Rangel's Rangers

As if Mississippians, and, by extension, all southerners, didn't have enough reasons to despise and fear liberal yankee politicians, Charlie Rangel's latest disparaging remarks about Mississippi cemented the confederate contempt. Rangel played it off as really meaning that he loved New York (yet another reason to doubt his sanity and veracity) but it gave us a clear look into the mind of one of the most influential congressmen in the new Democrat controlled legislative branch. He speaks from the heart. He hates the south and southerners.

So be it. We speak from the heart as well. We hate uppity, snooty yankees.

And now, Charlie wants to bring back the draft. He floated this idea three years ago and no one payed attention. They will now.

I hope he is successful. Nothing will energize the spoiled students on America's campuses more than the threat of making them serve their country.

Stray Votage

What a spoiled, impatient lot we Americans are! But, that is our birthright. We were concieved as a nation by a bunch of spoiled, impatient (some would add: power-hungry) colonial elitists. The dirty little secret from our glorious revolution against the British crown is that the American colonists really had no basis for demanding independence. The truth, as most serious historians know, is that the average American colonist in 1775 enjoyed a higher standard of living, better health, a more sufficient diet, and far more liberty than his counterpart on the banks of the Thames.

Today, our economy is at one of its strongest points in the history of the American experience--we enjoy a higher standard of living and have more personal freedom than any other country on the planet. Yet to hear the detractors (power-hungry politicians and money-grubbing journalists, mostly) tell it, you would think that we were a third world nation. I've been to 3 times more countries than I have states in the re-United States (and I've been to a majority of the re-US) and I can tell you without hesitation that you don't want to live anywhere else on the planet.

I know that the American people are frustrated with the continuing combat operations in Iraq. But let's put that in perspective, shall we? We are fighting that battle in the War on Terror as if we were sitting in a rocking chair with one arm tied behind our back. The losses in Iraq, though each is precious, amount to but a fraction of a fraction of the losses we endure from alcohol-related accidents on our highways. I wish the lead on the news every day was the number of people killed by drunk drivers over the past 24 hours--we would quickly forget about Iraq!

It was politically expedient for politicians (and their journalist allies) to use the continuing battle in Iraq (that is not effecting 99% of the population in the least) as a means to drum up discontent with the incumbent government--just as it was politically expedient for a group of elitists and pamphleteers to use British taxation of the colonists (actually at a lower rate than what their counterparts on the Thames paid) as a means to drum up discontent with royal rule.

Well, we got what we asked for this time. At least 21% of the electorate did, that is. The national shame is only 40% of us took time away from our self-indulged and pampered lives to participate in the most important event in the life of our democratic republic. But, then again, that is about the percentage of the American colonists that actively participated (on both sides) in the decision to fight for independence from Britain in 1775.

Veterans Day

A continent exhausted by four years of one of the most costly wars in the history of man, found peace 88 years ago, today. The First World War, as it later became known, began like most wars; politicians underestimated and soldiers overestimated. But this war was a perfect storm of political entanglements, military miscalculations, and outdated battlefield doctrine fed into the meat grinder of advanced technology. It was the most horrible war Europe had ever seen. Americans had seen something that approached it in effect half a century before. The American War of Southern Seccession (not a true civil war--but that is grist for another post) had presaged many of the technologies and battlefield experiences (trench warfare, mass assaults against massed firepower, rail and telegraph communications; to name a few) that would mature in the maelstrom of misery on the killing fields of France.

An armistice between the warring parties took effect on the 11th of November 1918. America and its allies commemorated the date as Armistice Day for a couple of decades, until it became clear that the "war to end all wars" had done nothing of the sort. In fact, as has almost always happened in the history of man's wars, the First World War solved nothing, and in fact planted the seeds of conflict that would germinate into an even greater World War in less than a generation. Following that war, politicians eager to curry favor with the generation that fought it (I know, I'm feeling terribly cynical this morning), established the 11th of November as Veterans Day. As opposed to Memorial Day, a commemoration of the war dead that began as Decoration Day and was initiated by the fair ladies of Columbus, Mississippi at Friendship Cemetery in 1865 (yankees hate this and claim a northern town as the origin--grist for yet another post), Veterans Day was designed to honor the living veterans of America's wars.

