkansas and was assigned to Company D, 4th Training Regiment until his completion of basic training on July 10, 1918.  Within the next week he traveled by troop train for the East Coast, from which he sailed aboard a troop ship to France on the 18th of July, 1918. 

From what was known about the casualty rates of the horrific meat-grinder that had gone on in France since 1914, he likely never expected to see home again. 

Upon arrival in France, Private McCrary was assigned to Company B of the 161st Infantry Regiment.  That regiment, in the 81st Infantry Brigade of the 41st Division, had been one of the first units to go to France with the American Expeditionary Force in the fall of 1917.  Upon arrival in France, the 41st Division was designated a "Replacement Division" and its men were subsequently distributed as replacements to other divisions when their ranks were depleted during fighting.  The 41st Division then assumed the role of training new arrivals to France prior to their assignment to the front.
   
The Colonel's grandfather arrived in France just as the great Allied Meuse-Argonne Offensive of the war against Germany was kicking off.  One of the divisions at the forefront of that offensive -- the 35th Division -- had been in the attack for four days when, short of food and ammunition and its fighting strength sapped by heavy casualties, it was counterattacked by the better part of four of the best-trained divisions in the German army.  The 35th Division ceased to exist, for all practical purposes, as a fighting force and its remnants were withdrawn from the line.

Private McCrary was among the soldiers, newly arrived in France, who replenished the ranks of one of the 35th's four infantry regiments, the 137th Infantry.  The 35th Division was sent to the relatively quiet Somme Dieu sector on the southeastern end of the Allied front.  There, it went into defensive trenchworks and so remained until the Armistice went into effect and the guns fell silent...

... one hundred and three years ago, today.

For two decades, Americans celebrated the 11th of November as Armistice Day, in remembrance of the victory over Germany and the American fighting men who helped bring an end to "the war to end all wars."

Only, that war didn't do any such thing.

American men in uniform knew little peace during those next two decades.  Combat in defense of American interests in Latin America and even in Russia (grist for a future post) kept a sharp edge on the small cadre of American warriors who would form the backbone and animating spirit of the mighty force called on to defeat the Axis Powers during WWII.

So, after that war, and the one that followed, America began to focus it's remembrances on the 11th of November not so much on the end of what had become known by then as the First World War, but on the living men and women who had honorably served our nation in uniform. 

Armistice Day became Veterans Day.

Eubanks McCrary arrived back in the United States on the 23rd of April, 1919, less than eleven months after joining the United States Army and reporting for training at Camp Pike. Less than two weeks later he was honorably discharged and back on the farm.

He is buried in the small cemetery at Mt. Vernon Baptist Church on the eastern outskirts of Columbus, Mississippi.  Not far from his farm, now a subdivision.

A simple marker reads:

B. Eubanks McCrary

Mississippi 

Pvt Co B 137 Inf

World War I

4 Mar 1896 – 9 Oct 1958

The Colonel knows that the three dozen of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon may indeed be remembering that one of the Colonel's pet peeves is the aggravating and undisciplined habit of a majority of Americans to mix up the meanings and observances of Memorial Day (initially known as Decoration Day, and first celebrated by the fair ladies of Columbus, Mississippi at the conclusion of the War for Southern Independence), Veterans Day, and Armed Forces Day.

For the record: Memorial Day is reserved solely for the solemn remembrance of those who died in battle in our nation's wars, Veterans Day is reserved solely for the recognition of living veterans of the United States military, and Armed Forces Day is reserved solely for the recognition of those currently serving in the armed forces of these re-United States.  Period.  No room for discussion or latitude for mix-matching.

So, the three dozen of you who regularly waste rod and cone perusing posts hereon may mistakenly believe that you have caught the Colonel in a rare mistake  -- recognizing a deceased veteran on Veterans Day.

The operative word in the sentence above is "mistakenly."

The Colonel, sole arbiter of said (and unsaid) matters both in posts hereon and actions hereabout his vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, is exercising the rights vested in him, by him, to declare today Armistice Day, here aboard Eegeebeegee, capital of the Tallahatchie Republic; and, therefore, takes this opportunity to come to the correct position of attention and execute a hand salute to the memory of his grand progenitor.

