Challenge Company

Thirty years ago this week the Colonel, then a captain, was entrusted by the Marine Corps with one of its seventy rifle companies -- Company C, 1st Battalion, 8th Marines.  He had been in the Marine Corps for nine years.

Nine years doesn't seem like very long to the Colonel today -- but, at the time he felt like he was the "old man of the Corps."  He had already deployed around the world -- Panama for jungle training, Norway for arctic training, desert training in the Mojave, across the Western Pacific and Indian Ocean from the Sea of Okhotsh to the Gulf of Aden (including Japan, Hong Kong, South Korea, Thailand, Singapore, Australia, Somalia, and Oman).

He had completed the Infantry Officer Course, the NBC Defense Course, the Mountain Leader (Winter) Course, the Instructor Management Course, the Army's Jungle Warfare Course in Panama, and was an honor graduate of the Amphibious (now Expeditionary) Warfare School (AWS).

The Colonel had commanded rifle, weapons, and headquarters platoons and had been a staff platoon commander for two fifty-man platoons of lieutenants at the Corps' Basic School.

He believed he was ready for command of one of three rifle companies in an infantry battalion. 

He was wrong.

The Colonel was prepared to step into the traces as the lead dog and pull 180 Marines down the trail as they prepared for and deployed to the Mediterranean as the helicopter raid company for a Special Operations Capable Marine Expeditionary Unit, known as a MEU (SOC). 

He vastly underestimated the magnificence of the Marines of whom he was placed at the head.

They were already raring to go.  The captain who had been in command of them -- Ed Larkin -- was an old acquaintance, and he turned over a company of hard-chargers led by a superb cadre of lieutenants and NCOs. 

Turns out all the Colonel had to do was point them in the right direction and set the pace. 

The amazing thing about Marines is that they crave a challenge, and the Marines of Charlie Company were no exception.  The Colonel's challenge was to keep them challenged.

The First Battalion, Eighth Marines underwent a transformation of sorts in the summer and fall of 1987.  Among the senior leadership of the battalion, only the operations officer (S-3) -- Mike Edwards -- remained as continuity.  (Mike was a fellow Ole Miss grad and the Corps was taking a real chance putting two Rebels in the same unit!) In command of all three rifle companies, the weapons company, and the logistics staff section were new captains straight out of the Amphibious Warfare School.  They called themselves the "Gang of Five."  Two of them, the Colonel and Jim Welsh, had served together in the Western Pacific and at the Basic School.  The battalion had a new second in command (XO) -- (then) Major, (later Colonel) Jon Inghram.  The new battalion commander was (then) Lieutenant Colonel (later Lieutenant General) Jan Huly.  LtCol Huly was an old hand at the MEU (SOC) business having already twice deployed as XO of battalion landing teams.         

The battalion's last deployment had been a rotation to Okinawa.  The next deployment, in the spring of 1988, would be as a Battalion Landing Team (reinforced with artillery and tanks) embarked on the ships of an Amphibious Ready Group.  BLT 1/8 would be the ground combat element of the 26th MEU (SOC).  The 26th MEU would also have an aviation combat element composed of a reinforced helicopter squadron and a logistics element to support operations ashore.  Each rifle company in the battalion would be "task organized" for a specific specialty of ship-to-shore movement via either helicopters, amphibious assault vehicles, or small boats, and trained around a raid operation profile using that mode of transportation. 

Sometime early that summer of 1987, LtCol Huly called the Colonel to his office, "Captain Gregory, good news.  I've already decided Charlie Company will be the heliborne company for our deployment next year.  Start building your training around heliborne raids.  Get over to HMM 365 and introduce yourself to LtCol Magnus and his S-3, ASAP.  Your company will be reinforced with a heavy machine gun section and a TOW section along with their jeeps (the Corps had gone to Humvees by this time, but the new vehicles wouldn't fit on the Corps' helicopters, so beefed up jeeps had been retained for the MEU(SOC) missions.).  You'll also get a combat engineer platoon and it's mule (marvelous little flat-bed cargo hauler).  These attachments will chop to you when we get designated BLT, around E -180.  You'll also get an FO (artillery forward observer) and a FAC (forward air controller)."

As the boss talked, the Colonel's head spun.  He wasn't crazy about helicopters.  He had long held the conviction that the Marine Corps' love affair with its aging and vulnerable fleet of rotary wing aircraft was going to end badly someday on a battlefield saturated with anti-aircraft artillery batteries and hand-held anti-aircraft missiles (the Russian experience against the Afghan Mujaheddin was unfolding at the time and helicopters weren't faring well against the future Taliban carrying American-provided missiles).

Lieutenant Colonel Huly took a breath and the Colonel quickly interjected with his professional concerns about helicopters and that he would rather that Charlie Company be assigned as the "track" company.

Huly waved the Colonel off abruptly.  "Alpha Company (Jim Welsh) is gonna be tracks."  He leaned back in his seat, "Listen, your company will be on the LPH with me and the MEU Commander.  I know that doesn't exactly thrill you and that you would rather have a little more independence on one of the other boats.  But, being collocated with the bosses and our planning staffs means you'll be the priority unit for most missions.  The rubber boat company will rarely get off ship due to too high sea state and distance from shore, and tracks aren't a very flexible or stealthy raid vehicle.  The majority of the MEU (SOC) missions are heliborne missions.  Besides," Huly leaned forward and locked his eyes on the Colonel's, "you bear watching and you'll get the wonderful benefit of my superb mentoring on a daily basis."

One would think that Jan Huly was being humorous -- and, he had a great sense of humor -- but, he was deadly serious.  He remarked at a commanders and staff meeting early in his tenure, "Do as a I say and do, and you'll look brilliant like me."  The yuks around the table died quickly as the look on Huly's face made it clear he was serious.

As the Colonel made his way back to his office afterward, he ran the numbers.  The T/O for a rifle company was close to 180 Marines, and while most infantry units at the time were manned at about 80% strength MEU (SOC) outfits went out full strength.  With reinforcing attachments, he would be commanding a  company of closer to 220.  He would have a full complement of lieutenants and senior noncoms.  This was going to be a rare opportunity for any infantry officer.

Many leaders, when given so much responsibility, have a tendency to play it safe.  Take few chances.  Safety and micromanage everything to the point of near paralysis.   Keep a tight lid on things and hope that nobody does anything that will jeopardize chances for promotion.

There's several problems with an approach like that.

One, micromanagement may work short term, but, eventually, subordinates quit making decisions on their own.  This is deadly in any organization, but in an outfit executing raid missions requiring speed and adaptability, subordinate leaders have to be authorized to make rapid adjustments to the plan.

Two, the Colonel ain't smart enough and talented enough and energetic enough to micromanage.

Three, the young men in his rifle company didn't join the Marines to be safe and secure.  They joined looking for a challenge.  And, young men who are challenged both physically and mentally tend to develop an increased self-esteem that translates into self-discipline. Bored Marines make and find trouble.  Challenged Marines are often too worn out to make or find trouble.

Fourth and finally, the Colonel (then a captain) had a personal professional performance philosophy that presumed he was at his "terminal" rank.  He was going to do what the mission required and let the chips fall where they might.        

So, Charlie company was going to be "Challenge" company.  The Colonel didn't change the name of the company (the boss wouldn't let him), but his overarching command philosophy was to push the limits.

The first opportunity to really put the challenge philosophy into play came at the end of the summer of 1987 when 1st Battalion, 8th Marines deployed for a month to the Marine Corps' Mountain Warfare Training Center (MWTC) at Pickel Meadows, high up in the Sierras.  The Colonel had been through the winter mountain leader course there in 1980 and had been there for a quick winter exercise in 1986 with the ground officers in his AWS class, but this was his first trip there without snow.  When there was no snow on the ground at Pickel Meadows, the Marines referred to training at MWTC as the "rock package." 

