One hundred years ago this spring, the Great War in Europe entered its last phase. The great continental cataclysm, begun four years previous, had claimed the cream of a generation. On the Western Front a line of opposing trenchworks stretched from the English Channel to the Alps. In the East, a similar stalemate line crossed the continent from the Baltic to the Black Sea. Land operations ranged from Finland to Palestine. The Atlantic and the Mediterranean hosted unprecedented naval warfare.
It was a meat grinding mess.
Americans, by and large, were loathe to participate. Some did, as volunteers, with French, British, and Canadian units; but, U.S. politicians cemented their election campaigns with promises to keep "our boys out of the war."
Unrestricted submarine warfare by the Germans ended up targeting American ships and the mood in America began to turn. By the spring of 1917, German submarine "atrocities" -- denounced by an increasingly vociferous American press -- finally precipitated U.S. entry into the war on the side of the French and British.
Enter the most influential (and largely unknown) Mississippian of the 20th Century -- Fox Connor. Then-Colonel Connor, of Slate Spring, Mississippi, was the operational brains of Pershing's American Expeditionary Force (AEF).
When President Wilson tapped "Blackjack" Pershing to command the AEF, he gave Pershing one overarching commandment -- do not allow American men to be fed piecemeal into the trenches. Pershing's and Connor's plan was to build a 3 million-man American army in France that would be ready by the spring of 1919 -- two years after America's declaration of war on Germany -- for a war of movement to leave the trenches behind and take the fight to the heart of Germany. A rather grandiose strategy given the condition of the American military in early 1917.
In April of 1917, the United States of America had less than 5% of the men needed in uniform. The plan to build 100 divisions from scratch, train and equip them, and transport them to France was mind boggling. There was no one in American uniform with experience commensurate with the task -- the U.S. Army hadn't conducted a multi-division operation against a peer adversary since the end of the Civil War. The arms and equipment of the American army were antiquated at best. But, a year later, the AEF was beginning to grow rapidly and Pershing and Connor were confident that given another year they would have a force ready to end the war.
German military planners were well aware of the game-changing nature of a full-up AEF, and they were determined to end the war on terms favorable to Germany before the AEF was ready. When Russia dropped out of the war and signed an armistice with Germany, German high command immediately began transferring scores of divisions from the Eastern Front to the West. By March of 1918, a German offensive designed to breach the Allied defensive lines between the British and French sectors and roll up the British flank was ready to go.
Germany needed to reduce the effectiveness of the British army in France to the point that it was no longer capable of participating in the war on the continent. With the British army eliminated, the German army could brush aside the French army and take Paris. They needed to do all of this before the AEF was strong enough to make a difference.
To effect the breakthrough, the German high command had created several elite "shock troop" divisions by taking the best and most experienced troops from the rest of their divisions. When the offensive kicked off at the end of March 1918, these lead divisions accomplished their mission. However, the follow-on divisions, with many of their most effective small unit leaders gone and hampered by logistics shortfalls, were not able to accomplish their missions of quickly eliminating British strongpoints bypassed by the lead divisions. And, attacking over ground churned by over three years of continuous artillery barrages slowed the German advance to a crawl. The Allies were able to shift forces quickly enough to restrict the overall German advance.
By this time, the AEF had only a handful of divisions considered combat ready in France. To get as much manpower to France as quickly as possible, Connor and Pershing maximized the shipping available by forming divisions with minimal training in the United States and then moving them to France without any heavy equipment (trucks, artillery, heavy machine guns). This necessitated extensive training time for divisions once they arrived in France. And, despite continual French and British appeals, Connor and Pershing persisted in their refusal to feed American troops into the trenchworks as a manpower infusion to depleted French and British units.
With the German offensive blunted, the Allies desired to reduce the salient in their lines. A position on high ground near the village of Cantigny provided German forces excellent observation from which to direct artillery fires onto French forces, and was the target for a planned Allied counterattack. Connor and Pershing lobbied the Allied high command for the mission to be assigned to an American division. Their reasoning was that a successful attack would help them to continue to make their case that American divisions would soon be ready for commitment to Allied offensive operations under American command.