It has always bothered me that Americans don't seem to understand the difference.

Corps Celebrations

One of the things I'm beginning to miss more and more since leaving active duty is the pageantry and celebration surrounding the birthday of the Marine Corps. After the first few years of it early in my career, I have to admit that the novelty of all the ceremony began to wear off. But, this is the 4th 10th of November in which I haven't participated in a Marine Corps birthday celebration of any kind, and I kinda miss it.

One of my favorite Marine Corps Birthday memories is from the time I served with the Air Force as an instructor at the Air Command and Staff College. We Marines made up barely a percentage point of the total students and faculty, but made an indelible scarlet and gold mark in a sea of blue around the first couple of weeks of November. We hosted a Marine Corps Birthday Ball at the Officers' Club and could have made a killing had we been more capitalistic--the Marine Corps Ball is recognized as THE social event of the year at Maxwell Air Force Base and an invitation and tickets were prized commodities. One year I served as the ceremonial adjutant for the Ball and took great pleasure in flashing sword work in the close quarters of the crowded ball room--I got comments about it the rest of the year. Actually, I got critiques from my Marine buddies, who pointed out the subtle mistakes in my close order drill and sword manual. But the zoomies didn't see the mistakes--just the business end of my sword flashing perilously close to the tips of bue-suiter noses.

A ceremonial cutting of the Birthday cake with the adjutant's sword, and delivery of the first pieces of cake to the oldest and youngest Marines present, is a traditional and time-honored component of every Marine Corps birthday celebration. Since it's just me here today, I'll have to settle for the first piece of coffee cake.

I'm just short enough to make sword manual work with a butter knife.

Happy Birthday, Marines! Semper Fidelis!

Looking on the bright side

Bad news for Bush and the Pachyderm Party could be good news for me. On my morning walk with Miss Brenda yesterday, I provided my assessment of the election and and what it meant for the future. I opined that I believed the democrats would harry W for the remainder of his term with countless, unending congressional investigations and hearings, the aim of which would be to further weaken the republican party and set up a return of the Clintonistas to power. At the prospect of Hilary as president, my bride exclaimed, "If that happens we are moving to Argentina!"

Better start brushing up on my Spanish.

Corps Novembers

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

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

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

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

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

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

November is a red-letter month for me as well. The first of November 2003 marked the official end of nearly three decades of uniformed service.

Kerry Kiniption

Poor John Kerry. So misunderstood. So misunderstanding. So sure of his superior intelligence and right to be right. He's a brilliant man alright--ranks right up there with Hillary's philandering spouse. And the problem is they are both so sure of their intellectual superiority that they believe that it gives them the right to belittle everyone else; and they actually have the gall to react angrily when we take offense. I've said it before, and I'll say it again (for those of you who have such short memories that you forgot your brains on the way to the voting booth and actually voted for those two lying, whining, haughty, ego-maniacal, concieted mysoginists)--the fact that anyone at all voted for Clinton and Kerry is an amazing thing, and does severe damage to my hope for the future of these re-United States.

What is even more telling about the furor over Kerry's slam of our troops as uneducated, disadvantaged, and unsuccessful is the fact that the media is acting like they don't get it. In other words, they think Kerry was speaking an accepted fact--in their isolated little world, wherein they all form doggie daisey chains sniffing each others butts, only someone with no other option would actually volunteer to fight for his country. They certainly wouldn't "stoop so low" nor allow their sons and daughters to so "waste their lives."

All of these folks who think they are so superior because they are so much smarter than the rest of us show their complete ignorance of the very people about whom they think they know so much. The plain fact is our armed forces are composed of some of the smartest and most successful people in the country. I know this because I spent over 5 years of my career recruiting them. There are high schools and colleges in this country turning out future leaders of our communities, industries, and nation that rarely graduate someone who can score high enough on the military entrance exams to qualify for enlistment. How many companies in this country can say their employees are 90+ % high school graduates? How many companies on this planet can pull off operations equal to even the simplest of evolutions that our 19 and 20 year old troops conduct on a daily basis. I used to think that American business leaders were so much more capable than me and my military comrades--until I spent the last three years out of uniform and operating in the civilian sector. I haven't seen a corporate leader yet that most of the lance corporals in my infantry battalion couldn't out-think, out-decide, and out-lead.

