Well, the Chevy is history. The Good Guys Insurance Company (honest, it is—just ask anyone who has ever served in the Armed Forces and is insured by a well known, military-oriented insurer) called with the news on Monday. Jumper Girl, who had selected the Chevy for me based on one important feature—a trailer hitch—was devastated.
Yesterday, we began the search anew. First stop, the place we got the Chevy. SWMBO said “Now, it is really unlikely that they will have another truck we can afford.” Wailing ensued from the back seat.
We drove in, and there it was. JG had her “Aha” moment. “Look, it has the big cab and a trailer hitch, and everything!” It was a year newer than the Chevy, had fewer miles, and all the features I wanted, irrelevant as they might be. And it was $35 more than GGIC had paid to settle my claim. There will be no living with a 12 year old who is always right!
I leave on Friday for Chattanooga, Tennessee for the 6th Convocation of the New Wineskins Association of Churches which convenes with worship at Signal Mountain Presbyterian Church on Sunday evening. I’m leaving early so that I can visit the Chickamauga Battlefield just across the Georgia line. My great grandfather fought there as a 12 year old drummer boy under the Command of General George H. Thomas. I have never been there before and it is time.
Thomas, “The Rock of Chickamauga,” is not well known outside of the ranks of Civil War buffs. It was a battle that also involved another of my favorites, “Fighting Joe” Wheeler, a Confederate cavalryman who was the commander of US forces in Cuba in 1898, where while suffering from a fever, he was heard to admonish subordinates to attack and punish “those damn Yankees!”
So, Saturday will be a fun day for me.
My great grandfather was right in the middle of our family’s military line. Two of my ancestors fought in the Revolutionary War, one in the War of 1812, three in the Civil War (2 generations), one in WWII, my war in Vietnam, and Moleson’s forays into the Gulf make for 7 generations and 9 combat veterans in our history. Only two were killed in action, both in the Civil War.
According to my great grandmother, Lieutenant William Jack, 10th Ohio Cavalry, was WIA near Nashville, Tennessee, on June 19, 1863, and died some 10 days later. The drummer boy of Chickamauga, John Kennedy, later married Effie Rankin Jack, the orphan of Ebenezer Jack.
On April 7, 1863, my great, great grandfather, Quartermaster Sergeant Pleasant Fountain, 6th Kansas Volunteer Cavalry, was KIA in an action against “skirmishers” near Fidelity Missouri. My great, great grandmother was informed that he had been wounded and that she should come to Fort Scott, Kansas from far northeast Hiawatha, Kansas to take him home to recuperate. Loading her four children into a wagon, she set off, spending the nights with scattered homesteads. After a five day journey to Fort Scott, she learned that her husband was dead.
She headed back home with her three sons, ages 10, 8, and 6, and one daughter, age 2—my great grandmother. Late on the second afternoon of her return trip, they approached a farm at which they had stayed only a few days earlier. Something alerted her, and she stopped the wagon in a small draw.
She took the 10-year old aside. “I am going to that farm,” she said. “Now, no matter what you see or hear, if I don’t come back to get you, you hide here, and then get these children home.” (They were about 60 miles from Hiawatha.)
She went up to the farm to find the entire family dead, killed by the skirmishers who had won for Kansas the soubriquet “Bloody Kansas.” She returned to her children, and they drove on into the night.
Setting up a “cold camp,” they settled in for a long dark night. About an hour later, a band of armed men rode into her camp and demanded that she cook for them. She watched as they butchered a cow that she recognized as coming from the devastated farm. An hour before sun up, the men mounted up and rode away, never to be seen by her again. Family tradition has it that she “entertained” part of the force led by Captain William Quantrill. If so, it probably did not include “Bloody Bill” Anderson who would have killed even a defenseless widow and the children of a Yankee.
And then we meet as a presbytery…….
30 September 2009
18 September 2009
MAN BITES DOG
. . . .or, as SWMBO was heard to say, "Another glorious chapter in the Scuttlebutt family adventure!"
I was driving to pick up my daughter at school yesterday. As I reached to pick up a cough drop on the console, the shoulder that has tricked me before showed that while you can't teach an old shoulder new tricks, it can still play the old ones. For the second time in my life, it completely dislocated. (I stopped counting the partials about 20 years ago.)
I reacted in a manful way, if screaming and spasming is manful, hitting the gas and sending the truck into a tree. A nice petite little lady in a black jump suit came running toward me to help--which I saw as a VC, so I fought my way out of my seat belt, bailed, and played hide and seek with her around the truck until one of my neighbors drove up and called my name.
After a fun few hours in the local ER, they finally knocked me out and the shoulder is back at home in its socket--and sore as can be. God was truly with me and I thank him for his mercies.
Truck may be totalled 8>(. As the bumper sticker says, "My wife ran off with my kids and my truck. Reward for return of truck.>" (Tongue firmly in cheek.)
But I have admit, injury causes wreck seems a lot like man bites dog!