The most experienced and ready U.S. division was the 1st Division (aka The Big Red One), held in reserve behind the French line. At first light on the 28th of May, the 28th Infantry Regiment (Reinforced) of the 1st Division climbed over trench parapets and advanced under a rolling artillery barrage. For the first time since America entered the war a year previous, her boys were in the attack in American units under American command. Within the hour, they swept over the German position and advanced to more easily defended terrain a half mile beyond. Over the next two days, the 28th Infantry Regiment withstood several determined German counterattacks. They stood their ground, proving to the world that American fighting men could indeed fight.
The American victory at the Battle of Cantigny would be quickly overshadowed by bigger and bloodier victories over the remaining five months of the war, but the 199 men who fell should be remembered foremost.
Until Cantigny, French, British, and German soldiers doubted the elan and effectiveness of American soldiers. After Cantigny, the French and British had confidence in the AEF, and the Germans had a first taste of American steel. The German army would test American mettle in the coming days -- at Chateau Thierry and Belleau Wood.
But, that story is for another post.
"There's a fine, popular line between freedom and tyranny. A strict interpretation of the United States' Constitution keeps that line bright and visible."
Monday, May 28, 2018
Friday, May 18, 2018
Nowhere Else in the World
Forty years ago this week, the Colonel (then a newly-minted second lieutenant) checked in to his first duty station as a Marine. The next nine months provided a foundation and set the tone for the rest of his career.
For the past 70 years or better, with a few exceptions, every newly commissioned Marine officer has touched base at The Basic School (TBS) in Quantico, Virginia for extensive basic officer training prior to attending a follow-on school for his or her military occupational specialty (MOS) and eventual operational assignment to, in the parlance of members of the naval service, "the fleet."
Roughly six months long, TBS instruction indoctrinates, inculcates, and educates Marine second lieutenants in what it means and what it takes to be a leader of Marines. An extensive infantry tactics package insures that every Marine officer, regardless of future MOS, has the requisite knowledge and skill to lead a rifle platoon in combat. The battle history of the Marine Corps is replete with examples of non-infantry officers called upon to step in and lead infantry units in extremis.
The Colonel arrived at TBS with a so-called "Air Guarantee" in his hot little hand. He wanted to fly and had scored well enough on flight aptitude tests to be guaranteed a slot at flight school following graduation from TBS. But, there was a hitch -- the Colonel's eyesight was deteriorating ever-so slightly and he no longer had the requisite "uncorrected 20/20" to be a pilot. He could still qualify to be a naval flight officer -- a flier, but not the pilot. From the moment he arrived at TBS, the Colonel began to have doubts about that line of work.
For one thing, the role of non-pilot naval aviators was rapidly diminishing in the Marine Corps as the service was fielding less and less "two-seat" aircraft types. And, more importantly to the brash young second lieutenant with a budding Napoleon complex, naval flight officers rarely had opportunity to command anything.
So, within the first couple of weeks at TBS, the Colonel requested an audience with the captain in charge of his platoon...
"Whaddaya want lieutenant?" Captain Troy Duncan's tired Texas drawl told the Colonel that it had better be good as he was busy with matters of far greater importance than dealing with whatever obviously trivial issue (we weren't in combat, after all) had prompted this diminutive lieutenant to request a one-on-one.
"Sir," the Colonel began,"this lieutenant has always wanted to fly, but..."
Captain Duncan raised a tired hand. "Stawp! I'm gonna ask you ta do two thangs -- cut ta the chase, and quit using the thard person. This ain't OCS."
"Aye, aye, Sir!" The Colonel stood silent momentarily as he mentally revised his carefully rehearsed speech, removing third person references and any material Captain Duncan might consider extraneous.
"Lieutenant! Why are ya crossin' yore eyes and movin' yore lips? You 'bout to have an epileptic fit or sumthin'?"
"No, sir. The lieu... uh... I mean, I want to drop my air guarantee."