Sadly, most Americans don't know who their liberty defenders are. The only people who know are those who have served. Maybe if John Kerry had actually served longer than most people take vacations, he would understand. But, he served only to get a PT-109 check in the box and then scampered home to malign his brothers in arms for political points.

That's all I got to say 'bout that.

It Ain't Mississippi, But It'll Have To Do

For six months out of the year, living on the coast in the Florida panhandle reminds me of the way the Norwegians take their saunas--only in reverse. Instead of lingering in the sauna and taking quick plunges in the snow outside, we hyphen-Floridians (there aren't any native Floridians left in the state--only New York-Floridians, Canada-Floridians, and this Mississippi-Floridian) linger in the cool of our air conditioned homes and vehicles and take quick plunges into the heatumidity (heat and humidity are one word down here) out of doors. But along about the end of October the air begins to cool slightly, the humidity drops below 80%, and it is actually pleasant enough outside to linger and survive.

The past two days have been as Fall-like as it gets around here and I spent each afternoon indulging my favorite hobbies--hunting and fishing. Actually, hunting and fishing is my life and work is my hobby. I once made the mistake of half-jokingly telling my Sergeant Major that hunting and fishing was my life and the Marine Corps was my hobby. He started breathing again and the red left his face when I added, "But I'm passionate about my hobby!" But, I digress...

Yesterday afternoon I sat on a field planted with brown top millet and scanned the skies for fleet-winged grey darting mourning doves. At least I remember that they are fleet-winged grey and darting. I didn't see any to prove the description yesterday. Typical of most of my forays afield, I saw everything but what I was hunting. A mature bald eagle flapped low across the field and at the far end swept up in a climbing turn that reminded me for all the world of one of the fighter planes attending the base on which our field was located. He seemed to know exactly where to catch the thermal that quickly vaulted him hundreds of feet up into a lazy upward spiral. When he drifted up and away so far that I strained to focus on his speck, I dropped my gaze back to ground level and caught site of movement entering the field to my right. Not fifty yards away a flock of hen turkeys and young of the year strutted on to the field and froze, a dozen pair of beady eyes locked on my form. We all remained motionless for a minute or so and then one of the mature hens put-putted and Ben Franklin's choice for our national emblem disappeared so quickly back into the brush that I wondered if I had really seen them at all.

This afternoon, the wind eased up enough to lure Semper Fish and me onto the water and we cruised boat docks and creek channels in the local bayou casting for reds and speckled trout. A pair of dolphins joined us as the sun began to set and I put down my rod to watch them frolic in the oranging light.

Most days I don't think I like Florida--most days, but not today.

Second Annual Gregory Men Weekend

If you belong to the "I believe Bambi was a real live animal and not a cartoon" set, you probably want to stop reading this particular blog at this point and go back to daydreaming about a world in which food magically appears on your plate, it's safe to swim with great whites, and grizzly bears let you pet them in the wild. If however, you understand that the natural order of the planet is that man occupies (if somewhat tenuously) an elevated position in the food chain (by virtue of larger brain-size and the ability to make and use tools), then you are probably safe to continue your waste of time reading this inane accumulation of electronic representations of the caffeine-induced thoughts emmanating from the wrinkled recesses of my grey matter. But, all of you squeamish girly-men (and women) out there have been appropriately warned.

This past weekend occasioned the Second Annual Gregory Men Weekend--an event steeped in the rich tradition of men freed from the bondage of shaving and conversing with women, released from the strictures prohibiting freestyle scratching, and given over to the pursuit of game animals occupying lesser positions on the food chain. My boys and I hunted deer every waking daylight minute of a 3-day weekend--interrupted only by the annual and inevitable ritual of watching the Rebels lose to Bama.

On Friday morning I was perched high in the leafy boughs of a poison sumac-enshrouded (another post will be devoted entirely to rash relief) tree overlooking a small field planted with a mixture of grass and clover guaranteed by its vendor to "attract deer by the droves." After two hours of slowly stiffening into a close approximation (complete with camoflague resembling its leaves and branches) of a large knot on the side of said tree, the one and only deer I was to see for the entire weekend walked onto the field, ambled over to a position front and center of my stand, and provided me the opportunity to draw my bow and miss, again. This, too, has become a well-respected tradition of the Annual Gregory Men Weekend.