I was driving to pick up my daughter at school yesterday. As I reached to pick up a cough drop on the console, the shoulder that has tricked me before showed that while you can't teach an old shoulder new tricks, it can still play the old ones. For the second time in my life, it completely dislocated. (I stopped counting the partials about 20 years ago.)
I reacted in a manful way, if screaming and spasming is manful, hitting the gas and sending the truck into a tree. A nice petite little lady in a black jump suit came running toward me to help--which I saw as a VC, so I fought my way out of my seat belt, bailed, and played hide and seek with her around the truck until one of my neighbors drove up and called my name.
After a fun few hours in the local ER, they finally knocked me out and the shoulder is back at home in its socket--and sore as can be. God was truly with me and I thank him for his mercies.
Truck may be totalled 8>(. As the bumper sticker says, "My wife ran off with my kids and my truck. Reward for return of truck.>" (Tongue firmly in cheek.)
But I have admit, injury causes wreck seems a lot like man bites dog!
17 September 2009
nFOG Part III: CONSCIENCE BE DAMNED! MANDATORY PER CAPITA IS JUST AROUND THE CORNER
It is the common fate of the indolent to see their rights become prey to the active The condition upon which God hath given liberty to man is eternal vigilance; which conditionif he break, servitude is at once the consequence of his crime and the punishment of his guilt.
-John Philpot Curran, Speech before the Privy Council, July 10, 1790
For many years, withholding per capita has been the only means for churches to register their disapproval of actions of the GA or other courts of the church.
In several cases, those higher courts (now referred to as "councils") have sought to coerce payment of per capita through the institution of disciplinary measures or by limiting the right of congregations to participate in presbytery. For nearly the same amount of time, presbyteries and synods have attempted to make payment of per capita mandatory. Several amendments to the Book of Order added ambiguous language that could be read either way. Nonetheless, in every such instance in which such an attempt has been made, the PJC has reversed such decisions. See, e.g., Johnston v. Heartland Presbytery, Rem. Case 217-2 (GAPJC 2004) (“The Heartland policy improperly turns payment of per capita apportionments or the fulfillment of a mission pledge into a mandate”); Minihan and Richards v. Scioto Valley Presbytery, Remedial Case 216-1 (GAPJC 2003) (1992 amendment to G-9.0404d did not grant a presbytery power to compel a session to transmit the per capita apportionment assigned to it.); Session, Central Presbyterian Church v. Presbytery of Long Island (Minutes, 1992, page 179) (governing body may adopt a per capita system for financing its operations, but a church may neither be compelled to pay nor punished for failure to pay any amounts pursuant to such plan); cf., Westminster United Presbyterian Church of Port Huron, Michigan v. The Presbytery of Detroit (UPC, 1976, p. 228)
The basis for the GA PJC decisions has been the clear language of Book of Order §G-10.0102 , (Responsibilities of the Session), which states in pertinent part,
Because the session alone possesses control of the congregation’s purse, the bureaucrats may not unilaterally overrule the conscience of the congregation.
And they have tried! In 2001, Scioto Valley Presbytery overtured the 213th General Assembly to approve an amendment which proposed to add the following sentences to G-9.0404d:
These decisions are, of course, repugnant to the bureaucracy. When a session of a church that does not agree with the actions of the GA elects to successfully withhold per capita, the lifeblood of the bureaucracy, it encourages other churches to do the same. However, as demonstrated by the example in 2001, an effort to make per capita mandatory would, even today, have a doubtful chance of making it out of the GA.
If, that is, it was presented as a stand-alone amendment. Enter nFOG.2. Hidden in nFOG section 3.02 (THE SESSION) is a new section that provides as follows:
Elsewhere in nFOG, the presbytery is authorized to
The standard for such action remains the same as in the current Book of Order, but by changing payment of per capita into a “particular responsibility” of the session, it will be easy for a presbytery to declare that when a session does not perform that “particular responsibility”, it has demonstrated that it “is unable or unwilling to manage wisely its affairs”. An AC can then come in, take over the checkbook, and send the congregation’s money to Louisville.
So, sessions and congregations beware. If §G-3.0202f is adopted, hang onto your wallets. The GA’s bagmen will be coming.
-John Philpot Curran, Speech before the Privy Council, July 10, 1790
For many years, withholding per capita has been the only means for churches to register their disapproval of actions of the GA or other courts of the church.