Corps Novembers

On Wednesday, next week, the Colonel's beloved Marine Corps celebrates it's 246th birthday, and a day later our nation sets aside the day to honor all those who have served the nation in its armed forces. In honor of the occasion, the Colonel republishes the following, one of the first posts on the Colonel's Corner:

November is an important month for Marines, and is particularly a month tied to memories for this Marine. The obvious reason for its importance to Marines is that the Corps celebrates its establishment on 10 November. On that date in 1775, nearly 9 months BEFORE the signing of the Declaration of Independence, a rebellious outlaw group of landed gentry and merchants, ostensibly acting in representation of the will of the people of the 13 British colonies in North America, and calling themselves the Continental Congress, resolved that two battalions of Marines be raised for service with an all but non-existent rebel fleet (a resolution for establishing a navy had only been passed less than 4 weeks previous). Marines attach great celebratory import to the date 10 November, but few realize that the two battalions initially authorized by Congress were actually never raised.

You see, Congress had this great idea. They wanted to invade Canada. Mind you, we had just initiated open conflict with the greatest nation on the planet by skirmishing with its small occupation/constabulary force in America, and needed to be thinking about protecting the territorial integrity of the 13 Colonies against the sure to come full-scale British military operation to quell the rebellion. But, Congress wasn't thinking about border security (sound familiar?) and fancied themselves strategists of the first order. Part of their great invasion plan was an attack on the British naval base at Halifax, Nova Scotia. The two battalions of Marines the Continental Congress resolved to raise were to be the assault force of that naval raid. George Washington, in command of the Continental Army, objected to the diversion of resources, and the plan (along with the two battalions of Marines) never got past the drawing board.

But, an American navy of sorts was growing (converted merchant ships mostly) and the British naval model called for Marines on board to act as the captain's security force (18th Century sailors were an undisciplined lot), as sharpshooters during engagements at sea, and as a landing force for small-scale expeditions ashore. The American colonists were British after all, and they copied the Royal Navy right down to the printed regulations. There was an abundance of out-of-work able seamen in colonial seaports, and some of the more trustworthy were enlisted to serve as Marines. A tavern-keeper with scant martial or maritime experience was the first Marine officer commissioned by the Continental Congress. Samuel Nicholas was evidently prized for his recruiting skills and for the fact that he owned Tun Tavern in Philadelphia -- a local watering hole frequented by the aforementioned idle able seamen. To this day, Marines celebrate their birthday with a toast of rum-punch, supposedly the drink supplied by Nicholas to seal the deal on each enlistment. One has to wonder how many toasts were drunk BEFORE the aforementioned idle able seamen scrawled their X on the enlistment contract.

November is an important month for Marines for other reasons as well. On 10 November 1918, one hundred and forty-three years to the day after the Continental Congress had resolved to raise two battalions of Marines, two brigades (or the remnants thereof) of Marines prepared for the final assault of the First World War (that operation -- the crossing of the Meuse River -- occurred the night before the war ended with an armistice on 11 November 1918). That a United States Marine Corps even existed at that point is an amazing and twisted story of near-extinction, evolution of missions, and fighting spirit of Marine leaders who tenaciously fought to save their jobs. But, a Corps of Marines did exist when the US entered the War in France in 1917, and Marines quickly established a name for themselves (thanks in great part to Army censorship of their own exploits) at the bitter battles of Belleau Wood, Soisson, Chateau Thiery, and Mont Blanc. Not much of the original two Marine brigades survived the war. What did survive was a reputation for battlefield ferocity, and perhaps more importantly, experience by senior Marine leaders in large scale military operations and staff planning.

The month of November has another Marine Corps red-letter date -- 20 November 1943. On that date, at the conclusion of the first year of our war with Japan, the Second Marine Division conducted the first full-scale test of amphibious assault doctrine developed by Marines during the interwar years. While amphibious landing operations had been conducted earlier in the war, most notably at Guadalcanal, the 20 November D-Day on Betio in the Southwest Pacific Tarawa Atoll, was the Corps' first truly opposed amphibious assault. It was a near disaster, plagued by poor intelligence regarding the tides and reefs surrounding the island, poor application of naval gunfire support, and horrible ship-to-shore communications. The Japanese commander of the island had boasted that his defenses were so formidable that it would take "a million men, a thousand years" to overcome. Five thousand Marines of the Second Marine Division took Tarawa in less than 4 days. The cost was horrific -- 1085 Americans gave their lives for that speck of coral -- but the payoff was a treasure trove of lessons-learned that helped to perfect the conduct of amphibious operations and made possible successful Allied amphibious assault landings around the globe -- across the Pacific to bring Japan to its knees, and across the English Channel to force Hitler into his death bunker in Berlin.