Friday evening #2 son was perched in the same tree, and, in his words, was "covered up in deer," one of which he shot at and missed (he claims he was trying to make me feel better about my miss). I was sitting elsewhere, covered up in sumac, and no deer.

Saturday evening #1 son was perched in the same tree, and his aim with a bow was appreciably better than mine and #2's. He found us and breathlessly told us of the buck he had hit and in what direction it had gone. We followed a rapidly diminishing blood trail in the dark for a couple of hours, then lost the trail, and resolved to resume the search at first light the next morning.

The next day we picked up the trail again and followed it to the point at which we had lost it the night before. We puzzled over the tiny blood droplet clues that seemed to indicate that the buck had traveled in one direction, but following that azimuth led to nothing. We back-tracked and found a track that indicated the deer had planted and cut left like a reciever on an out pattern and followed in that direction for nearly twenty yards before we thankfully found the next drop of blood.

During this evolution, I lamented my poor eyesight and color-vision deficiency, but marveled at the ability of my sons to see the tiniest speck of blood and press on to the next. We followed the deer's trail for several hundred yards and then found him where he had expired on a wooded hillside. Much hooting, hollering, fist-pumping, high-fiving, knuckle-bumping and mono-syllabic grunting ensued.

#1 now has his "wall-hanger" and I couldn't be prouder.

The Race is On

The crazy commie personality cult north of the 38th Parallel popped a nuke underground yesterday. I'm not sure why the world has been hyperventilating about this occurrence--we have believed that the hermit kingdom had several nukes for nearly a decade. The only reason they tested one was to get our reaction--kind of like when my grandson makes sure I'm looking before he walks over and yanks on the leaves of one of Miss Brenda's house plants.

I guess we should be worried that this might have been a seller's demonstration of a product's capability. The cash-strapped Li'l Kim Kult could be hawking its latest war wares to would-be buyers like the jihadis. But, the reality is that having the basic technology to set off an atomic device is not the same as building a deliverable device. Remember how big our first atomic weapons were--it took the largest four-engine bomber in the world at the time (the B-29) to lift and deliver just one. Neither the north Koreans nor the jihadis have an aircraft or missile (yet) that can deliver something the size of a Buick. I'm not saying the kimche kommies couldn't eventually develop the delivery technology and miniaturize a nuke to the point that it would fit, but I don't think they have it now.

Of course, they could put an A-bomb on one of their "fishing boats" and smuggle it out to a buyer or to a target. But, my limited yet insightful experience "manning the wall" on the Korean peninsula tells me that we keep pretty good tabs on stuff getting moved around up north and on boats getting special attention. For a year, I spent every morning in an intel brief on how many of Kim's watercraft ("fishing trawlers", subs, etc...) were in port or at sea. If an nK boat leaves DPRK territorial waters, we follow it.

And, if a nuke were to pop in a western city somewhere, it would be fairly easy to determine (by the radioactive signature left behind) from whom we received the gift. Exchanging gifts is so much more fun when you have much more to give than to get.

But, the miniscule (probably smaller than what we dropped on Japan 61 years ago) nuke pop in north Korea yesterday will act as the starting gun for a race in the Western Pacific Rim. Using Kim's nukes as an excuse, Japan will probably begin building their own. Japan is already debating changing the offensive capability prohibitions in the constitution MacArthur wrote for them when he served as military governor of the defeated Nipponese nation. Having a nuclear capable Japan is probably not a bad thing in the short run--helps keep the Chicoms in check.

The real fear is whether the Nationalist Chinese on Taiwan will use Li'l Kim's weekend fireworks as an excuse to join the nuclear arms race. They would dearly love to have a nuclear deterrent against PRC aggression. The problem is China might be forced to preemptively launch the Taiwan invasion force it has been building for a couple of decades now in order to prevent the Nationalists from joining the nuke club. That event starts a real world war.