MWTC is one of the Corps' real training gems.  Depending on the season it is two radically different environments.  In the winter, it approximates the cold and deep snow Marines face in deployments to Norway to prepare for its wartime mission on the northern flank of NATO.  In summer, the steep rocky terrain provides an excellent mountaineering training ground.  Both environments provide a challenge.

The Colonel and Challenge Company pushed MWTC to the limits.

Most of the Marines loved it. 

The Colonel says "most" because there was that time in the middle of a company movement across steep terrain that he was perhaps pushing (he was actually at the front of the column) it a tad too hard.  A voice from the middle of the column called out plaintively, 

"What's he trying to prove?" 

That became the phrase with which his Marines most often addressed Captain Gregory's great challenge ideas.  There were other words and phrases used, but the Colonel's mother reads this blog, so...

There was never a body of water that the company went around. 

There was never a hill that the company didn't run up.

There was never a live fire and maneuver course that the company passed up.

There was never a challenge to which the company didn't rise.
  
The Colonel's prized memento of his time with C 1/8 is a framed picture of he and his lieutenants, faces camouflaged painted in preparation for a raid.  The brass plate below it lists their names and in bold script the phrase, 

                   "WHAT'S HE TRYING TO PROVE?"

Truth be told, the Colonel wasn't trying to prove anything.  He knew he was mounted on a dragon and was just trying to stay in the saddle. 

The year and a half with those magnificent Marines was the greatest experience of the Colonel's life.  They were the best rifle company in the Marine Corps.  If he could have stayed a captain in command of those men for the rest of his career, the Colonel would have jumped at the chance, without hesitation.

Of course, they had other ideas...

Preposterous Future

The Colonel thinks a lot about the future these days.  Anyone who is a serious student of history can't help but.  It's been said that history doesn't repeat itself..., but it rhymes really well.  The Colonel believes that one of history's greatest lessons is the inevitability of certain themes repeating themselves.

There was a time, early in his life, that the Colonel bought into the naive school of thought that mankind was "progressing" beyond the base natures by which the actions of competing civilizations had been ordered.      

But now, with the advantage of age and experience, the Colonel sees the future as certain as the past.  His crystal ball is murkier than a stock tank in a West Texas drought, but it really doesn't take any particular clarity to predict more of the same.

In an interesting, if a bit hyperbolic and stilted, book, "The Coming War with Japan," published in 1991, the authors' preface began with the following:

            "Imagine being alive in the summer of 1900. Europe was powerful, peaceful, and rich. Could you have imagined the devastation of 1920, the fall of the Kaiser, the Russian Revolution? Could anyone, then, have imagined the summer of 1940? Germany resurgent, France crushed, Britain fighting for its life. Or, in the summer of 1940, could anyone have imagined 1960? Europe divided and occupied by Americans and Soviets, the British and French empires gone, a nation called Israel arisen. In 1960, could anyone have imagined the summer of 1980? America in retreat, defeated by Vietnam, reeling before the Iranians, allied with Communist China. One would ask about the man in the summer of 1980 trying to imagine the summer of 2000, but he would already be so flabbergasted by the summer of 1990 that there would be no need to force him to strain his already stricken imagination. In 1980 anyone who predicted the collapse of the communism would have been ridiculed. Yet if there is one thing that the twentieth century ought to have taught us, it is that the commonsense approach to history is almost invariably doomed to be wrong, and that the most preposterous expectations are usually closer to the mark."
 
The Colonel would add to this train of thought that the man in 2000 could scarcely imagine the events of September 11th, 2001, and the subsequent Global War on Terror.  Nor could that man imagine, given the horrific attack on America, that war fought in a fecklessly limited and incremental fashion, and stretched over nearly an entire generation.

War is the natural condition of man.  A major war has convulsed the globe in nearly every generation dating back as far as one wishes to study.  Minor wars simmer constantly.  The Clausewitzian view of war is that it is an extension of politics.  If so, then politics is defined by conflict between competing worldviews and the desire for power and control of resources.   The causes for war have not been eliminated nor even diminished with the progress of "civilized" nations.  Even attempts to prevent war or to punish aggressors and "make right" (restore borders and sovereignty) requires the application of force with the tools of war, notwithstanding limited efficacy of diplomatic and economic sanctions.   

So, any futurist forecast for the remainder of the 21st Century must include war, and lots of it.

Thankfully, just as there is a symbiotic link between tactics and technology -- each spurring change and advancement in the other -- there is always a globally beneficial technological byproduct of war, even if some cultures or societies are destroyed by that war.  As horrific as were the costs of the two world wars in the first half of the 20th Century, the survivors (both victors and vanquished) were the beneficiaries of technological advances spurred by the tactical exigencies and casualty responses of those wars.

Now, before those of you with hands over mouths in abject horror click to more palatable reading fare, please know that the Colonel is not making a case for the morality of war.  Far from it.  War, in and of itself, is amoral.  The Colonel is merely making a case for the acceptance of war as an inescapable consequence of the nature of humanity, and positing that societies that prepare for war's inevitability are more likely to survive and thrive in the aftermath.

The Colonel's foundational premise is this:  War happens, and will continue to happen.  

Given that, what would be the best strategic course of action for our Republic over the next 50 to 100 years?  Allow the Colonel to, in the words of the above quoted book's authors, dispense with "the commonsense approach... [which is] almost invariably doomed to be wrong," and propose his own set of "most preposterous expectations [that] are usually closer to the mark."


Possible Major Wars of the 21st Century

Europe.  The fault lines over which future major wars will rupture the crust of extant societies and their allies are as numerous and germane as they ever were.  Today, Europe seems historically serene and cooperative, notwithstanding current tensions over immigration and economic bloc bureaucracies.  But age-old animosities, and desire for relative power position and resource control, simmer like volcanic hot spots over which the thin veneer of continental cooperation floats.  There were three major and several minor wars in Europe in the 80 years before the middle of the last century (and that prevalence of war in nearly every generation was not unusual in Europe's history).  Post-WWII U.S. occupation of Europe and the subsequent nuclear annihilation consequence of the NATO - Soviet Cold War (not to mention wide-scale destruction requiring multiple generations' work from which to recover) has prevented a major war in Europe.  But, the tamping lid of U.S. occupation has all but been completely removed.  Soviet expansionism has been replaced by resurgent Russian Imperialism, the most effective tactic of which at present seems to be active meddling (if not outright interference) in the electoral affairs of nations with which it sees itself in competition or wishes to draw within its orbit.

Russia, whose influence, in a perfect world, could be a force for stability and cooperation in Europe, will instead continue to foment instability to its own advantage.  This instability will manifest itself in conflict between European nations, notwithstanding the supposed stabilizing effect of the NATO alliance and the European Economic Community.  Major war in Europe within the next two generations is all but guaranteed; and, while it may not necessarily involve Russia directly, it will be as a result of Russia's actions to undermine European cooperation.

Asia - Pacific Rim.  Europe is not unique in the possession of casus belli fault lines.  China's relentless long march from colonial backwater to nascent global economic and military superpower has finally begun to suck all the oxygen out of the room, and the rest of the region is on notice.  China has many of the same ethnic and religious undercurrents that gave us the term "balkanized" with the removal of the Tito lid in Yugoslavia.  To keep 1.4 billion citizens' focus off of ethnic tension, China uses economic growth and nationalism.  Economic growth cannot be maintained in perpetuity. So, the Chinese leadership has inexorably built a world class military with which to leverage nationalism through -- you guessed it -- war.  