In several cases, those higher courts (now referred to as "councils") have sought to coerce payment of per capita through the institution of disciplinary measures or by limiting the right of congregations to participate in presbytery. For nearly the same amount of time, presbyteries and synods have attempted to make payment of per capita mandatory. Several amendments to the Book of Order added ambiguous language that could be read either way. Nonetheless, in every such instance in which such an attempt has been made, the PJC has reversed such decisions. See, e.g., Johnston v. Heartland Presbytery, Rem. Case 217-2 (GAPJC 2004) (“The Heartland policy improperly turns payment of per capita apportionments or the fulfillment of a mission pledge into a mandate”); Minihan and Richards v. Scioto Valley Presbytery, Remedial Case 216-1 (GAPJC 2003) (1992 amendment to G-9.0404d did not grant a presbytery power to compel a session to transmit the per capita apportionment assigned to it.); Session, Central Presbyterian Church v. Presbytery of Long Island (Minutes, 1992, page 179) (governing body may adopt a per capita system for financing its operations, but a church may neither be compelled to pay nor punished for failure to pay any amounts pursuant to such plan); cf., Westminster United Presbyterian Church of Port Huron, Michigan v. The Presbytery of Detroit (UPC, 1976, p. 228)
The basis for the GA PJC decisions has been the clear language of Book of Order §G-10.0102 , (Responsibilities of the Session), which states in pertinent part,
The session is responsible for the mission and government of the particular church. It therefore has the responsibility and power . . . to establish the annual budget, determine the distribution of the church’s benevolences, and order offerings for Christian purposes, providing full information to the congregation of its decisions in such matters . . . §G-10.0102i.
Because the session alone possesses control of the congregation’s purse, the bureaucrats may not unilaterally overrule the conscience of the congregation.
And they have tried! In 2001, Scioto Valley Presbytery overtured the 213th General Assembly to approve an amendment which proposed to add the following sentences to G-9.0404d:
Unless excused by the presbytery, a session shall be responsible for raising and timely transmission of per capita funds to its presbytery. A presbytery may exercise care and oversight over congregations in its bounds that fail to raise or transmit such funds to the presbytery.The 213th General Assembly (2001) disapproved the Overture.
These decisions are, of course, repugnant to the bureaucracy. When a session of a church that does not agree with the actions of the GA elects to successfully withhold per capita, the lifeblood of the bureaucracy, it encourages other churches to do the same. However, as demonstrated by the example in 2001, an effort to make per capita mandatory would, even today, have a doubtful chance of making it out of the GA.
If, that is, it was presented as a stand-alone amendment. Enter nFOG.2. Hidden in nFOG section 3.02 (THE SESSION) is a new section that provides as follows:
3.0202 Relations with Other CouncilsSection G-3.0202f makes payment of per capita a “particular responsibility” of the session.
Sessions have a particular responsibility to participate in the life of the whole church through participation in other councils. It is of particular importance that sessions:. . .
f. send to presbytery and General Assembly requested financial contributions, statistics, and other information according to the requirements of those bodies (emphasis added).
Elsewhere in nFOG, the presbytery is authorized to
assume original jurisdiction in any situation in which it determines that a session cannot exercise its authority. After a thorough investigation, and after full opportunity to be heard has been accorded to the session,the presbytery may conclude that the session of a congregation is unable or unwilling to manage wisely its affairs, and may appoint an administrative commission with the full power of session. This commission shall assume original jurisdiction of the existing session, if any, which shall cease to act until such time as the presbytery shall otherwise direct.” Section G-3.0303e [The Presbytery’s] Relations with Sessions
The standard for such action remains the same as in the current Book of Order, but by changing payment of per capita into a “particular responsibility” of the session, it will be easy for a presbytery to declare that when a session does not perform that “particular responsibility”, it has demonstrated that it “is unable or unwilling to manage wisely its affairs”. An AC can then come in, take over the checkbook, and send the congregation’s money to Louisville.
So, sessions and congregations beware. If §G-3.0202f is adopted, hang onto your wallets. The GA’s bagmen will be coming.
16 September 2009
nFOG Part II: CLOSING THE DOOR
“The true danger is when liberty is nibbled away, for expedients and by parts.” Edmund Burke, April 3, 1777
Edmund Burke was a contemporary of the founders of the Presbyterian Church in the United States of America. The republican form of government adoprted in the Summer of 1787 in Philadelphia by both the PCUSA and the United States in their respective constitutions was no accident. And the fear of strong central governments held by the men of that day can still be found in the words of those constitutions.
The desire and demand of free men for liberty is anathema to despots, and they endeavor by all means to usurp the power that ought belong to the individual. That is especially evident in the restructuring of the Form of Government with respect to the congregations. Rights that have always been conceded by the leadership to reside in the congregations are quietly removed in the hope that the commissioners to the presbyteries will not notice their absence.
Compare, for instance §G-7.0304 of the current Book of Order with the proposed §1.0503 of nFOG.2. Section G-7.0304 declares that
New §1.0503 (“Business Proper to Congregational Meetings”) strips away all of the powers heretofore residing in the congregation and then sets forth a new, very limited authority:
Note the differences. The introductory phrase of §G-7.0304 (“Business to be transacted at meetings of the congregation shall include the following:. . . “) is changed to “Business to be transacted at meetings of the congregation shall be limited to matters related to the following: . .” (emphasis added). From being a constitutional form in which all powers not delegated to the GA belong to the congregations, it has flipped into an oligarchical form in which the oligarchs dole out those few meaningless powers,e.g., to appoint local leadership, that they do not want---yet.
In other words, powers that had previously belonged to the congregation alone have been stripped away. The phrases “shall include” and “such as” in §G-7.0304 clearly connoted that the list that followed was not exclusive and that other powers also resided in the congregation and could be the basis for a congregational meeting.