Fear not, gentle readers. The end of the world is not in man's hands.

Trend-bucker

Weird, almost surreal, business trip this week. One of my client's corporate convention is in Las Vegas this week and they invited me out to give a presentation on the progress of our project for them. Twelve hours in airports and airborne busses on Monday and Wednesday for a thirty minute brief on Tuesday afternoon. Seems like a waste of money, doesn't it? Doesn't bother me in the least--the client paid for it.

The client evidently has more money to spend than they let on when we were negotiating our contract earlier this year. After dinner last night, they brought in a special guest for intertainment--Jay Leno. I kid thee not. And, it was the best 1 hour monologue I have ever heard--not one blue word and every punchline was a side-splitter.

There is no doubt that you have landed in Vegas--there are rows of slot machines on every concourse in the airport. Perhaps most surreal is the fact that even literally surrounded at every turn by one-armed bandits, and with tons of time on my hands, I never dropped a coin in a slot the whole time I was in Vegas.

For my next trick, I will spend another year in Panama City, Florida, without ever going to the beach.

Forked-tongued

Hmmm... When was the last time we saw that kind of anger out of Slick Willie? Let's see... Oh yeah--when he pointed his finger at us and lied about his relationship with an intern. I have always admired the political skill and populist savvy of Mr. Clinton, but the truth is not in him. And, like the pathological liar that he is, he believes his own lies. You can always tell when Bill Clinton is fibbing--his lips are moving. You can always tell when he is dropping a real stinker--he gets all flushed and puts on his "holier than thou" face.

Looks like the only one in the camp of sanity with any gumption to call Clinton on his weekend fabrications is Condi Rice. Hope she starts wearing body armor--people have a habit of getting roughed up and/or killed for messing with the Clintonistas.

Remembering an Earth War Veteran

When the Good Lord calls me home, there are lots of folks I am looking forward to seeing, and lot of folks I am looking forward to seeing again. One of the groups I am looking forward to rubbing wings with the most is God's Veterans. I am looking forward to battlefield leadership discussions with Joshua and Gideon and Marse Robert. But there's also a group of warriors in heaven not necessarily known for armed combat--they are the spiritual battlefield leaders. That group, composed of lions of the Faith like Stephen and Paul and Timothy, just added another member to their Veterans of Earthly Wars club.

Edmund Stallworth was an amazing "old" man when I first met him 35 years ago. He pastored Coccoli Baptist Church in the Panama Canal Zone and was one of the most tireless Christian workers I have ever known. I don't remember any of the hundreds of his sermons for which I was present (probably because I was more focused on Miss Brenda), but I remember his actions away from the pulpit. He had a heart for Missions and traveled to out of the way villages in the mountains of Panama to preach the Gospel and bring hope and help to the poor. He involved our church's youth group in that effort, and visits to the humble shack that housed Chica Mission's services remain one of my most indelible memories.

I also remember Saturday workdays at the church (actually converted from an old Army hospital) led by the preacher and my future father-in-law. Lots of embarrassing stories from those days that still manage to find their way into family remembrances--one in particular involving my inability to stay seated on a toilet. Long story for another post. And, anytime we talk about Brother Stallworth, we always recall his leading us up a jungle trail to a mountain top on which a large cross had been placed. We marveled then, and now, at his stamina.

Brother Stallworth, though hobbled by a stroke suffered a few years ago, stayed active in service for his Lord to the very end. When my wife and her sister organized a reception to honor their parents' 50th Wedding Anniversary back in December, Brother Stallworth, pushing 90, made the trip over from Gulf Shores and made the day complete. He couldn't stay for the entire reception, because he had a class to teach back at his church that evening! Brother Stallworth passed on to Glory this week and I'm confident Jesus was smiling broadly to see him walk through the pearly gates.

Preacher, I would ask you to save me a seat in Heaven's den, but I don't think you will ever slow down long enough to go in there for a rest.