Within Asia exists the same sorts of ancient animosities and resource control tensions as seen in Europe.  While America's Pacific strategy has waffled and swung widely over the last half-century, the direction of China's strategic activities has not altered significantly.  The nations of the Pacific Rim have begun calculating with whom to rely in their best interests -- the U.S. or China.  American military tripwires are laid throughout the region and the possibility of an increasingly active projection of Chinese force (not to mention China's erratic client -- North Korea) coming in contact with the forces of the United States or its allies is higher than it has been since 1975.  Even the slightest miscalculation by the Chinese could lead to open conflict, from which Chinese nationalistic pride (and political leadership survival) will not allow it to pull back.  A major war in the Western Pacific Rim within the next two generations is as great a possibility as that of war in Europe.  

Africa and the Middle East.  The fault lines in North Africa and the Middle East need little explanation.  Interestingly, the region's future will be heavily influenced by the two major players mentioned above -- Russia and China.  Russia seeks renewed influence and resource control in the Middle East, and China sees sub-Saharan Africa as a critical source of rare metals and materials vital to its military modernization and nationalistically motivated space endeavors.  Both nations have been at least as active in the region as has been the United States.  The nations of the region are making the same calculations about the long-term reliability of the United States as are the nations of the Pacific Rim.

The United States' "Global War on Terror," largely centered on this region, has been tactically successful, but strategically ineffective.  First of all, the limited war has been fought against a tactic -- terror.  War against a tactic is ludicrous.  Had the war against Japan in the early 1940's been fought the same way, the United States would still be locked in a low-level tactical struggle with Japan.   Successful war is waged not against an adversary nation's tactics, but against that adversary's will to continue to employ that tactic or materially support organizations that do.  

While the Global War on Terror has served to assuage the United States' anger over 9/11, and kept terror organizations on their back feet, it has largely been a generation of lost blood and treasure without a significant decrease in the material support by nations in the region to those terror organizations.  If anything, material support from adversary nations has increased.

Until Western nations, led by the United States, carry the fight to the nations materially supporting organizations employing terror tactics, there will continue to be terror attacks throughout the West. A critical component of this fight must also include ramping up the nascent attempts at discrediting the underlying jihadist ideology.  But, the fight will not be won with the current "Long War" philosophy.  Western societies in general and American society in particular have no stomach for long limited wars.  Nor should they. 

At any rate, notwithstanding multiple American administrations' attempts to broker a substantive and comprehensive peace based on the errant goal of solving the actually narrow "Palestinian issue" (read "Arab excuse"), multiple sectarian fault lines, tribal animosities, and squabbles over borders imposed at the end of the colonial era will continue to act as casus belli for minor wars for generations to come; with potential development into major regional conflicts with Russian and/or American involvement.  

The Americas.  The Colonel intentionally left the Western Hemisphere for last, because he fervently believes that the future of the aforementioned regions has great bearing on the strategy that he believes our Republic must adopt with regard to the "American Hemisphere."  In comparison with engagement and encirclement strategies in Europe, Asia-Pacific, Africa, and the Middle East, a Western Hemisphere-centric approach to the strategic imperatives of commerce, resource control, and defensible frontiers is a far easier strategic endeavor.  

The Colonel does not propose a complete withdrawal from the other regions of the globe.  Engagement with long-time allies does not have to cease or even diminish, even if our Republic's focus shifts dramatically from the regions in which those allies exist to a truly "America First" strategy.  The Colonel's "America First" strategy is not the narrow, populist, isolationist view of the majority of the current administration's political base.  Far from it.  The Colonel's "America First" could be called  the "American Hemisphere First" strategy.

But, let's keep it simple, shall we?  

An "America First" grand national strategy would seek to strengthen the entire Western Hemisphere, drawing all the nations of the hemisphere into a tight, mutually beneficial relationship.

Look, the people of our hemisphere -- North, Central, and South America -- have far more in common with each other than with the peoples and cultures of most of the rest of the world.  Even the language barrier is far less of an issue than exists among the nations of Europe or Asia, or even among the nations in the current Russian Federation.

The Colonel's vision of a perfect world is a pan-hemispheric Republic stretching from the Hudson Bay to Tierra del Fuego with a maritime-centric military strategy designed to, a) ensure world-wide freedom of navigation for commerce, and b) hemispheric oceanic control for defense.  Land forces would be maintained and structured primarily for continental defense, recognizing the near impossibility and unnecessary expense of maintaining land forces large enough for decisive major action on the African or Eurasian continents.  Strategic strike long-range bombers, land-based intercontinental ballistic missiles, and submarine-launched ballistic missiles -- the strategic nuclear triad -- would be maintained (modernized and structured for continued efficiency) for nuclear deterrence.   

There will be major wars in the Eastern Hemisphere within the next two generations.  The United States need not be involved, unless the American Republic is willing to spend blood and treasure that will make the expenses of the wars of the 20th Century pale in comparison.  If our Republic is to make that expense to make decisive impact in those major Eastern Hemisphere wars, then we should be rewarded with world-wide empire.  If our Republic is not willing to take on world-wide empire, then we should at least ensure the security and prosperity of the Western Hemisphere.  A pan-hemispheric republic is the logical answer.     

Preposterous, you say?

Was it preposterous for Americans to cross the Alleghenies and push to the Mississippi River, doubling American territory?  Was it preposterous to purchase the Louisiana Territory, again doubling  American territory?  Was it preposterous to annex the Northwest territory and the territory north of the Rio Grande, again doubling American territory?  Was it preposterous to purchase Alaska?  Was it preposterous to add Hawaii to the Republic?

The entire American Experience is preposterous!  Greatness comes to those who seize on the preposterous idea, and act on that preposterous idea. 

Expand the Republic!    
                                           
      


  

The Cost of Progress

One of the Colonel's more important endeavors in his unforced exile here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere is a modest contribution to the character development and mind-broadening of his grandsons, the Hope of 21st Century Civilization, Dashes 1, 2, and 3 (H21CC - 1, 2, & 3).  The Colonel's vast holdings, and the extant flora and fauna thereon, provide the most excellent of classrooms.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's desire to beautify and fancify the portions of the Colonel's vast holdings within eyeshot of the Big House also provide project vehicles with which to provide the aforementioned character development and mind-broadening.

At this point, however, he isn't certain whose character has been more developed and whose mind has been more broadened  -- the Colonel's or the boys'. 

One thing for certain, the Colonel's wallet has been lightened.

As summer approached this year, the Colonel told the oldest two of his three grandsons, that if they would come out to "Pop and Nana's" and help with some physical labor, he would compensate them for their work (and, thereby, teach a few lessons in capitalism and work ethic).  The other morning, the Colonel's grandsons arrived ready "to make some money."  The Colonel obliged.

An hour of physical labor ensued.  The oldest two bent to the work without complaint, helping the Colonel tote and lift long 2 x 6 boards up and fasten them to the top of the latest effort to beautify the gardens surrounding the Big House.  The youngest, all four precocious years of him, saw his brothers doing cool stuff and wanted to be a part of it.

"I wanna help, Pop!"

His brothers snickered and, as all older brothers have done since the beginning of brotherhood, derided his desire, "You're too little!"

Hearing someone told that they are "too little" to do something doesn't sit well with the Colonel.  He pointed to the oldest, "bring that third ladder over here for your brother."

Dash One complied, and Dash Three clambered up and perched atop the ladder with a broad grin on his face.  He reached up and "helped" hold a board in place while the Colonel secured it with his screw gun.  Said screw gun caught the lad's attention, "I wanna do that, Pop!"  