Because the current Book of Order is ambiguous, and because it was drafted by the GA, in the event of a dispute between a congregation and its presbytery or the GA over the right to disaffiliate, under the legal doctrine contra proferentum, the ambiguity would be construed against the presbytery or GA. Hence the change.
By nibbling away at the rights of the congregation, if nFOG.2 is ratified as written, congregations that previously had the power to disaffiliate will be trapped in the PC(USA) at the mercy of the GA. The right of a congregation to unilaterally disaffiliate from the PC(USA) will be gone.
And, once trapped, there is more. . . . .
Edmund Burke was a contemporary of the founders of the Presbyterian Church in the United States of America. The republican form of government adoprted in the Summer of 1787 in Philadelphia by both the PCUSA and the United States in their respective constitutions was no accident. And the fear of strong central governments held by the men of that day can still be found in the words of those constitutions.
The desire and demand of free men for liberty is anathema to despots, and they endeavor by all means to usurp the power that ought belong to the individual. That is especially evident in the restructuring of the Form of Government with respect to the congregations. Rights that have always been conceded by the leadership to reside in the congregations are quietly removed in the hope that the commissioners to the presbyteries will not notice their absence.
Compare, for instance §G-7.0304 of the current Book of Order with the proposed §1.0503 of nFOG.2. Section G-7.0304 declares that
G-7.0304
Business
a. Business to be transacted at meetings of the congregation shall include the following:
(1) matters related to the electing (sic) of elders, deacons, and trustees;
(2) matters related to the calling of a pastor or pastors;
(3) matters related to the pastoral relationship, such as changing the call, or requesting or consenting or decliningto consent to dissolution;
(4) matters related to buying, mortgaging, or selling real property (G-8.0500);
(5) matters related to the permissive powers of a congregation, such as the desire to lodge all administrative responsibility in the session, or the request to presbytery for exemption from one or more requirements because of limited size.
Limitations b. Business at congregational meetings shall be limited to the foregoing matters (1) through (5). . . . (emphasis added).
New §1.0503 (“Business Proper to Congregational Meetings”) strips away all of the powers heretofore residing in the congregation and then sets forth a new, very limited authority:
1.0503 Business Proper to Congregational Meetings
Business to be transacted at meetings of the congregation shall be limited to matters related to the following:
a. electing ruling elders, deacons, and trustees;
b. calling a pastor, co-pastor, or associate pastor;
c. changing existing pastoral relationships, by such means as reviewing the adequacy of and approving
changes to the terms of call of the pastor or pastors, or requesting, consenting to, or declining to consent to dissolution;
d. buying, mortgaging, or selling real property;
e. requesting the presbytery to grant an exemption as permitted in this Constitution (G-2.0404).
Note the differences. The introductory phrase of §G-7.0304 (“Business to be transacted at meetings of the congregation shall include the following:. . . “) is changed to “Business to be transacted at meetings of the congregation shall be limited to matters related to the following: . .” (emphasis added). From being a constitutional form in which all powers not delegated to the GA belong to the congregations, it has flipped into an oligarchical form in which the oligarchs dole out those few meaningless powers,e.g., to appoint local leadership, that they do not want---yet.
In other words, powers that had previously belonged to the congregation alone have been stripped away. The phrases “shall include” and “such as” in §G-7.0304 clearly connoted that the list that followed was not exclusive and that other powers also resided in the congregation and could be the basis for a congregational meeting.
Because the current Book of Order is ambiguous, and because it was drafted by the GA, in the event of a dispute between a congregation and its presbytery or the GA over the right to disaffiliate, under the legal doctrine contra proferentum, the ambiguity would be construed against the presbytery or GA. Hence the change.
By nibbling away at the rights of the congregation, if nFOG.2 is ratified as written, congregations that previously had the power to disaffiliate will be trapped in the PC(USA) at the mercy of the GA. The right of a congregation to unilaterally disaffiliate from the PC(USA) will be gone.
And, once trapped, there is more. . . . .
15 September 2009
THE nFOG COMES IN ON LITTLE CAT FEET
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
-Carl Sandburg-
SWMBO and the kids are back in school. The cats have settled down for a much needed 18-hour nap after the hard work of eating breakfast, staring out the window at the trash truck, chasing air, and looking beautiful. And I can get back to the blogosphere.
Over at A Classical Presbyterian, Toby Brown has written a very nice cautionary piece about stewardship of emotion and effort, noting that we can often use up our strength on outrage when our energies could be better directed elsewhere. That piece struck home. There was a time when I scoured the web for news from the PC(USA) out of a need to protect our congregation from the depredations of the gang in Louisville. The disclosure of the Louisville Papers over a year after they had been distributed to presbyteries and synods revealed that secrecy and ambush were to be their chosen methods. But I also needed a place to vent against the hijackers of a once great denomination.