Time to Reload, and Relax

There's been a lot of handwringing in the media lately about the alliances forming around the world against these re-United States. At first the media ignored the fact that Syria and Iran formed a military alliance specifically against American Imperialism and Israeli Zionism. But now that Venezuela's Castro-Lite Hugo Chavez has been making the fascism world tour, hugging and kissing our enemies and inking defense deals with the nations most likely to recieve the next round of American cruise missiles, the media has nearly gone into a paroxysm of frantic reportage regarding the fact that the whole world, "even some of our closest neighbors" are lining up against the US. The unsaid, but clearly felt, editorial in all of this reporting is that it i s all Bush's fault and we would not be in this mess if Jack Kennedyesque democrats were in charge.

And they are right.

Frankly, I think the fact that so many of the bad guys in the world feel so threatened by us that they feel the great need to team up is a very good thing. In fact, my sincere hope is that they all jump on the bandwagon of the next fascist regime at which we begin lobbing high explosives and all declare war on us.

Makes our political calculus much simpler. My favorite military quote of all time comes from the quintesential Marine Louis B. "Chesty" Puller, who when told of the 1st Marine Division's encirlcement by ten Chinese Divisions at the Chosin Reservoir remarked, "We’re surrounded. That simplifies our problem of getting to these people and killing them."

And don't fear the rhetoric from the press and those currently out of power that "our military is worn out and doesn't have any punches left." That is the most idiotic assessment of American military and ECONOMIC power I have heard. Sure, we are wearing out a lot of equipment--combat operations do that. We'll make more, and the nation's world-sized GDP won't even notice the extra funds required to recaptialize the force. Frankly, most of the ground equipment we have been using has been around since the Reagan (a moment of silence, please, for the greatest American president of the 20th Century) Buildup, and it is time to completely outfit our brave fighters with 21st Century hardware.

They are going to need all new stuff when we take on the Sino-Veno-Islamo Alliance.

"Shhh! Smell that?"

I'm not a big fan of airports. But, I have a favorite one. Actually, it is my second favorite one. My first favorite airport is the one at which I arrive prior to getting in my truck and driving home. My second favorite airport is Memphis International in Memphis, Mississippi. That's right, Memphis is in Mississippi. At least it seems that way, with most of the population that works in Memphis moving south into sprawling new subdivisions below the state line.

Memphis International is not the best laid out airport, through which to scamper from gate to gate. The airport's ticket counter personnel aren't necessarily the best and brightest, either. But, I will bet you a punch in the jaw you won't find a better smelling airport anywhere else in the world. The heavy aroma of barbecue is the signature smell of that part of the mid-south and the Memphis airport, thanks to several barbecue restaurants scattered throughout its concourses, is the most mouth-watering, nose-twitching, stomach-growling collection of smokey scent outside of a local county fair.

The problem is I never have a long enough layover in Memphis to take the time to wait in the long lines to secure a plate of the great smelling chow.

I might just have to miss a connecting flight on purpose someday so I'll have enough time to stop and savor a meal.

Force Protection Folly

"Colonel, turn on your TV; a plane just hit the World Trade Center."

The young Marine who had poked his head into my office to make that announcement, hovered at the door while I fumbled with a remote for the set across the long office from my desk. When CNN came on, the anchor was saying something about the history of light aircraft losing their way in bad weather and running into skyscrapers accidentally. But, the TV screen showed clear sky. The only cloud in the sky in New York that morning was the cloud of smoke billowing from the top fifth of one of the towers. My first thought was that that fire was going to kill a lot of people before it got put out. The movie "Towering Inferno" came to mind.

Three or four Marines were now at my door, craning their necks to see the TV, and I waved them on into the office. One said, "They say it was a Cessna that crashed accidentally." The huge gash in the tower was clearly not from a small plane and I said so. We were all watching, stunned, when the second airliner slammed into the other tower.

The youngest Marine in the room, a corporal, said what I had been thinking, but had been hesitant to say out loud. "Sir, this is a terrorist attack." I agreed and we continued to watch, transfixed by the TV shot of two towers on fire.

It wasn't until the attack on the Pentagon was announced that the thought occurred to me that this was a full scale attack on America. I was CO of Marine recruiting in the Southeast, so there was no operational response for which I was responsible. But, I did have over 500 Marines in small offices scattered from Louisiana to South Carolina and I felt the requirement to communicate to them immediately, and I told my secretary to set up a conference call as fast as possible with my eight subordinate commanders--eight Marine majors who each would, in turn, relay my communications to the rest of the force.