"Well, c'mon then," the Colonel said.  The youngster climbed down his ladder and up the ladder next to the Colonel.  

"Okay," the Colonel held a gun in place over a bolt, "pull that trigger."  The gun whined until the bolt snugged up.  

"Good job!"

The Colonel is proud to be a part of introducing yet another male to the unbridled and expensive love of powered hand tools.

After an hour of work in the hot June sun, the Colonel was ready for a cooling off break, and the four of them headed down to the dock on Lake Brenda.  An hour of thrashing and splashing ensued. 

Followed by an hour of rest in the rocking chairs on the front porch of the Big House.  Well..., the Colonel rested.  The boys continued to romp about with the boundless energy of youth and inexperience.  

The Colonel's daughter-in-law (she of the high and exalted position of "Provider of Grandsons") arrived a while later to collect her brood.

"Did they work hard, Pop?"

"Yep, couldn't have done the work without 'em."

The Colonel gathered the boys up and reached for his wallet.  "I promised you," he addressed the oldest two, "that we would start out at $5 an hour this summer, and based on your work and attitude, we'd see about raises.  You worked an hour today and did a great job.  Here's a five dollar bill for each of you."

The youngest watched this exchange with great interest and anticipation.  The Colonel turned to him, "And you did good work, too." A dollar bill was handed over to the grinning tyke.

The Colonel's favorite and first mother-in-law -- the wise and courageous Miss Martha -- watched with the keen interest of a great grandmother who has always looked out for the interest of the least of her grand and great grand progeny.   

"Ahem," she interjected and crooked a beckoning finger.  The little one went to her and she whispered in his ear.  He turned to the Colonel with his hand out, "I helped screw in that board."

"Yes, you did. That's why I gave you a dollar."

"I helped move the ladder."

The Colonel shot a withering glance at Miss Martha.  Well..., okay.  It wasn't exactly withering.  It was actually more like a whose side are you on? look.  The answer to that question came quickly as she piled on, 

"He also helped load the kayak in truck."

"But, that wasn't during the 'official work' period," the Colonel protested.  "That was clearly within the preparatory phase of the 'thrash and splash' period, for which the Colonel has never, and will never, offer monetary compensation."

To the Colonel's consternation, his strong protestations induced no weakening in the wise and courageous Miss Martha's resolve (not that there ever is).  To his further consternation, the Colonel could clearly see his third grand progeny gaining more stubborn resolve in the situation (as if he ever needed more).

The Colonel forked over another dollar bill to the grubby little highway robber.  His wise and courageous accomplice in crime against colonelcy got his attention with an urgent, "Ahem!"  She crooked a beckoning finger and whispered in his ear.

The former favorite little buddy turned mercenary ingrate turned to the Colonel and announced defiantly, "That's three works."  Three fingers extended toward the Colonel in exclamation.

The Colonel forked over a third dollar.

The other two grandsons began to grumble.  The Colonel shot them a withering glance.  Well..., okay.  It wasn't exactly withering.  It was more of a sorry fellas, the bank is out of cash look.

Character development and mind-broadening is turning out to be a far more expensive proposition than the Colonel thought.       

Bulldog Summer

A right of passage changes one's definition.

Forty years ago this month, the Colonel was headed for Quantico, Virginia, with 250 other NROTC (Marine Option) midshipmen, and entrance into a crucible of physical and mental heat and pressure.

Three years previous, the Colonel had arrived on campus as a freshman to begin his matriculation at the cultural epicenter of the New South.  The University of Mississippi (Ole Miss), and the little town of Oxford which hosted it, were hardly a decade removed from actual occupation by federal troops sent to quell a redneck insurrection surrounding the entrance of James Meredith.  Ole Miss was also a little over a decade removed from the heyday of Rebel football in which the boys in red and blue had dominated the SEC and won National Championships.

The shock-waves of that era, like the fading roar of a storm-pushed wave crashing on a beach, still echoed on campus.  Their effects were everywhere, both physical and psychological.  The columns of the university's administration building -- the Lyceum -- still bore visible marks of the fusillade of rifle fire directed at the federal marshals holed up inside.  Sent to usher Meredith on his integration march through the doors of the Lyceum, those feds were now pinned down behind them, and would be until troops of the 101st Airborne Division arrived.

Meredith was an echo heard but little discussed.

Football greatness, on the other hand...

The last great Ole Miss quarterback for a generation, Peyton and Eli's daddy, was now playing for the 'Ain'ts.  From the heights of gridiron glory the Rebels had fallen fast and hard.  The fall of 1974 would show just how hard: a 3 and 8 season was punctuated by a homecoming loss to South Carolina.  The Gamecocks went 1 and 10 that year.  But Rebel nation believed it was only a season away from renewed glory atop the polls.  One season turned into forty before that happened, but that isn't important right now.

During his first years at Ole Miss, the Colonel was awash in the reverberations of past generations.  And, it wasn't all about Ole Miss.

He had been offered, and had accepted, a full-ride NROTC scholarship out of high school -- a Marine Corps specific NROTC scholarship, that would result in a commission as a jarhead second lieutenant upon his accomplishment of a bachelor's degree.  Oh, and there was one more requirement...

The Colonel would have to survive "Bulldog" -- the Marine officer corps' version of basic training.

Marine option NROTC midshipmen went (and still go) to Bulldog the summer between their junior and senior years.  Every day of those preceding three years had some easily detectable gravitational wave emanating from a Marine camp on the shores of Chopawamsic Creek -- the home of the Marine Corps' Officer Candidates School.  Every day was spent in some sort of preparation for Bulldog -- the seniors who had just returned from their crucible and the Marine officers and NCOs on staff made sure of it.

So, layered over the Colonel's undergraduate studies toward a degree in Political Science and History, were three coats of paint -- red and blue, black and white, and scarlet and gold.  

Everywhere on campus were reminders of the history of Ole Miss, dating back to its founding in 1848 -- statues, plaques, and bullet holes. The red and blue, and black and white.

Everywhere in the Colonel's sphere of fellow travelers on the road to military service, and the hard men preparing them, were reminders of the history of the Marine Corps dating back to its founding in 1775 -- stories, plaques, and bullet wounds.

The ultimate objective was pinning on gold bars and becoming an officer of Marines.  Qualifying for that commission required a degree, so a liberal arts education was a by-product for the Colonel.  But, if truth be told in the Colonel's case, the layer of scarlet and gold was thick and smothering, nearly to the detriment of all else.  

The intermediate objective, one of the pigments in the scarlet and gold, during the first three years of the Colonel's matriculation at the Harvard of the South (Harvard, by reciprocal agreement, refers to itself as the "Ole Miss of the North") was preparation for the summer of '77 and an appointment with a cadre of hard men (combat veterans all) who would provide the heat and pressure for a crucible and right of passage. 

Semester studies may have temporarily satisfied examination requirements for transitory classes, but countless more hours than those were dedicated to steeling mind, body, and spirit for a summer of scarlet and gold hell.                

The mission of the Marine Corps' Officer Candidates School (OCS) is:  "to educate and train officer candidates in Marine Corps knowledge and skills within a controlled and challenging environment in order to evaluate and screen individuals for the leadership, moral, mental, and physical qualities required for commissioning as a Marine Corps officer."

That mission statement contains the phrase "controlled and challenging environment."  From a candidate's perspective, while certainly "challenging," the environment of Bulldog was anything but controlled.  Particularly the first few weeks.  "Chaos" is a better word.

Chaos, heat and pressure, and very little sleep.

But, and credit goes to those who prepared him, the Colonel thrived in the chaos, heat and pressure, with very little sleep.