"You wanna do whut!?!"
"I want to drop my air guar..."
"I heard ya the first time lieutenant," Duncan cut the Colonel off. "Why in the hell do you wanna do that?"
"Sir, I don't want to be the guy in the back seat. I want to be in charge."
"Okay, I get that." Duncan leaned back in his chair. "So, what MOS are you thinking about, instead?"
"Sir, I want to go infantry."
"Infantry!?!" The Captain's face convulsed, "Har, har, har! Infantry?!? Lieutenant, you ain't big enough to block the breeze out of a gnat's backside! You wanna go infantry?"
The Colonel drew himself up to his full indignant five feet, six and three quarter inches (don't ever forget the three quarters) and glared back at the captain. Well..., it was the Colonel's best impression of a glare...
"Wut's wrong with yore eyes, lieutenant? You 'bout to have another epileptic fit?" It was clear Duncan wasn't necessarily concerned with the Colonel's health and welfare -- he was just not keen to waste the time that it would take to call 911 and report the incident up the chain of command.
"Tell you wut, Lieutenant Gregory. I'm gonna forward your request up the chain of command. It'll have to be approved by the Commanding Officer of The Basic School. Jus' know this -- competition for infantry slots is keen. Last class had 75 applicants for 40 seats at IOC (Infantry Officer's Course). You might wanna consider sumthin' like Motor T or Supply..."
"I'm not dropping my air guarantee to be a pogue, sir."
"Heh, heh.. I like your spunk, lieutenant. Good luck. Yore dismissed."
Nine months later, the Colonel was in charge of an infantry platoon -- 3rd Platoon, Company G, 2d Battalion, 2d Marines -- at Camp Lejeune. On a field exercise, practicing to be miserable, in the pine barrens of coastal North Carolina that late winter of 1979, the Colonel heard a roar and looked up to see a two-ship formation of F-4s streak overhead -- headed back to base and happy hour at the Officers' Club, where the pilots and their back-seaters would no doubt regale each other with their "right stuff" and toast their good fortune and outstanding judgment to have chosen to be naval aviators. The Colonel looked down at his muddy boots and then up to see his platoon sergeant grinning at him,
"Feels like a kick in the nuts, don't it lieutenant?"
The Colonel shook his head, honestly. "Wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world, sergeant."
For the past 70 years or better, with a few exceptions, every newly commissioned Marine officer has touched base at The Basic School (TBS) in Quantico, Virginia for extensive basic officer training prior to attending a follow-on school for his or her military occupational specialty (MOS) and eventual operational assignment to, in the parlance of members of the naval service, "the fleet."
Roughly six months long, TBS instruction indoctrinates, inculcates, and educates Marine second lieutenants in what it means and what it takes to be a leader of Marines. An extensive infantry tactics package insures that every Marine officer, regardless of future MOS, has the requisite knowledge and skill to lead a rifle platoon in combat. The battle history of the Marine Corps is replete with examples of non-infantry officers called upon to step in and lead infantry units in extremis.
The Colonel arrived at TBS with a so-called "Air Guarantee" in his hot little hand. He wanted to fly and had scored well enough on flight aptitude tests to be guaranteed a slot at flight school following graduation from TBS. But, there was a hitch -- the Colonel's eyesight was deteriorating ever-so slightly and he no longer had the requisite "uncorrected 20/20" to be a pilot. He could still qualify to be a naval flight officer -- a flier, but not the pilot. From the moment he arrived at TBS, the Colonel began to have doubts about that line of work.
For one thing, the role of non-pilot naval aviators was rapidly diminishing in the Marine Corps as the service was fielding less and less "two-seat" aircraft types. And, more importantly to the brash young second lieutenant with a budding Napoleon complex, naval flight officers rarely had opportunity to command anything.
So, within the first couple of weeks at TBS, the Colonel requested an audience with the captain in charge of his platoon...
"Whaddaya want lieutenant?" Captain Troy Duncan's tired Texas drawl told the Colonel that it had better be good as he was busy with matters of far greater importance than dealing with whatever obviously trivial issue (we weren't in combat, after all) had prompted this diminutive lieutenant to request a one-on-one.