When the call began, I started by telling my subordinate commanders everything I knew; which was limited by what I had witnessed on TV. I next told them that I had heard nothing from higher headquarters, yet, but would call them back as soon as I got any orders. I then told them to relay to their Marines that I wanted them to do two things: Stay focused on their jobs as recruiters, and keep their eyes open for anything suspicious. When I finished my brief comments, I asked for questions.

"Sir," one of my majors chimed in, "I just got a report from the field that the other services' recruiters have been told to get out of uniform and go home."

I didn't believe that to be the case and told them so. "Sir, I just heard the same thing from one of my guys," another major said immediately. "So did I," said a third. A fourth voice cut through the chatter and announced. "Sir, I heard the same thing, and I told my Marines to stay in uniform and stay put."

That was the most sensible order or report I had heard that morning and I said so. I added, "Gentlemen, our country is clearly under attack, and may begin to panic. We will not contribute to that panic. Tell your Marines to stay in uniform and stay very visible." That there was not one voiced worry over their Marines becoming targets is to their credit. In fact, we later all shared that we hoped to be attacked by the cowards who were instead hitting civilians.

I hope someday to meet the Navy, Air Force, and Army officers who gave the orders for their people to run and hide. I want the opportunity to call them cowards and idiots to their faces.

Some are probably generals or admirals by now--that would make it all the more satisfying.

That's Half of a Century for You, My Dear

Thirty-five years ago today my best friend and soul mate celebrated her fifteenth birthday. I was at the party. We weren't "officially" a couple yet, but as far as I was concerned there was nobody else. I still remember (amazing, considering I am in the throes of CRS -- Can't Remember Stuff) the gift I gave her that day--a pink stuffed animal. I even remember the little four line poem I included in the card:

Violets are red

Roses are blue

If you believe that

Here's a pink donkey for you

I am a really thoughtful gift-giver.

For her 50th I wanted to break tradition and give her something really nice and special for her birthday. I began thinking about it in earnest back last spring after I quit pouting about the fact that she had completely ignored my 50th birthday in January (never mind the fact that after my 40th I had given her a direct order to never mention my birthday again). One morning the liquid caffeine delivery system was working more effectively than usual and multiple creative synapses fired in the shriveled grey matter of my brain housing group long enough for a neat idea to form and lodge prominently enough to not succumb to CRS ten minutes later. For her 50th birthday I would send my beautiful bride and her ugly twin sister on a weeklong trip to, get this, a Dude Ranch. Now, I gotta believe that all of you out there who know Miss Brenda and her ugly twin sister are smiling at the thought of the two of them and a cattle stampede.

Poor cattle.

The idea was to give them something that as twins they craved, but had not really had in 30 years--time together as "sissies." Seems every time we get together as a family, the girls complain that they don't get to spend time with each other, what with all the cooking, cleaning, and child/spouse rearing responsibilities. So, I told them a couple of months ago that a trip to a dude ranch just for the two of them was going to be my 50th birthday present to them. Miss Brenda's ugly twin sister got really excited until she realized I had said DUDE, not NUDE ranch.

They left last Sunday for the badlands of north Arkansas (the ranch's brochure said something like "Wild West Adventure Southern Style") and except for one phone call and a cryptic e-mail about bucking horses and broken arms (not any of theirs) the family has heard nothing from them. Miss Brenda will be home (where she belongs--traveling is MY job) tomorrow evening.

Good thing--the laundry hamper is overflowing and it's hard to find the sink with all the dirty dishes in the way.

Fight the Strategy, Not the Tactic

Let's get something straight. Terror is a tactic, not an entity. Our enemy is employing terrorism against us, along with other tactics, but formally calling our current fight the War on Terror is like calling the war in the Pacific against the Japanese the "War on Aerialists" because they bombed Pearl Harbor from the air, or like calling the war in Europe against Germany the "War on Blitzkreig."

Let's get something else straight. Wars are not fought between ideologies. Wars are fought between nations (def.: A people, usually the inhabitants of a specific territory, who share common customs, origins, history, and frequently language or related language--Websters). When nations go to war, they cloak themselves in a righteous cause or ideology to cover the naked aggression--on both sides.