In August, when he, and the four others who had gone to Quantico with the Colonel, strode back onto Ole Miss' campus, it was as a changed man, now defined in a way only a few others were.  He thought he was ready to take on the world.

In a way he was.  In a larger way, he had no earthly idea what the next three decades would throw at him.  

But, Bulldog was always the touchstone.                 

Check Your Privilege, Height People

The Colonel hates a bully, and has discovered the cause for the anti-social behavior.

If you are reading this and you stand taller than 5' 10", check your height privilege.  (If you are reading this, you might also want to check your IQ -- reading posts hereon has a tendency to decrease intelligence.) 

Because of your inordinate height, you are predisposed to be a bully.  You can't help it.  It's in your genes.

But that's beside the point.  You're tall and that gives you an unfair advantage. 

Those of you who know the Colonel personally are tempted at this point to draw yourselves up to every inch of your privileged heightness and deride the Colonel for his self-pitying plunge into the deep end of the victimhood pool.  Let's be clear -- the Colonel ain't a victim.  Further, he ain't scared of nothin' nor nobuddy ('ceptin' the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda).  The Colonel stands a healthy 5' 6 and 3/4" (don't ever forget the 3/4).  He'd be lying if he tried to tell you that it never bothered him.  

But, he never let it stop him, either.

You have to admit the Colonel's point about height privilege has merit, though.  And, the entire world is not just socially biased against short folks. There's a glaring economic bias in place as well 

Tall people, are you required the extra expense of a step ladder in your kitchen, closets, and garage to reach items on top shelves?

No?  Check your height privilege.

Tall people, do you always have to pay extra to have trouser legs shortened -- even for off-the-rack?

No?  Check your height privilege.

Tall people, do you need a running start and vault to get into your pick-up truck?

No?  Check your height privilege.

Tall people, have you ever been the permanent man in the middle in a daily game of "keep away" every single day of the fifth grade?

No?  Check your height privilege.

Look, the Colonel will admit that there are some advantages to his short stature.  He was always (he says again, always) underestimated.  When you start out at the back of the pack, there is a delicious rush to passing everyone on your way to the front.

Then there was that locker room incident in the 9th grade.  Jim Parthenais (exercising his new-found height privilege) grabbed the Colonel and unceremoniously dumped him in the dirty towel bin.  Yeah, funny stuff.  Yuk, yuk, yuk. The Colonel came rocketing out from under a pile of wet towels like a wolf released from a leg hold trap.  Okay, it was more like a coon scrambling out of a garbage can, but the end result was a full-scale assault on the Colonel's tormentor.

Coach Stromberg emerged from his office in time to see the Colonel latched on to Parthenais' back like an alien on the back of a Star Trek red-shirter.  The height-privileged one was screeching and spinning in place trying to unlatch the Colonel, and the Colonel was growling and gnawing on an ear (or a nose -- the Colonel's memory is fuzzy at his advanced age), and Coach Stromberg thundered,

"What in hell is going on out here!" 

The Colonel executed a dismount that would have a made a bull-rider give up his belt buckle, and...  Okay, Parthenais finally got a grip on the Colonel and slung him off his back like a sack of grain into the back of a pick-up truck.  The Colonel scrambled to his feet, spit out the piece of flesh in his jaws, and...  Okay, it might have been a clump of wet towel lint...

Coach Stromberg grabbed the bull and rider by the scruff of the neck and dragged us into his office, slamming the door behind him.

"Who started it?"

The Colonel just tilted his head and looked up at Parthenais and then back at Coach.

"Hit the showers, Gregory!"

With height privilege comes responsibility.

        



   

Don't Drain the Swamp; Pull the Weeds

Washington, D.C., and the federal government for which the District of Columbia is the national headquarters, ain't a swamp.

Calls to "drain the swamp" trivialize the effort required to correct the trajectory of an overbearing, out-of-control government that no longer represents the best interests of the people for which the Constitution established it to serve.

The Colonel believes the federal government, and the myriad onerous regulatory apparatus lying camouflaged beneath its facade, is more like the expansive lawn and gardens surrounding the Big House here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.

From a distance it looks green and pleasing.  Closer examination reveals an infestation of weeds that, left unchecked, will eventually choke and destroy the Colonel's intent for a lush, dark green, bare feet-cushioning carpet of proper turf. 

Weeds camouflage themselves, hiding in plain sight.  But, when a bare foot comes in contact with them, that bare foot knows the difference.  Weeds are coarse and prickly.  Weeds run counter to the purpose of a lawn.  Weeds are, as Marines would refer to a fellow not pulling on the same end of the rope as the rest of the team, "on their own program."

The Colonel has been fighting a "long war" of attrition against the weeds that annually invade his lawn.  He has employed nearly every weapon known to grass in this effort.  

He has "carpet bombed" the yard with weed-killing chemicals, encouraged the growth and expansion of the "good grass" with liquid and nitrogen stimulus, and manicured the result with care and attention rivalling that of the greens keeper at Bethpage Black.

The weeds persist.

The Colonel has come to the conclusion that persistent "boots on the ground" will be required to eradicate the scourge.

This fight will have to be a hands-on affair.  The Colonel will have to get up close and personal with each individual weed, interrogate for authenticity, and prosecute with extreme prejudice.  

This will be an infantry fight. 

Just the other day the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda stepped out onto the front porch of the Big House and addressed the Colonel,

"Hey, knucklehead.  Whatcha doin'?"

"Pullin' weeds, Sweething."

"Isn't that your 'marine' knife?"

"The title 'Marine' is capitalized, dear."

"What?"

"You didn't capitalize the title 'Marine' when you spoke it."

"Knucklehead, you are seriously one strange man."

"You mean 'one dangerous man' don't you, Sweetie?"

"No.  The word 'strange' is the best description for a an old man dressed in camouflage crawling around the front yard with a knife."

"It's not just any 'knife.'  It's the Colonel's K-Bar.  Standard issue for combat Marines."

"Okay, knucklehead.  Whatever.  You just keep crawling around the yard stabbing the grass with your knife and referring to yourself in the third person.  I'm going inside.  I'll have the first aid kit ready."

Removing counterproductive, socialist, anti-freedom government agencies and their apparatchiks is like that.  The effort will be derided and opposed. 

But, like noxious weeds, they are best removed one at a time -- up close and personal.               

          

Shared Sacrifice

The Colonel was invited to speak at his adopted hometown's (Abbeville, Mississippi) Veterans Memorial unveiling on Saturday.  Text of remarks below:

"Mayor Fricker, Aldermen, distinguished guests, residents and friends of Abbeville, I am honored and humbled to be allowed to speak on this occasion and I thank you all for your attendance.

Our great Republic owes its greatness to its people.  Generations of Americans have thrived under the rights and freedoms granted by our Creator and guaranteed under our Constitution.  And, in each generation, a small percentage of men and women step forward and pledge their lives to the defense of that Constitution and our Republic’s freedom.

That there have been and continue to be young men and women who voluntarily answer their nation’s call to service in its military is an amazing and uniquely American phenomenon.  In my nearly three decades in uniform, I had the opportunity to work and train with the soldiers from dozens of other nations.  Almost all were conscripted.  Almost all, while performing their duties competently, served not so much out of a sense of loving obligation to their countries but more because they were forced to serve – almost like a sort of prison sentence.  

Now, don’t get me wrong, American service men and women are consummate complainers. The Marines with whom I served elevated this complaining to the status of a high art.  But, of all of the soldiers of all of the nations with whom I have served, none rise to a challenge like Americans.

Small towns like our own seem to provide a disproportionate share of these patriots.  And small towns like our own seem to take a greater pride in the service of our patriots.  Small town Mississippians stand particularly tall in the military history of our nation.