From a force of 6 Divisions and a like number of Air Wings, the Marine Corps, following cessation of hostilities in 1945, dropped to less than a third of that size and was scattered in reserve when Kim Il Sung (the current North Korean Commie's granddaddy) sent his forces into South Korea in June of 1950. Scraped together quickly from mostly WWII veteran reservists, the understrength First Marine Division spearheaded MacArthur's bold 15 September 1950 Inchon landing that turned the flank of communist forces pinning the remnants of US and South Korean defenders holding the Pusan Perimeter at the southern tip of the peninsula. Two and a half months later, the First Marine Division had retaken Seoul, re-embarked on amphibious shipping, sailed around the peninsula to Wonson, and advanced to the North Korean border with China. In the bitter cold of one of the worst winters in a region known for bad winters (history is replete with battles fought in record-breaking winters, as if God tries to cool off warring mankind's ardor), the First Marine Division was attacked, on 27 November 1950, by the ten divisions of the Chinese Peoples Liberation Army Ninth Army Group. Battling sub-zero cold and 100,000 Chinese, the Marines conducted a fighting withdrawal back to the coast and survived, barely, as a fighting force.

More recently, the month of November achieved further acclaim in the Corps' battle history with some of the most ferocious house-to-house fighting Marines had seen since the battle to retake Hue City during the 1968 Tet Offensive. Required to eradicate Al Queda and insurgent forces in the key Sunni Triangle city of Fallujah, ten days of bitter fighting began on the 7th of November, 2004.

November is a personal red-letter month for the Colonel as well. The first of November 2003 marked the official end of nearly three decades of his uniformed service to the United States of America.

Semper Fidelis, Marines!  Here's health to you and to our Corps!  

Half-hearted

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and the Colonel have a fifty-year anniversary coming up shortly. 

No, it hasn't been fully five decades since their nuptials.  They tied the knot in 1976.

The Colonel would like to take you back a few years before that, and ask you the question: 

"Where were you in the summer of '71?"    

The answer to that question is not important.  This blog post ain't about you.  It's about the Colonel and Miss Brenda, and now that the Colonel has gained your attention via the artifice of insult, he'll tell you a story about two half-hearted kids who found the other halves of their hearts.

Fifty years ago this month, the Colonel was finishing up a rather lack-luster (half-hearted, if you will) matriculation at Curundu Junior High in the Panama Canal Zone, and half-heartedly preparing for his rather lackluster matriculation at Balboa High School in same said Canal Zone.

As an aside, Curundu Junior High School, Balboa High School, and the Canal Zone exist today only in fading memories of a vibrant and productive slice of American Exceptionalism erased from existence by men who hated their own country's exceptionalism.  But, as important as that thought is to the history and future of our Republic, and as much as the Colonel would dearly love to climb atop his pedantic pedestal and wax warningly about the suicidal slide into irrelevancy begun by those men who hated their own country's exceptionalism, that topic has little bearing on the the subject of the Colonel's current missive.

So, he'll stick a pin in it.

But, he'll reserve the right to dive, without warning, back into those pusillanimity-infested waters, Marine Corps K-bar fighting knife clinched in his coffee-stained teeth, his pudgy fingers pounding out a staccato stream of vitriolic condemnation...

Apologies...; the Colonel's coffee is particularly strong this morning.

Now, where was the Colonel?

Oh, right. He was about to begin his matriculation at Balboa High School in the Panama Canal Zone.  

Those were halcyon days, my friends.  Living in the tropics, in communities carved out of the rainforests, astride a monumental achievement of American ingenuity and fortitude carved through mountains and swamps to link the world's two great oceans and thereby all the world.  

Two seasons -- wet and dry.

Swimming year-round.  

Fishing so easy it almost got boring. 

Exposure to cultures from across the globe.

Is there little wonder the Colonel viewed school as a distraction?

And then, school faded even further into the recesses of things to which he was supposed to be paying attention..., but wasn't.

There was a girl.

And, wonder of wonders, that girl was paying attention to the Colonel.  

Today, when the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda asks the Colonel, 

"Knucklehead, what did you see in me all those years ago?", 

...the Colonel unfailingly and truthfully answers, 

"I saw how you looked at me."

You know how there are these points in your life when what matters most to you crystalizes and then incandesces into a light that places all else in the shadows?  You know what the Colonel is talking about -- when your approach to the previous things in your life was half-hearted at best, and suddenly there was something or someone that your heart desired above all else; that was so special that half of your heart just wouldn't do.    

The Colonel's life really began fifty years ago.

Those five decades took him from one far-flung outpost of our Republic's exceptional reach to another, through great personal triumphs and heights of pride so lofty it seemed his heart would explode and hard knocks so cruel the Colonel's heart seemed to shrink like a forgotten fruit desiccated on the vine.  

All along the way, there was that girl with a heart big enough for the two of them.