Two years ago, our little church on the hill—with other similarly situated congregations—fought our way out. Since that time, we have marveled at the peace, trust, and fellowship that can come from finding a home in a denomination that knows what it stands for and is unafraid to say just that. In the EPC, we found brothers and sisters who are not afraid to declare the sovereignty of God, the divinity of Christ, and the inerrancy of God’s word revealed in Scripture. In the EPC, we don’t need to tear pages or whole chapters out of our Bibles.
I write this by way of preface. My review of the antics and actions taken by the PC(USA) are no longer driven by self defense. I now have the freedom to watch what PC(USA) leadership and its minions are doing simply as an intellectual exercise. And they are making it easy.
The 2006 GA of the PC(USA) commissioned a re-write of its cumbersome Book of Order, but forbade any changes to the ordination standards set forth in §G-6.0106b or the odious unilateral declaration of a so-called property “trust.” The resulting product was released late and met with an uncharacteristic distrust across the denomination. Despite efforts by out-going Stated Clerk Kirkpatrick and his team to get the new form of government through the 2008 GA, it failed. Instead, the GA added some new members to the committee and directed them to take another crack at a re-write.
To their credit, the new committee worked hard to get their proposal out in sufficient time for people to study it. (A major criticism of nFOG.1 was that it was not released for review until just before the 2008 GA. Commissioners were leery of voting on something they had not read and digested—oh that the folks in Congress were so conscientious! But, I digress.) So, now it is out, loaded with booby traps for the unwary, a ticking time-bomb. If the 2010 GA does not reject this effort, and if the presbyteries adopt it, they cannot say that they did not have an opportunity to know what they were doing. And reject this piece of work they should.
As was the case with nFOG.1, nFOG.2 is a plan for reforming the PC(USA) into the Roman Catholic model of church governance. It strips congregations of long-held rights which protected them from unilateral action by the bureaucracy, remodels the “presbyterian” form of government into a hierarchical directorate, adds language that can be used to make payment of per capita mandatory, and adds a “fuehrer oath” for members of congregations.
As a child of the prairies of Illinois, I learned my Sandburg. His description of the fog as a silent predator, creeping into place unnoticed until it is too late for the prey, is an apt comparison to the nFOG that has now been unleashed on the PC(USA). I hope that sessions of the PC(USA) congregations will take responsibility to study nFOG.2 and act accordingly when they send commissioners to presbytery and the GA. If they do not, they have no one to blame but themselves.
-30- (Extra credit to the first one of you boys and girls who can explain this.)
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
-Carl Sandburg-
SWMBO and the kids are back in school. The cats have settled down for a much needed 18-hour nap after the hard work of eating breakfast, staring out the window at the trash truck, chasing air, and looking beautiful. And I can get back to the blogosphere.
Over at A Classical Presbyterian, Toby Brown has written a very nice cautionary piece about stewardship of emotion and effort, noting that we can often use up our strength on outrage when our energies could be better directed elsewhere. That piece struck home. There was a time when I scoured the web for news from the PC(USA) out of a need to protect our congregation from the depredations of the gang in Louisville. The disclosure of the Louisville Papers over a year after they had been distributed to presbyteries and synods revealed that secrecy and ambush were to be their chosen methods. But I also needed a place to vent against the hijackers of a once great denomination.
Two years ago, our little church on the hill—with other similarly situated congregations—fought our way out. Since that time, we have marveled at the peace, trust, and fellowship that can come from finding a home in a denomination that knows what it stands for and is unafraid to say just that. In the EPC, we found brothers and sisters who are not afraid to declare the sovereignty of God, the divinity of Christ, and the inerrancy of God’s word revealed in Scripture. In the EPC, we don’t need to tear pages or whole chapters out of our Bibles.
I write this by way of preface. My review of the antics and actions taken by the PC(USA) are no longer driven by self defense. I now have the freedom to watch what PC(USA) leadership and its minions are doing simply as an intellectual exercise. And they are making it easy.
The 2006 GA of the PC(USA) commissioned a re-write of its cumbersome Book of Order, but forbade any changes to the ordination standards set forth in §G-6.0106b or the odious unilateral declaration of a so-called property “trust.” The resulting product was released late and met with an uncharacteristic distrust across the denomination. Despite efforts by out-going Stated Clerk Kirkpatrick and his team to get the new form of government through the 2008 GA, it failed. Instead, the GA added some new members to the committee and directed them to take another crack at a re-write.
To their credit, the new committee worked hard to get their proposal out in sufficient time for people to study it. (A major criticism of nFOG.1 was that it was not released for review until just before the 2008 GA. Commissioners were leery of voting on something they had not read and digested—oh that the folks in Congress were so conscientious! But, I digress.) So, now it is out, loaded with booby traps for the unwary, a ticking time-bomb. If the 2010 GA does not reject this effort, and if the presbyteries adopt it, they cannot say that they did not have an opportunity to know what they were doing. And reject this piece of work they should.
