The Colonel has spent the better part of the last week feverishly crafting the most important speech of the political year here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere -- the regularly irregular State of the Tallahatchie Republic address.
As is his custom of nearly a half century, the Colonel likes to pitch his ideas to, and practice his oratorical flourishes with, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda...
"My fellow Tallahatchians, the Colonel comes before you this evening..."
"What? Are you talking to me, knucklehead?"
"The Colonel is practising his speech, dear. Just listen and tell me what you think."
"Speech? What speech?"
"The Colonel's regularly irregular State of the Tallahatchie Republic address, of course. You know that it is the most important speech of the year here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere..."
"Take a deep breath, knucklehead. You're babbling again. And for pete's sake, quit referring to yourself in the third person!"
"The Colonel doesn't babble! He might pontificate. He can ramble. But, he never, ever babbles!"
"What's that, knucklehead? All I heard was 'babble, babble, babble.' And, what's that funny hand motion you're making?"
"It's not a funny hand motion -- it's a knife hand. Draws attention and adds visual punctuation to the Colonel's babb..., er..., speech. Look, dear, just listen while you sit there doing your needle point."
"But, you're standing in front of Gibbs!"
"Who?"
"Gibbs! Leroy Jethro Gibbs. NCIS is on and you're standing in front of the TV. Now there's a real Marine."
"Uh, dear, you do know that Gibbs is a fictional character? The whole show is the height of implausibility. Why, the NCIS folks the Colonel dealt with when he was on active duty couldn't get the bullet out of their shirt pocket, let alone bring down international terrorists!"
"There you go again, knucklehead. Babbling about your glory days. Look at you, now. You buy a few acres and now you think you're king of your own country."
"Not king. More like a relatively benevolent military dictator."
"Yeah, right! More like an irrelevant boorish popinjay."
"Who you calling irrelevant? Please, just listen to the speech and see if it strikes the right tone. If the Colonel doesn't get it right, the republic might devolve into civil war."
"Civil war? Knucklehead, there's not but two of us living out here at the end of the road to nowhere. As long as you stay out of the way of the TV, the state of our union will be strong. Go give your speech to the chickens."
Just as well. The Colonel can't decide whether the central pillar of his address should be his plans for expansion of the Republic via privately financed invasion route infrastructure enhancements, or raising the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's wages.
Maybe the chickens will give the Colonel some feedback on his ideas for a moon colony...
The Colonel is a member, in long good standing, of a not-so secret society.
The society's membership is rather large, but relatively exclusive. Only a small percentage of the citizens of our great nation can claim the honor..., and the honor-bound duty.
Entry into the ranks of this society is fairly simple. Raise your right hand. Swear a solemn oath.
The oath's most critical component, its salient point, is the promise to "support and defend the Constitution of the United States..."
Every person enlisting or appointed as an officer in federal service to the Republic does it -- from private to president. And, when one swears the oath, all other personal considerations and duties are subordinated.
Once bound, always bound. There is no expiration on the requirements of the oath. Likewise, there is no limit beyond which one who swears the oath may be excused from it. It is a "to the death" duty.
It was the utmost honor for the Colonel to pledge his life to the defense of the Constitution, and the rights of our Republic's citizens therein enshrined. It was an honor with which he was bestowed at his commissioning and on the occasion of every subsequent promotion. It was the Colonel's distinct privilege to administer the oath to countless subordinates as they assumed the office of the next rank to which they had just been promoted.
Some of those subordinates subsequently gave their lives fulfilling their oaths.
You can not begin to fathom the fury the Colonel feels at the news that a person in public trust, holding an office upon entry into which that person swore the same oath to "support and defend the Constitution...," has broken that oath for personal political reasons.
"Secret Society" indeed!
Shameful.
Despicable.
Treasonous.
Dishonorable.
A "secret society," composed of high office-holders sworn to defend the Constitution, with intent to machinate extra-constitutionally, is a dire threat to the rule of law guaranteed by that Constitution.
The Colonel knows that his fellow oath-keepers -- throughout the personal political affiliation spectrum -- share his fury.
Mark the Colonel's words carefully.
It is not conspiratorial for those bound by the oath to band together to do everything within their legal power to hold those that do conspire to break their solemn oath.
For the record, the Colonel despises Donald Trump, the man. But, the Colonel's life is pledged, as are the lives of millions like him, to defending the constitutional legitimacy of President Trump against "all enemies, foreign and domestic."
Traitors beware.
A rare snow is falling here this morning at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere and the Colonel's memory machine -- aided by a strong mug of joe -- has kicked into high gear.
"High gear" is a relative term for the limpid pile of cognitive goo resting mostly unused in the recesses of his mostly bald brain-housing group. The Colonel's memories have been ravaged by the onset of CRS (Can't Remember *insert expletive used in conjunction with the word "hole" to describe most places to which Marines are deployed on a regular basis*) and he has consciously reserved his last few remaining faculties for important stuff like in which kitchen cabinet the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda stores the coffee mugs and the unzip then pee sequence for head calls.
But, the Colonel's snow memories are associated with a great deal of misery and are, therefore, more prominent. Funny how pain reinforces learning and retention.