One hundred years ago, our nation was gearing up to send a million men to fight in France.  A Mississippian from Slate Spring, then Colonel Fox Conner was the man in charge of putting together the plan that, from a standing start, would eventually field fifty American divisions in France and break the stalemate against the Germans.  Fox Conner would go on to be the mentor of three great American generals – Patton, Marshall, and Eisenhower.

Seventy-three years ago, another great small town Mississippian, then Marine Captain Louis H. Wilson, was leading his rifle company against Japanese defenders on the island of Guam.  His courageous front-line leadership earned him grievous wounds, and the Congressional Medal of Honor.  Wilson became the Commandant, the four-star general in charge of the Marine Corps, in the early ‘70s and is credited with leading the the fight to modernize the Marine Corps.

Fifty-two years ago, during the fierce battle in Vietnam that was depicted in the book and movie “We Were Soldiers Once and Young” a soldier from Neely, Mississippi bravely flew his helicopter into a buzz saw of enemy fire, not once or twice, but fourteen different times to deliver ammunition and evacuate critically wounded soldiers.  Ed Freeman was credited with saving the lives of scores of soldiers and awarded the Medal of Honor.

But here’s the thing about those three great American military men from Mississippi: they were all career soldiers.  In a way, their service was easy.  I can say that because I was a career Marine. I don’t view my three decades in uniform as a sacrifice.  My family might, but I don’t.  From the moment a man or woman decides to make the military a career, the military becomes home.  The military becomes your life.  I believe that it is a far greater sacrifice to put your life on hold for four years, serve in the military, and then go home and start all over again.  Those men and women are the real heroes.

Among us today, are some of those unsung heroes.  Men and women who swore an irrevocable oath to place their lives on the line.  But, also among us are those whose job, while maybe not as dangerous, was just as sacrificial.  Among us are mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, friends and neighbors, of those who went off to fight.  

We gather today, certainly to honor our veterans, but also to recognize every sacrifice in the name of freedom.

Thank you." 

Frauds, Criminals, and Buffoons

For the record:  The Colonel detests Donald Trump.

The man has neither an ethical foundation nor a philosophical center aside from the thirst for wealth, fame, and power.

His nomination by the Republican Party (after decades as a liberal Democrat), and his election with the support of the (supposedly) most conservative voters, cements the Colonel's long-held assertion that "low-information voting" is not the exclusive province of the Democrat Party.

The Colonel's disdain for Trump is eclipsed only by his disdain for the Clinton Crime Family and for the electorate that put one of the most unqualified candidates in the history of the Republic in the Oval Office based solely on the color of his skin and with complete disregard for the content of his character.  

Last year the Colonel opined that regardless who the American citizenry (and a couple million illegally voting non-citizens) elected President in November we would be replacing one fraud with another in January.

All that said as preamble, allow the Colonel a moment to strike straight to the heart of the current matter.

The present media and Democrat hysteria over President Trump's shenanigans is -- read carefully -- racism.

That's right, Donald J. Trump is not black.

His predecessor's constant anti-American behavior (the content of his character as admitted in his own book) lifted not one eyebrow and garnered immediate and constant support from his party.  That's racism.

A portion of the Colonel's many friends and acquaintances considered his opposition to most things President Obama did, the things for which he stood, an indicator of the Colonel's southern-fried racism.  

They were wrong.  

The Colonel's opposition of President Obama was based entirely on the content of his political character and his expressed belief that the American Republic was the greatest source of discontent and misbehavior around the globe.

President Obama was a fraud.

Hillary Clinton, and her husband, are unindicted criminals.

President Trump is a self-aggrandizing buffoon. 

And, the vast majority of the media are racists.  

There!  That should completely wipe out the Colonel's meager readership of posts on this blog.  That might actually be a good thing.  The Colonel grows increasingly weary of the task of educating the world.          

Colonel G's Trees

Those of you in the meager readership of posts on this blog (numbered little more than the amount of letters in the phrase "meager readership") may remember the Colonel mentioning that in the first half century of his ride around ole' Sol he moved around the globe with more frantic frequency than a honey bee visiting a field of clover blooms.

If your memory is as faulty as the Colonel's, allow him to remind you that the Colonel established a new permanent residence every 18 months, on average, for fifty-one years, before finally coming to rest on 107 acres (plus or minus an acre) here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere ten years ago.

Perhaps the greatest joy the Colonel has discovered over the last decade, now that he has stopped flitting from flowered duty station to flowered duty station, is watching a tree grow.

With 107 acres (plus or minus an acre) around him, the Colonel has literally thousands of trees to watch push skyward.

His daily security patrols of his vast holdings are filled with long observation halts, particularly in leafy late spring, as the Colonel enjoys ample opportunity to observe arboreal vertical change.

The Colonel, when not gaping in open-mouthed wonder like a 'Bama football fan on his first visit to the Grove, also takes time on his patrols to catalog the diversity of his personal forest.

His property, known affectionately as Egeebeegee, (and not-so affectionately recognized as the headquarters and training camp of the Army of Northern Mississippi), is home to a wide variety of pines and hardwoods.  

The pines are the Colonel's money trees.  

The hardwoods are his love.

Oaks -- Red Oaks, White Oaks, Black Oaks, Post Oaks, Blackjacks, Shumards, Water Oaks, Willow Oaks, and uncategorizable (at least in the Colonel's limited taxonomic ability) hybrids -- abound aboard Egeebeegee.  Even as slow-rowing as an oak is, the Colonel has been rooted here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere long enough to observe significant growth; particularly in young trees either transplanted from hidden corners to places of prominence along the long winding drive up to the Big House, or left untouched in the middle of fields during semi-annual bushhogging. 

Along the watercourses ("creeks" to you 'Bama grads) that traverse the property, and around the several ponds, Black Willows, River Birches, and Sycamores predominate.

Huge Beeches, with smooth trunks greater in circumference than the reach of a Marine and his three grandsons, rule over several draws on the property's drainage.

Two monstrous Cypress trees, testimony to the former perennial flooding prior to the Corps of Engineers' god-playing flood control canalizing, stand centuries-long sentinel in one of the fields along the now deeply-eroded banks of the large creek that forms the northern boundary of the Colonel's land.   

That creek, named Lee Creek on the map, used to be a slow-moving, oft-flooding, shallow-banked meander until man's interference.  It is now a steep-walled abomination whose inability to naturally overflow its banks causes it to continually erode its channel deeper and wider, claiming swathes of fields it once nourished with floods.  The Colonel's disdain for the Corps of Engineers knows no bounds.

Pardon the Colonel's rants.  Now back to plants.

A trio of towering Green Ashes anchors the northwest corner of Egeebeegee, opposite the Cypresses at the northeast corner.  Incidental symmetry certainly, but delightful nonetheless.               

Throughout the property Honey Locusts, bristling with three-inch dagger-like thorns, have sprung up.  Former owners of the land waged war on them -- their thorns easily puncture tractor tires -- but, the Colonel is fascinated by them and lets them thrive.

A solitary Southern Catalpa, provider of excellent fish bait, lurks in an overgrown pine thicket.  The Colonel needs to clear the pines out to provide access -- maybe next winter.

A brace of Bois d'Arc trees frame one of the paths along which the Colonel daily dallies, littering the way late each summer with fruit the size of softballs.

Speaking of fruit, scores of Persimmons are extant aboard Egeebeegee.  One stands easily 60 feet tall and is covered each year with pucker-producing green fruit that turn dull red in winter and are relished by the Colonel's critters.   