"Sir," the Colonel began,"this lieutenant has always wanted to fly, but..."
Captain Duncan raised a tired hand. "Stawp! I'm gonna ask you ta do two thangs -- cut ta the chase, and quit using the thard person. This ain't OCS."
"Aye, aye, Sir!" The Colonel stood silent momentarily as he mentally revised his carefully rehearsed speech, removing third person references and any material Captain Duncan might consider extraneous.
"Lieutenant! Why are ya crossin' yore eyes and movin' yore lips? You 'bout to have an epileptic fit or sumthin'?"
"No, sir. The lieu... uh... I mean, I want to drop my air guarantee."
"You wanna do whut!?!"
"I want to drop my air guar..."
"I heard ya the first time lieutenant," Duncan cut the Colonel off. "Why in the hell do you wanna do that?"
"Sir, I don't want to be the guy in the back seat. I want to be in charge."
"Okay, I get that." Duncan leaned back in his chair. "So, what MOS are you thinking about, instead?"
"Sir, I want to go infantry."
"Infantry!?!" The Captain's face convulsed, "Har, har, har! Infantry?!? Lieutenant, you ain't big enough to block the breeze out of a gnat's backside! You wanna go infantry?"
The Colonel drew himself up to his full indignant five feet, six and three quarter inches (don't ever forget the three quarters) and glared back at the captain. Well..., it was the Colonel's best impression of a glare...
"Wut's wrong with yore eyes, lieutenant? You 'bout to have another epileptic fit?" It was clear Duncan wasn't necessarily concerned with the Colonel's health and welfare -- he was just not keen to waste the time that it would take to call 911 and report the incident up the chain of command.
"Tell you wut, Lieutenant Gregory. I'm gonna forward your request up the chain of command. It'll have to be approved by the Commanding Officer of The Basic School. Jus' know this -- competition for infantry slots is keen. Last class had 75 applicants for 40 seats at IOC (Infantry Officer's Course). You might wanna consider sumthin' like Motor T or Supply..."
"I'm not dropping my air guarantee to be a pogue, sir."
"Heh, heh.. I like your spunk, lieutenant. Good luck. Yore dismissed."
Nine months later, the Colonel was in charge of an infantry platoon -- 3rd Platoon, Company G, 2d Battalion, 2d Marines -- at Camp Lejeune. On a field exercise, practicing to be miserable, in the pine barrens of coastal North Carolina that late winter of 1979, the Colonel heard a roar and looked up to see a two-ship formation of F-4s streak overhead -- headed back to base and happy hour at the Officers' Club, where the pilots and their back-seaters would no doubt regale each other with their "right stuff" and toast their good fortune and outstanding judgment to have chosen to be naval aviators. The Colonel looked down at his muddy boots and then up to see his platoon sergeant grinning at him,
"Feels like a kick in the nuts, don't it lieutenant?"
The Colonel shook his head, honestly. "Wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world, sergeant."
Monday, May 14, 2018
Strange and Unlikely
May 14th, 1978 -- forty years ago, today -- the Colonel raised his right hand in a solemn oath and was commissioned a second lieutenant in the United States Marine Corps.
It was a significant, if unlikely, milestone in a strange journey.
Everything about the Colonel's life to that point (and beyond) was strange and unlikely. He is an eighth generation Mississippian, but lived in the state barely eighteen months out of his first eighteen years. Following his career Air Force NCO father around the world, he touched bases in Orlando, Birmingham, Orlando again, then briefly in his parents' hometown -- Columbus, Mississippi, and then Morocco (that's in Africa, for the geographically challenged), Little Rock, Columbus again (while Dad went to fight the communists in Vietnam), Alexandria, Louisiana, and then the now-extinct Panama Canal Zone.
The Colonel's father retired from the Air Force the same summer (of 1974) the Colonel graduated from high school, and his family moved back to Columbus to start a different life.