As was the case with nFOG.1, nFOG.2 is a plan for reforming the PC(USA) into the Roman Catholic model of church governance. It strips congregations of long-held rights which protected them from unilateral action by the bureaucracy, remodels the “presbyterian” form of government into a hierarchical directorate, adds language that can be used to make payment of per capita mandatory, and adds a “fuehrer oath” for members of congregations.
As a child of the prairies of Illinois, I learned my Sandburg. His description of the fog as a silent predator, creeping into place unnoticed until it is too late for the prey, is an apt comparison to the nFOG that has now been unleashed on the PC(USA). I hope that sessions of the PC(USA) congregations will take responsibility to study nFOG.2 and act accordingly when they send commissioners to presbytery and the GA. If they do not, they have no one to blame but themselves.
-30- (Extra credit to the first one of you boys and girls who can explain this.)
24 August 2009
MY BROTHER
A brother offended is harder to be won than a strong city: and their contentions are like the bars of a castle. Prov. 18:19
This may be the most difficult piece I have ever written. It has taken me over a month.
My brother, Chris, passed away in Chicago on July 11. He was a bachelor and it was only several days later that my Sister and I learned of his passing.
An artist and designer, he fancied himself a man of the world, sophisticated and elite, one who enjoyed the erudite and clever society of the Second City. He was a world traveler and lived only in an adult society. He was also one of the angriest men I have ever known.
Our relationship over the years has been strained, to say the least. From my high school years forward, he seemed to take pleasure in pushing buttons and getting under my skin. For example, when I was serving in Vietnam, he wrote to me announcing that he had participated in Moratorium Day activities “to end your stupid, bloody war.” There’s a morale builder.
During the 1980’s, my Mom visited me at Marine Corps Base, Quantico. On a Sunday morning, we attended services at Memorial Chapel, a church built in the Virginia colonial style and used for religious services for the Base.
If you are ever in the Quantico area, about 40 miles south of DC on I-95, it is worth the effort to get a visitor’s pass and see the Chapel. The altar decking and altar rail are hard wood, made from teak decking from battleships and cruisers that fired in support of Marines in the Pacific. (There are small brass plates identifying the various ships. I always tried to get a position in the portion of the rail from USS California, sunk at Pearl Harbor and raised and refitted to rejoin the fray.)
When the Chapel was built in the 1950’s, it was decided that the windows would be etched glass rather than stained glass. Each window would recall one of the Wars in which the Corps had served, starting with the Revolution and continuing with the war against the Barbary pirates (“the shores of Tripoli”), the War of 1812, the Mexican War (“the halls of Montezuma”), the Civil War and through Korea. Each window contains an appropriate etching and a Bible verse.
On this visit, Mom asked to go to services early so she could see the Chapel. She was aware of the strain between Chris and me, and when she stopped at the Civil War window, she pointed to the verse, Proverbs 18:19. “That is you and your brother. Please try win the city.”
And I did try, but, to quote General A. A. Vandegrift “The bended knee is not a tradition of our Corps.” As we engaged in our two or three lengthy telephone calls each year, Chris would invariably cast the bait and I would chomp down on it—hard! I left those calls in turmoil.
With the prayerful help of SWMBO, however, I began to strenuously work to avoid responding to the barbs.
I realized that I was making some progress in 2004. We were having dinner together in Chicago, and the first hour or so had been devoted to tales of recent trips and other benign activities. I had prayed for forbearance and steeled myself to roll with any verbal punches, but it was beginning to look as if he, too, had turned over a new leaf.
Then, out of the clear blue, he told me, “You’ll be surprised to hear that I will not vote for John Kerry.”
I merely nodded. “Yes,” he continued, “anyone who was too stupid to get out of going to that awful war is not smart enough to be President.” I ground several millimeters of enamel off my teeth, but God calmed me and I said nothing. Dinner ended soon thereafter and we parted.
We continued to exchange infrequent phone calls. He was a telephone junkie. Mom was his best friend, and they might exchange three or four long-distance calls per day, totaling several hours. She continued to let us both know that one of her dearest wishes was for us to be closer. In my last, lovely extended visit with her before her death, she repeated her request.
Initially, after her death in November 2007, the status quo ante prevailed. After dinner on the night of Mom’s memorial service, he reduced my 11 year old daughter, Horse Girl, to tears. It was her birthday and her combined birthday/Christmas gift was a horse. She was ecstatic.
His response was to belittle her, suggesting that when she was through with the horse, it could be put to good use as raw material for glue. When she began crying, he fell back on a typical response: “Oh, look, she’s crying. It was just conversation. Please, do grow up.”
I took her outside to calm her. “I apologize for your uncle. I don’t know why he does those things, but he has done them to me, to your Aunt Mary, and others all our lives. But I will promise you that he won’t do that to you again, OK?” She nodded, her cheeks still tear-stained.
After dinner, I took him aside. “Look, you can ping at me all you want, but from now on, treat my family with civility. Do not tell my little girl that she need s to 'grow up.' She is only 11. They have done nothing to offend you, and I won’t put up with it. I know that your group of friends have a very dry and cynical sense of humor, but an 11 year old does not need to be exposed to that, so knock it off.”