Sassafras stands are scattered throughout, whose mitten-shaped leaves, when crushed, produce a fragrance that sends the Colonel back to his root beer-loving childhood.

Wild dogwoods and wild plums fleck the spring woods with snow-flurries of white blooms, and break the green monotony that itself as just so recently broken the gray monotony of winter. 

Eastern Red Cedars, some as large as oaks, give their name -- Cedar Top -- to a trail that runs south from the middle of the Colonel's territory upwards along a ridge that climaxes at one of its highest points.   The Colonel's saw mill -- Semper Filet -- has converted dozens of cedars to lumber (and red snot-causing sawdust) that has become shelves and such in the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's closets, trim for his study (the Colonel's Knotty Room), bird houses for the Eastern Bluebird, and other projects as commissioned by the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda.  

One of the Colonel's favorite trees is the Tulip Poplar.  Back in a hard to reach creek bottom, one particular specimen towers over the rest of its forest fellows, and produces seedlings the Colonel collects and transplants in highly visible locations that will benefit from their future fall yellowing.  

Ornamental Crepe Myrtles line the drive up to, and dot the gardens surrounding, the Big House at Egeebeegee.  The Colonel does not whack 'em back, as is the habit of the suburban heathen, but allows them to flourish upwards and outwards as the trees they were meant to be.

There are more trees to tippy tap about, but the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda has run out of patience with the Colonel's blogging chore avoidance.  

To the trees!     



    

Peninsular Problem

Early in the summer of 2000, newly advanced to his terminal rank and just graduated from the Naval War College, the Colonel arrived in Seoul, Republic of Korea (ROK) to assume duties as Chief of the Current Operations Branch, J-3, United States Forces Korea (USFK).

It was not his first time in Korea.

The Colonel had participated in port visits and exercises in South Korea in the early '80s, and then, in the late '90s, had deployed with his battalion (First Battalion, Third Marines -- the best battalion in the Marine Corps) from Okinawa to a training camp outside of Pohang for a month of combined exercises with a ROK Marine Corps battalion.

He had been to South Korea one other time.  Early in his battalion's 7-month rotation from homebase at Kaneohe Bay, Hawaii to Okinawa, Japan, the Colonel and his senior battalion staff flew to Seoul for a reconnaissance and mission planning session.  The battalion's mission for which it was ordered to "be prepared" was participation in any ordered Noncombatant Evacuation from Seoul coincident with the imminent outbreak of war on the peninsula.

It was a sobering week.

USFK's Current Operations Branch, which the Colonel would lead a couple of years later, gave the battalion's senior staff an initial "threat" brief and a cursory outline of planned Noncombatant Evacuation Operations (NEO).  The threat brief was, to put it mildly, eye-opening.

It's one thing to study enemy order of battle in a schoolhouse.  Getting a brief of the enemy's capabilities and current operations in a command post within artillery range is something else, again.  The numbers are classified, but just know that the North Koreans have enough artillery and ballistic missile batteries positioned in range of Seoul to cause catastrophic casualties to a significant percentage of the residents of the metropolitan area.  

The population of metropolitan Seoul numbers north of 15 million.  

You do the math. 

The battalion's "be prepared" mission was to fly into Seoul in the case of an "ordered" NEO, secure collection and evacuation sites, and facilitate the orderly evacuation of nearly a quarter million U.S. and friendly nation citizens.

The mission was daunting, to say the least.

Impossible, to be realistic.

But, Marines don't believe in the concept of impossibility. Impossible missions are just assigned a little more time for accomplishment.

The Colonel and his staff conducted reconnaissance of the projected NEO collection and evacuation sites (travelling all over metropolitan Seoul on the city's world class subway system) and returned to Okinawa.  A trip report was prepared and submitted to higher headquarters detailing findings, concerns, and supplies necessary if the mission were ever to be conducted.  

And, frankly, the mission was never discussed again.  It was assessed to be unrealistic, and, just too hard to think about.  Besides, the First Battalion, Third Marines was a combat battalion (the best one in the world at the time) and there was no way all that battlefield potential was going to be wasted herding civilians.  The expectation was that the battalion would participate in a recreation of MacArthur's Inchon end run, or a close facsimile thereof, and all training was focused on that potentiality.

So, when the Colonel took over the Current Ops Branch at USFK, he thought he had a pretty good handle on Korea.  He was greatly mistaken.

His first assignment from the Army two-star who was his immediate superior was to read a half dozen books that formed a crash course in Korean culture and the history of conflict on the peninsula.  The history part was mostly refresher -- the Colonel fancies himself a fairly well-read military historian -- but, the culture piece was new and very instructional.  Turns out you can't understand the Kim regime north of the 38th Parallel without a decent foundation in Korean culture.

Long story short, Kim Il Sung, the first leader of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea (DPRK) gained and maintained unchallenged military, economic, and political power by turning Korean society upside down and ruthlessly leveraging the dominant Korean cultural concept of "saving face."  By displacing the former top societal movers and shakers and putting the formerly disadvantaged in their place, Kim Il Sung gained the undying loyalty of his subordinates.  By instituting mandatory daily criticism circles for all of his subjects, Kim kept the first few generations of the DPRK in such a state of psychological discombobulation that those who might have resisted his authoritarian rule were too unsettled and mistrustful of anyone but their supreme leader to even begin to plan a revolt.

Add to this societal witch's brew, strict isolation from the outside world, idolization of Kim as a demi-god, and Kim's concept of complete national self-sufficiency (Juche), and there is no wonder that the DPRK can maintain itself as one of the world's greatest armed camps while facing periodic famine and starvation.  The Colonel always enjoyed driving home the point of the North's starvation to visiting VIPs by stopping a film of the DPRK Army on parade and pointing out that the skinny soldiers were the best fed in the malnourished country.

But the Kims, and their immediate subordinates (drawn from the former bottom of society, remember), lived sumptuously.  The implication was that if something happened to the Kims, the gravy train went away for all the generals and high political apparatchiks and it was back to the coal mines for them.

And, as much as the Colonel thought he knew about the extent of the North Korean threat, he found out quickly in the summer of 2000 that he didn't know the half of it.  Daily intel briefings focused not only on major DPRK military movements, but also on the constant attempts by the norks to infiltrate small units into the South.

As Chief of Current Ops, the Colonel ran the combined USFK/UNC (United Nations Command) Command Center into which constant notifications of both friendly and enemy dispositions flowed.  Whenever a major friendly unit's disposition changed or major enemy unit moved (which happened hourly on average), the secure phone on the Colonel's desk (or the one on his bedstand) would ring and a watch officer would relay the information.  The Colonel would ask a few pertinent questions about the information before hanging up and deciding whether it was important enough to start waking up the generals.

The Colonel doesn't know who has the job running Current Ops right now, but he knows that colonel ain't getting much sleep.       

    

               

Seedy Sitcom

The Colonel ain't a farmer... but, he plays one on the sitcom that is his life here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.

He has a tractor.

He has farming implements for that tractor.

He has lots of dirt.

The similarities end there.  Just like sitcoms and real life.

It is a very good thing that the Colonel's livelihood and the standard of living at which the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda expects the Colonel to maintain her don't depend on his ability to market a crop.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, nevertheless, provides plenty of encouragement for the Colonel's agricultural efforts.  Just the other day...

"Hey, knucklehead," the Colonel's bride asked in her most endearing way, "where have you been all day?"

"Riding Semper Field."

"Semper what?"

"Semper Field. The Colonel's tractor."

"You mean that smelly, old, diesel-guzzling, eyesore of a monument to your stupidity that spends most of its time parked out behind my rose bushes in the backyard?"