Well, it might have been different for Mom and Dad -- they've been in Columbus ever since -- but for the Colonel and his brother it was more of the same for the better part of the next three decades. Little Brother took the obvious path for a member of our family -- went to school at Mississippi State and then spent a twenty year career in the family business; retiring as a Major in the United States Air Force.
But, the Colonel has always been a rebel.
At the conclusion of a "rather lackluster" (actual quote from more than one interviewer) high school career, but armed with "surprisingly strong" (another actual quote) college entrance test scores, the Colonel applied for appointment at any and all U.S. military academies.
A few weeks before the end of school, the Colonel received letters from all of the above thanking him for his interest in national security and declining his offer to be the anchor man in the Class of 1978. It was a bit of a let-down; but, no real surprise -- "rather lackluster" high school record and all.
The Colonel had also applied for the relatively easier to obtain ROTC scholarships from the Air Force, Army, and Navy. "Relatively easier" actually turned out to be "not-so easy" in the Colonel's case. He received letters from the Air Force and Navy thanking him for his interest in national security and declining his offer to spend their money on a fool's errand.
The Army, on the other hand, saw the slightest glimmer of potential in the Colonel to become commissioned cannon fodder to replace the commissioned cannon fodder lost in the recent imbroglio in Southeast Asia as commissioned cannon fodder in the Fulda Gap (the likely Red Army invasion route into Western Europe if and when the Cold War went hot). The Army first told the Colonel he was an "alternate" for a four-year ROTC scholarship. Then, as hundreds above him on the list declined the honor of becoming commissioned cannon fodder in the Fulda Gap, the Army informed the Colonel that he was the recipient of a full-ride at the university of his choice (provided said university had Army ROTC and low enough entrance standards).
The Colonel was days away from signing an acceptance letter to become the next generation of commissioned cannon fodder in the Fulda Gap, when he received a call from the commanding officer of the Marine Barracks whose responsibility it was to provide security for the Navy facilities in and around the Panama Canal Zone. This Marine officer had been tasked with contacting the Colonel and telling him that he had been accepted for a Marine Corps Option, Naval ROTC Scholarship. It was obviously a task for which he was not overly thrilled.
"Good Morning, Mr. Gregory. My name is Lieutenant Colonel Hardjaw McJarhead (not his real name). Congratulations. You are the recipient of a Naval ROTC (Marine Corps option) Scholarship."
"Excuse me, sir, I didn't apply for the Marine scholarship."
"What?!? Why the h... errr... why not?"
"I dunno. Guess I didn't think Marines went to college."
After a long pause, "Well, young man, I have a letter with the signature of the Commandant of the Marine Corps on it saying that you can go free of charge to any school of your choice -- provided that school has an NROTC program and low enough entrance standards. Do you want to be a Marine or not?"
"Don't think I do. The Army has offered me a scholarship and I think I'm gonna take it."
"The Army?!?" McJarhead's (not his real name) disdainful tone of voice carried the clear implication that ARMY was not the only four letter word with which his vocabulary was armed. "Why would you want to be commissioned cannon fodder in the Fulda Gap when you can be a Marine?!?"
The word "Marine" rolled off McJarhead's (not his real name) tongue as if he were reciting poetry -- that is, if Marines recited poetry... which they don't. Limericks maybe. Okay, maybe a line or two from Shakespeare's "Henry V" or Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade," ... Look, Marines ain't real poetic... just sayin'. But the way a Marine says the word "Marine" can best be described as a tonal mixture of pride and reverence..., with a side order of arrogance.
McJarhead's (not his real name) pronunciation of the word still rings in the Colonel's ears -- or maybe that's the caffeine-enhanced tinnitus. Anyway, the Colonel, for the first -- certainly not the last -- time in the next four decades of his strange and unlikely journey, heard "Marine" spoken in a way that made his chest tighten and his pulse quicken.
As the Colonel pondered whether he wanted to be a Marine, McJarhead (not his real name) broke the silence with a barely concealed sneer, "Well, you probably ain't got what it takes to be a Marine..."