He huffed and puffed a bit, but nodded.
After that our phone calls took a turn for the better. Our last three or four conversations were the nicest I can remember since we were boys sharing a bed room at home. For that, I thank him and God. I do not have to live with the memory of a last angry conversation.
The pains of a lifetime are still there but they are healing. I pray that he has at last found peace.
This may be the most difficult piece I have ever written. It has taken me over a month.
My brother, Chris, passed away in Chicago on July 11. He was a bachelor and it was only several days later that my Sister and I learned of his passing.
An artist and designer, he fancied himself a man of the world, sophisticated and elite, one who enjoyed the erudite and clever society of the Second City. He was a world traveler and lived only in an adult society. He was also one of the angriest men I have ever known.
Our relationship over the years has been strained, to say the least. From my high school years forward, he seemed to take pleasure in pushing buttons and getting under my skin. For example, when I was serving in Vietnam, he wrote to me announcing that he had participated in Moratorium Day activities “to end your stupid, bloody war.” There’s a morale builder.
During the 1980’s, my Mom visited me at Marine Corps Base, Quantico. On a Sunday morning, we attended services at Memorial Chapel, a church built in the Virginia colonial style and used for religious services for the Base.
If you are ever in the Quantico area, about 40 miles south of DC on I-95, it is worth the effort to get a visitor’s pass and see the Chapel. The altar decking and altar rail are hard wood, made from teak decking from battleships and cruisers that fired in support of Marines in the Pacific. (There are small brass plates identifying the various ships. I always tried to get a position in the portion of the rail from USS California, sunk at Pearl Harbor and raised and refitted to rejoin the fray.)
When the Chapel was built in the 1950’s, it was decided that the windows would be etched glass rather than stained glass. Each window would recall one of the Wars in which the Corps had served, starting with the Revolution and continuing with the war against the Barbary pirates (“the shores of Tripoli”), the War of 1812, the Mexican War (“the halls of Montezuma”), the Civil War and through Korea. Each window contains an appropriate etching and a Bible verse.
On this visit, Mom asked to go to services early so she could see the Chapel. She was aware of the strain between Chris and me, and when she stopped at the Civil War window, she pointed to the verse, Proverbs 18:19. “That is you and your brother. Please try win the city.”
And I did try, but, to quote General A. A. Vandegrift “The bended knee is not a tradition of our Corps.” As we engaged in our two or three lengthy telephone calls each year, Chris would invariably cast the bait and I would chomp down on it—hard! I left those calls in turmoil.
With the prayerful help of SWMBO, however, I began to strenuously work to avoid responding to the barbs.
I realized that I was making some progress in 2004. We were having dinner together in Chicago, and the first hour or so had been devoted to tales of recent trips and other benign activities. I had prayed for forbearance and steeled myself to roll with any verbal punches, but it was beginning to look as if he, too, had turned over a new leaf.
Then, out of the clear blue, he told me, “You’ll be surprised to hear that I will not vote for John Kerry.”
I merely nodded. “Yes,” he continued, “anyone who was too stupid to get out of going to that awful war is not smart enough to be President.” I ground several millimeters of enamel off my teeth, but God calmed me and I said nothing. Dinner ended soon thereafter and we parted.
We continued to exchange infrequent phone calls. He was a telephone junkie. Mom was his best friend, and they might exchange three or four long-distance calls per day, totaling several hours. She continued to let us both know that one of her dearest wishes was for us to be closer. In my last, lovely extended visit with her before her death, she repeated her request.
Initially, after her death in November 2007, the status quo ante prevailed. After dinner on the night of Mom’s memorial service, he reduced my 11 year old daughter, Horse Girl, to tears. It was her birthday and her combined birthday/Christmas gift was a horse. She was ecstatic.
His response was to belittle her, suggesting that when she was through with the horse, it could be put to good use as raw material for glue. When she began crying, he fell back on a typical response: “Oh, look, she’s crying. It was just conversation. Please, do grow up.”
I took her outside to calm her. “I apologize for your uncle. I don’t know why he does those things, but he has done them to me, to your Aunt Mary, and others all our lives. But I will promise you that he won’t do that to you again, OK?” She nodded, her cheeks still tear-stained.
After dinner, I took him aside. “Look, you can ping at me all you want, but from now on, treat my family with civility. Do not tell my little girl that she need s to 'grow up.' She is only 11. They have done nothing to offend you, and I won’t put up with it. I know that your group of friends have a very dry and cynical sense of humor, but an 11 year old does not need to be exposed to that, so knock it off.”
He huffed and puffed a bit, but nodded.
After that our phone calls took a turn for the better. Our last three or four conversations were the nicest I can remember since we were boys sharing a bed room at home. For that, I thank him and God. I do not have to live with the memory of a last angry conversation.
The pains of a lifetime are still there but they are healing. I pray that he has at last found peace.
16 July 2009
BUT, OH, BEWARE MY COUNTRY WHEN MY COUNTRY IS POLITE!