The Colonel spent most of his childhood in sub-tropical and tropical climes wherein snow was a rarity. Even when it did snow in measurable amounts it's longevity was measured in hours. There ain't no such thing as "snowpack" in Dixie.
Then the Colonel, unemployable with a political science degree from Ole Miss, went into the Marines.
The Marine Corps has total mastery over the technique of forcing round pegs into square holes. The Colonel, with warm weather blood thinned to the viscosity of gaseous helium, was groomed not as a jungle fighter -- nooo..., that makes way too much sense for someone who went to high school and played daily in the jungles of PANAMA!!! -- but as an arctic warrior.
(For the Bama fans reading this post in the mistaken belief that everybody, everywhere cares and will eventually get around to writing about Bama's 97th -- or is it 197th? -- claimed national championship, the ARCTIC is a region extending northward from a east-west line generally traced by Interstate 40.)
It was just before Christmas at Camp Lejeune, and the Colonel (then a second lieutenant) was busy staying out of the way of his platoon sergeant, when the phone in his broom closet office rang.
"Golf 2/2, Lieutenant Gregory, this is an unsecure line."
The voice on the other end growled, "Come see me, now." The line went dead immediately, but not before the voice was recognized as belonging to the bane of all infantry second lieutenants -- the battalion X.O.
The Colonel scurried down to his company commander's office and breathlessly announced, "Sir, the X.O. wants to see me!"
The C.O. looked up from a pile of reports on his desk and eyed the Colonel quizzically.
"Who are you?"
"Lieutenant Gregory, sir. Your third platoon commander."
"No, lieutenant, you are mistaken -- Sergeant Herrera has Third Platoon." Then, he refocused. "Oh, yeah. You're the new lieutenant."
"Begging the captain's pardon, sir. But, I've been in your company for almost a year."
"Whatever. What's the problem?"
"Sir, the X.O. just called me to his office."
"So?"
"So, what should I do?"
"Well, Lieutenant Graham..."
"Gregory, sir."
"What?"
"I'm Lieutenant Gregory, sir."
"Whatever. Just go. And hurry up!"
The Colonel went. During the three-minute jog up to battalion headquarters, his mind raced with worry-filled speculation as to the reason why his presence was required front and center of the battalion executive officer's desk. He could fathom no positive reason, so it had to be bad.
The Colonel reported in as ordered, and the crusty old major -- a highly-decorated Vietnam veteran -- skipped over any pleasantries and got right down to business.
"You've been picked to attend the winter session of the Mountain Leaders' Course at Bridgeport. See the S-3 for your TAD orders. Any questions?"
"No, sir. I mean, yes, sir... I..."
"What, lieutenant?" The major had already used up more of his valuable time than he wanted and was glowering disdainfully at the lieutenant whose presence was fouling the air in his office.
"Sir, I.., that is..., well, I'm better suited to be a jungle fighter, and..."
"A jungle fighter!?!" The major's disdainful glower had been replaced by something..., well..., inhuman. His next words barely rose above the decibel level of a whisper, but they carried the fire and fury of a flamethrower. "You ain't (insert banyard expletive used in conjunction with the word "hole" in President Trump's latest diplomatic overture to the Third World), lieutenant! Get the (insert appropriate foul epithet) out of my sight."
The Colonel snapped to attention, responded with a weak, but emphatic, "Aye, aye, sir!," executed an about face, and headed for the hatch.
"Wait!"
The Colonel froze.
"Get back in here, lieutenant." The X.O.'s voice had changed. It was almost human.
"You've got a lot to learn in this man's Marine Corps, son." Amazingly, the almost human tone of voice was accompanied by an almost human visage on the major's face. "Today's lesson: Go where the Marine Corps sends you and make the most of it."
The Colonel was still at the position of attention, eyes locked on the latch on the window above and behind the major's head.
"Look at me, lieutenant."
The Colonel obeyed, locking eyes with a real man.
"For someone with a GT of 135, you are about as dumb as a box of rocks." The X.O. was actually smiling -- that really scared the Colonel...
"I'm going to break this down for you -- Barney style. Our battalion is scheduled for a deployment to Norway in two years. You, and a couple of other lieutenants, are gonna learn everything there is to know about arctic warfare and then you're gonna be the instructor cadre that prepares this battalion for that deployment. We're gonna start by sending you to the Mountain Leaders' Course. If you survive that, you're gonna go TAD to 1/6 for six months to get them ready to go to Norway for their deployment next year. You'll go with them to Norway, get smart as you can, and then come back and get us as smart as you can."
A couple of months later, the Colonel was a mile up in the Sierra Nevadas, up to his keister in more snow and cold than he ever imagined, and learning...
For this skinny little southern boy, it was either learn or die.
The lessons learned served the Colonel well for the rest of his career. He had more than ample opportunity to put them to practice, and to teach them, in numerous deployments to Norway and other high altitude and high latitude deployments over the next 25 years.
To this day -- to this very morning -- snow in the air takes him back..., and reminds him of perhaps the greatest lesson:
If you think you are a jungle fighter, don't accept orders to go anywhere there's more snow than you can see in a beer commercial.