Four years later, following a "rather lackluster college career" (actual quote from an interviewer), the Colonel heard the following:
"To all who shall see these presents, greeting:
Know Ye that, reposing special trust and confidence in the patriotism, valor, fidelity and abilities of Thomas Edward Gregory, I do appoint him a Second Lieutenant in the United States Marine Corps to rank as such from the 14th day of May,1978. This Officer will therefore carefully and diligently discharge the duties of the office to which appointed by doing and performing all manner of things thereunto belonging.
And I do strictly charge and require those Officers and other personnel of lesser rank to render such obedience as is due an officer of this grade and position. And this Officer is to observe and follow such orders and directives, from time to time, as may be given by me, or the future President of the United States of America, or other Superior Officers acting in accordance with the laws of the United States of America.
This commission is to continue in force during the pleasure of the President of the United States of America for the time being, under the provisions of those Public Laws relating to Officers of the Armed Forces of the United States of America and the component thereof in which this appointment is made.
Done at the City of Washington, this 14th day of May in the year of our Lord Nineteen hundred and seventy-eight, and of the Independence of the United States of America the two hundred and second.
By the President"
It was a significant, if unlikely, milestone in a strange journey.
Everything about the Colonel's life to that point (and beyond) was strange and unlikely. He is an eighth generation Mississippian, but lived in the state barely eighteen months out of his first eighteen years. Following his career Air Force NCO father around the world, he touched bases in Orlando, Birmingham, Orlando again, then briefly in his parents' hometown -- Columbus, Mississippi, and then Morocco (that's in Africa, for the geographically challenged), Little Rock, Columbus again (while Dad went to fight the communists in Vietnam), Alexandria, Louisiana, and then the now-extinct Panama Canal Zone.
The Colonel's father retired from the Air Force the same summer (of 1974) the Colonel graduated from high school, and his family moved back to Columbus to start a different life.
Well, it might have been different for Mom and Dad -- they've been in Columbus ever since -- but for the Colonel and his brother it was more of the same for the better part of the next three decades. Little Brother took the obvious path for a member of our family -- went to school at Mississippi State and then spent a twenty year career in the family business; retiring as a Major in the United States Air Force.
But, the Colonel has always been a rebel.
At the conclusion of a "rather lackluster" (actual quote from more than one interviewer) high school career, but armed with "surprisingly strong" (another actual quote) college entrance test scores, the Colonel applied for appointment at any and all U.S. military academies.
A few weeks before the end of school, the Colonel received letters from all of the above thanking him for his interest in national security and declining his offer to be the anchor man in the Class of 1978. It was a bit of a let-down; but, no real surprise -- "rather lackluster" high school record and all.
The Colonel had also applied for the relatively easier to obtain ROTC scholarships from the Air Force, Army, and Navy. "Relatively easier" actually turned out to be "not-so easy" in the Colonel's case. He received letters from the Air Force and Navy thanking him for his interest in national security and declining his offer to spend their money on a fool's errand.
The Army, on the other hand, saw the slightest glimmer of potential in the Colonel to become commissioned cannon fodder to replace the commissioned cannon fodder lost in the recent imbroglio in Southeast Asia as commissioned cannon fodder in the Fulda Gap (the likely Red Army invasion route into Western Europe if and when the Cold War went hot). The Army first told the Colonel he was an "alternate" for a four-year ROTC scholarship. Then, as hundreds above him on the list declined the honor of becoming commissioned cannon fodder in the Fulda Gap, the Army informed the Colonel that he was the recipient of a full-ride at the university of his choice (provided said university had Army ROTC and low enough entrance standards).
The Colonel was days away from signing an acceptance letter to become the next generation of commissioned cannon fodder in the Fulda Gap, when he received a call from the commanding officer of the Marine Barracks whose responsibility it was to provide security for the Navy facilities in and around the Panama Canal Zone. This Marine officer had been tasked with contacting the Colonel and telling him that he had been accepted for a Marine Corps Option, Naval ROTC Scholarship. It was obviously a task for which he was not overly thrilled.