"Semper Field is not an eyesore!  Oh, and by the way, been meaning to talk to you about those rose bushes.  They block my view of Semper Field.  Thinking about whacking those boogers back a bit."

"Knucklehead, if you start whacking on my plants, they won't be the last thing that gets whacked!"

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda had assumed the dreaded hands-on-hips, eyes-on-fire, pre-attack position with which the Colonel has grown very wary.  Bad things follow.

"Yes, dear.  The Colonel understands, dear.  He won't touch your rose bushes."

"You better steer clear, Knucklehead.  And, stop referring to yourself in the third person.  Seriously!  Creeps me out."

"Yes, ma'am!"

"So?"

"So, what, dear?"

"So, what have you accomplished riding that smelly, old tractor all day today?"

"Semper Field.  The tractor's name is Semper Field."

"Give it up, Knucklehead.  I am not going to call that wreck by some stupid name.  And, why are you pronouncing the end of the word 'field' so funny?"

"Emphasizing the italics."

"You are seriously the strangest man on the planet."

"But, you love me..."

"Don't push the issue, knucklehead!"

The Colonel loves these heart-connecting conversations with the love of his life, but he knows when there's been enough of a good thing and when it's time to move on.  He proudly provided the answer to her question, "been planting soybeans in the Middle Field."

"Knucklehead, when did we start eating soybeans?"

"We don't, dear.  The deer and the turkeys love 'em, though."

"Deer and turkeys?"  You planted a couple of acres of soybeans just for deer and turkeys?"

"Four acres, to be exact!"

"Quit emphasizing the italics!  Makes you sound like a yankee." 

The Colonel tolerates a lot of things.  Being called a yankee ain't one of 'em.  "Now, see here Miss Brenda, there's no need for name-calling..."

"Yankee, yankee, yankee!"

"That's just plain hurtful, Miss Brenda!"

"Hurtful?  What's hurtful is all the money you spend on diesel, herbicide, fertilizer, and seed, just to feed a bunch of critters.  And, don't get me started on all the money you spend on sugar for those stupid hummingbirds!"

The Colonel fairly recoiled in horror at the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's seeming suggestion that feeding his beloved birds was wasteful.  "Heresy!," he cried.

"Get a grip, knucklehead!"


See?  The Colonel's life is a sitcom.

        

       

    

A Noble and Right Republic

One hundred and seventy years ago, this week, an American army, under the command of General Winfield Scott, marched westward out of the Mexican coastal town of Vera Cruz.  Their destination: Mexico City.  

The American siege of Vera Cruz included the first large scale amphibious operation ever conducted by United States military forces and reduction of what was considered the strongest coastal fortress in the Western Hemisphere at the time.  Vera Cruz thereafter provided the vital port, opposite the Mexican capital, through which U.S. military forces flowed men and material for the campaign that culminated in the capture of the "Halls of Montezuma" and the capitulation of Mexican forces nearly six months later.

The war with Mexico had commenced officially nearly a year before.  The war was a culmination of years of tensions with Mexico over expansion of the American Republic westward on the North American continent.  The war has been portrayed, by the most vehement of its detractors, as naked American imperialism against a hapless neighbor.  The truth is that the War with Mexico was closer to a war of liberation than a war of expansion.

Mexico's leader, Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, a former brigadier in the Mexican army who had been instrumental in the overthrow of the constitutional monarchy established following Mexico's independence from Spain in 1821, had repealed Mexico's constitution of 1824 and declared himself dictator.  The 1824 Constitution of the United States of Mexico, while not a completely faithful copy of the governing document of the nation to their north, did in fact include protections of the natural rights of man similar to those included in the U.S. Constitution.  The 1824 Constitution had created a hybrid confederation/federation that allowed considerable governing autonomy to Mexico's twenty or so states and territories.

Settlers moving west into the Mexican territory of Texas took advantage of this governing autonomy and basically thumbed their noses at the relatively weak central government in Mexico City.   Furthermore, Mexico had actually invited settlers to immigrate into Mexican lands -- specifically to areas that would provide a buffer between Mexico and hostile "native" American tribes.  The emigrating "Anglos" weren't stupid and they settled in great numbers in safer and more fertile eastern parts of the Texas territory.

In response to what Mexicans began increasingly to perceive as a threat to Mexican control of their northern territories, Santa Anna's setting aside (in May of 1834) of the 1824 Constitution, on the surface, was designed to help bring those immigrants to heel.  In practice, it also stripped Mexican citizens south of the Rio Grande of protections of their natural rights.  Santa Anna's dictatorship became what all dictatorships become -- the accumulation of power in the hands of one man to the detriment of the lot of all others.

The most untold part of this is that not only did Anglo Texans rebel against Santa Anna's dictatorship, but several Mexican states south of the Rio Grande did, as well.  Santa Anna put down the rebellion in the latter and, then, in 1836, marched on Texas.  The defeat of a wing of the Mexican army (commanded by Santa Anna), at San Jacinto, resulted in a treaty (later repudiated by the Mexican congress) recognizing Texas' independence.     

But, Texas and Mexico continued to differ over the boundary between the two.  In fact, Mexico persisted in the assertion that all of Texas was still Mexican territory and Santa Anna was determined to reclaim it.  Tensions continue to fester, particularly following formal admission of the Republic of Texas as a state in the United States of America in December of 1845.  Both sides increased forces and fortifications along the intervening frontier amid Mexican threats to invade and reclaim Texas territory.

The spark that finally lit the fuse to war was the ambush and destruction, in late April of 1846, of a small U.S. Cavalry patrol, under the command of Captain Seth Thorton, by a large Mexican force in the disputed territory north of the Rio Grande. Newly inaugurated President James K. Polk seized on the "Thorton Affair," declaring to Congress that, "American blood has been shed on American soil."  Polk asked for and a received a formal declaration of war from Congress.  A flood of volunteers swelled the relatively small American Army over the next several months, and by summer's end enough forces were available to begin offensive operations to seize territory south of the Rio Grande.

By late winter in 1847, Mexican forces had been defeated in Northern Mexico, and the campaign to carry the fight to the Mexican capital began at Vera Cruz.

While far more volunteered to fight than could be enlisted, the war did have its political detractors.  It should be noted, however, that most of the war's dissenters were far more worried about the acquisition of southern agricultural land that would strengthen the power of southern "slave-holding" states, than they were against a war to free their neighbors from dictatorship.

Perhaps most disappointing to the Colonel is that while the treaty that ended the war did cede the United States territory that would become California, Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada, Utah, and parts of Colorado and Wyoming (half of the total territory then claimed by Mexico), the United States could have very easily taken ALL of Mexico and admitted ALL Mexican states into the Union.  The latter course of action was favored by Polk's political party, the Democrats.  Opposition to annexation of all of Mexico by the other party -- the Whigs -- was primarily based on the concern for tilting the scale decidedly in favor of then "slave-holding" states (all states had slaves).  So, President Polk compromised and took only the northern half of Mexico.

Consider, for a moment, the ramifications of that compromise.

It certainly forestalled, and perhaps pre-ordained the ultimate result of, the cataclysmic civil war that engulfed the nation within a generation.

But, imagine the strength of an American Republic that, by the end of the 19th Century, had not only stretched from the Atlantic to the Pacific north of the Rio Grande, but included territory stretching far into the tropics of Central America.

And, imagine the millions who would be living in freedom, safety, and prosperity far above the standard in which they find themselves today -- many of them living in failed states so unable to provide even the most basic of those natural human rights that mothers in those crime-ridden states are desperately sending their children, often unescorted, north to the United States.

Expansion of a republic to provide freedom, safety, and prosperity to millions is the most noble, and right, of intentions by which a republic can be motivated, and by which it can be measured.