"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.
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