"Good Morning, Mr. Gregory. My name is Lieutenant Colonel Hardjaw McJarhead (not his real name). Congratulations. You are the recipient of a Naval ROTC (Marine Corps option) Scholarship."
"Excuse me, sir, I didn't apply for the Marine scholarship."
"What?!? Why the h... errr... why not?"
"I dunno. Guess I didn't think Marines went to college."
After a long pause, "Well, young man, I have a letter with the signature of the Commandant of the Marine Corps on it saying that you can go free of charge to any school of your choice -- provided that school has an NROTC program and low enough entrance standards. Do you want to be a Marine or not?"
"Don't think I do. The Army has offered me a scholarship and I think I'm gonna take it."
"The Army?!?" McJarhead's (not his real name) disdainful tone of voice carried the clear implication that ARMY was not the only four letter word with which his vocabulary was armed. "Why would you want to be commissioned cannon fodder in the Fulda Gap when you can be a Marine?!?"
The word "Marine" rolled off McJarhead's (not his real name) tongue as if he were reciting poetry -- that is, if Marines recited poetry... which they don't. Limericks maybe. Okay, maybe a line or two from Shakespeare's "Henry V" or Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade," ... Look, Marines ain't real poetic... just sayin'. But the way a Marine says the word "Marine" can best be described as a tonal mixture of pride and reverence..., with a side order of arrogance.
McJarhead's (not his real name) pronunciation of the word still rings in the Colonel's ears -- or maybe that's the caffeine-enhanced tinnitus. Anyway, the Colonel, for the first -- certainly not the last -- time in the next four decades of his strange and unlikely journey, heard "Marine" spoken in a way that made his chest tighten and his pulse quicken.
As the Colonel pondered whether he wanted to be a Marine, McJarhead (not his real name) broke the silence with a barely concealed sneer, "Well, you probably ain't got what it takes to be a Marine..."
Four years later, following a "rather lackluster college career" (actual quote from an interviewer), the Colonel heard the following:
"To all who shall see these presents, greeting:
Know Ye that, reposing special trust and confidence in the patriotism, valor, fidelity and abilities of Thomas Edward Gregory, I do appoint him a Second Lieutenant in the United States Marine Corps to rank as such from the 14th day of May,1978. This Officer will therefore carefully and diligently discharge the duties of the office to which appointed by doing and performing all manner of things thereunto belonging.
And I do strictly charge and require those Officers and other personnel of lesser rank to render such obedience as is due an officer of this grade and position. And this Officer is to observe and follow such orders and directives, from time to time, as may be given by me, or the future President of the United States of America, or other Superior Officers acting in accordance with the laws of the United States of America.
This commission is to continue in force during the pleasure of the President of the United States of America for the time being, under the provisions of those Public Laws relating to Officers of the Armed Forces of the United States of America and the component thereof in which this appointment is made.
Done at the City of Washington, this 14th day of May in the year of our Lord Nineteen hundred and seventy-eight, and of the Independence of the United States of America the two hundred and second.
By the President"
Last Saturday evening, the Colonel had the great personal honor to serve as the Guest of Honor for the University of Mississippi NROTC Commissioning Ceremony at which seven graduating midshipmen had pinned to their shoulders the rank insignia of ensigns and second lieutenants. The ceremony was long enough -- though appropriately so -- that the Colonel had opportunity to review the strange and unlikely forty years since his own commissioning ceremony.
He thought back to the winding road that took him from Ole Miss on a journey that literally criss-crossed the globe. He remembered the comrades in arms whose kinship transcends family ties. He recounted the deployments, separations, scars, and tears.
The Colonel felt again the tightening in his chest and the quickening of his pulse as he stood to the strains of the Marines' Hymn.
And when he could scarcely stand another shot of pride and reminiscence, the Colonel looked down to the front row and locked eyes with the most unlikely of all of his blessings and caught her smile.
The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was where she has always been since the Colonel was fifteen years old -- there..., quietly beaming her confidence and love.
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