And another thing. Governments, even dictatorial ones, exist at the will of the people. History is replete with examples of nations who willingly adopted dictatorships, for the benefits of peace and security that can be derived from a strong central government. I grow weary of the farcical notion that the peoples of the nations, with which we are fighting a proxy war, yearn for democratic freedom. I'm sure a large percentage (still a minority) of the Iranian people, for example, would prefer a democratic republic over a theocratic dictatorship. But, the majority of the Persian nation are quite content with the rule of the Ayatollahs--that same majority overthrew their relatively benign dictatorial monarch in 1979 and imposed the Ayatollahs' Islamic government on themselves.

So, let's be clear eyed here. We are at war, whether we want to admit it or not, with several nations under the banner of Islam. Terror is their tactic. "Terrorist" groups like al Qaeda, Hamas, Hizbollah, et. al., are those Islamic nations' expeditionary mercenary forces. Their strategy, manifest in their doctrine (the Koran), is our destruction.

In the immortal words of Todd Beamer, among those who fought back on Flight 93, "Let's Roll!"

Info Blackout

I am an information junkie. Between four or five newspapers' online editions first thing in the morning and radio and TV the rest of the day, I stay fairly well up to date (up to the hour in most cases) on natural and human events. That is until I go spend some time with #2 son in North Mississippi. He doesn't have web access and refuses to allow anyone to watch anything on his TV that doesn't have the words ball or gun in the title. That's okay, I'm a sports fan, too. But, when I finally get home and plug back in to the Information IV, catching up on several days of interrupted data stream can be overwhelming and a bit disconcerting. I spent the long weekend at #2's place helping him get ready for the upcoming hunting season (hanging deer stands and scouting places to hunt ducks) and when I got home last night the accumulation of four days' happenings just seemed so momentous.

One thing I did watch this weekend was sports--that's for sure. I think I watched more football games this weekend than I watched all of last year. Two comments: Miami, Florida State, and Notre Dame are overrated (as usual) and I have just four words to describe the hope of a winning season for my beloved Ole Miss Rebels--BenJarvus Green-Ellis.

To hear how Steve Irwin died was just bizarre. I mean, I always expected to hear that he was killed by a snake bite or eaten by a croc, but stabbed in the heart by a stingray that he didn't even know was there--that's just not right.

But the biggest news of the weekend comes from the young'un who lights up my world. My grandson is walking! He turns 11 months old today. I am one proud grandpop!

Follicular Fete

I was on the road this week, so an anniversary of sorts for Miss Brenda and I passed without celebration. To be honest, it has passed with barely a mention for the past 30 years. But there once was a time when the date was occasion for significant ceremony and remembrance.

On August 21, 1971, in the halcyon days of the summer before we started the 10th grade, I took Miss Brenda on our first official date. Amazingly, it was the last date either of us ever had with anyone other than each other. That's right, I have only dated one woman since I was 15 years old--and I wouldn't want it any other way. Now, before you write me off as a pathetic, unpopular high school loser, know this: I went on a date or "went steady" with innumerable girls, changing my feminine target as often as I changed my socks. Until I met Miss Brenda. For me at least, as corny as it is, it was love at first sight. And second sight. And third sight. From the moment she drew my attention, she kept it.

My children and brother Marines will find this hard to believe, but when I was in high school I had, if I may say so myself, a marvelous head of fine blond hair that consumed literally hours of my time comb-in-hand/face-in-mirror. I'll admit it, if you look in the 1972 edition of your Funk and Wagnel you will find my picture (comb in hand) next to the definition for narcissist. My comb was my most prized possession, next to my pen knife. After Brenda and I had dated for 2 or three months, I began keeping track of the occurrence of the 21st of each month by carving a small v-shaped notch on the spine of my black plastic comb. Even after I was required to cut my hair short enough (not to mention the ravages of male-pattern balding) to obviate the need for it, I continued to carry the comb and added a monthly notch right up until the 31st of July 1976, after which marriage vows eliminated dating and the joy of marking the anniversary of our first date.

Where did we go on our first date? To the Howard Air Force Base movie theater to see that romantic film, "Lawrence of Arabia."