Well, our noble elected leaders in Washington are at it again—demonstrating that many of them could not lead a bunch of condemned sinners out of Hell.
It all started when the so-called “Torture Memos” came to light, a first example that politicians are genetically incapable of keeping the Nation’s secrets and if given the opportunity to place the Nation’s best interests ahead of their own, they will usually take care of themselves first. The latest fracas started because, a few short months after the World Trade Center/Pentagon attack, Speaker Pelosi was briefed in to some degree on steps that the United States might take if necessary to get timely information to prevent other similar or even more deadly attacks.
Seven years later, when her core constituency (the hate America first crowd) discovered that we might deprive Al Quaeda operatives of sleep (gasp), or put them in solitary so they could not arrange a common story (shudder) or use a physically harmless technique that nonetheless triggers the biological fear of drowning as a last resort means of getting such information (moan), Nancy the Great backtracked like a pro.
Knowing that much of the information that would disprove her allegations was classified, she tried to claim that she was “lied to.” Then, when that was not working so well, she learned that , (or her "supporters") revealed that shortly after September 11, 2001, the president of the United States ordered the CIA to examine the possibility of targeted assassinations of Al Qaeda leaders. The AQ leadership would be fair game anywhere in the world. No actual operations were launched, and there was no legal requirement that the mere existence of a planning group be revealed to a notoriously porous Congress, but Nancy the Great waved her magic wand and, presto, change-o, there was a "lie."
And the useful idiots in Congress are aghast. “You mean, like, shoot them without like, you know, warning them of their (non-existent) Constitutional rights?”
I think most Americans had already assumed that those orders had gone out. I surely did. If someone had asked me that question, my answer would have been, “Yup! Twice, in the head, just to make sure they’re really dead. That’s how we respond treachery and cowardice. Just ask the citizens of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.”
Of course, the problem goes back much further. The Senate Select Committee to Study Governmental Operations with Respect to Intelligence Activities, chaired by Senator Frank Church (D-ID) (“the Church Committee” ) was established in 1975 to look into intelligence activities that might have been connected to the Watergate affair.
Delving into highly classified activities in a televised series of hearings, the Democratic majority of the Committee revealed, among other things, that the United States government had attempted to assassinate or actually succeeded in assassinating foreign leaders, including Patrice Lumumba of the Congo, Rafael Trujillo of the Dominican Republic, the Diem brothers of Vietnam, Gen. René Schneider of Chile. They also revealed President John F. Kennedy's plans to use the Mafia to kill Fidel Castro of Cuba.
The evidence with respect to Lumumba is very tenuous—it was the Belgian government that did him in. The rest, with the exception of Schneider, were authorized or openly condoned by the Kennedy and Johnson administrations.
I recall watching the hearings. In particular, I was amazed by Senator’s feigned shock that the President of the United States (John F. Kennedy) had repeatedly ordered that Fidel Castro be killed.
Senator church and I were both shocked. Church was just disconsolate that JFK had taken such action. I asked, “If, in 1962 or ’63, the President of the United States said he wanted Castro dead, then why is the sob still breathing?” I guess it’s a frame of reference thing.
At any rate, in response to the Church Committee revelations, President Ford issued an Executive Order banning U.S. sanctioned assassinations of foreign leaders. He was strong-armed into doing so by threats that the Congress would enact those prohibitions into law; an EO can be superseded by the President. Whether any American would have the guts to stand in front of a jury and argue that bin Laden is a “foreign leader” is an open argument, but I am sure that there are some boneheads out there that would try.
But, here we are, once again. Lint-for-brains pols put their interests before ours and warn people who intend to do us harm that they may continue to make such plans with impunity.
It all started when the so-called “Torture Memos” came to light, a first example that politicians are genetically incapable of keeping the Nation’s secrets and if given the opportunity to place the Nation’s best interests ahead of their own, they will usually take care of themselves first. The latest fracas started because, a few short months after the World Trade Center/Pentagon attack, Speaker Pelosi was briefed in to some degree on steps that the United States might take if necessary to get timely information to prevent other similar or even more deadly attacks.
Seven years later, when her core constituency (the hate America first crowd) discovered that we might deprive Al Quaeda operatives of sleep (gasp), or put them in solitary so they could not arrange a common story (shudder) or use a physically harmless technique that nonetheless triggers the biological fear of drowning as a last resort means of getting such information (moan), Nancy the Great backtracked like a pro.
Knowing that much of the information that would disprove her allegations was classified, she tried to claim that she was “lied to.” Then, when that was not working so well, she learned that , (or her "supporters") revealed that shortly after September 11, 2001, the president of the United States ordered the CIA to examine the possibility of targeted assassinations of Al Qaeda leaders. The AQ leadership would be fair game anywhere in the world. No actual operations were launched, and there was no legal requirement that the mere existence of a planning group be revealed to a notoriously porous Congress, but Nancy the Great waved her magic wand and, presto, change-o, there was a "lie."
And the useful idiots in Congress are aghast. “You mean, like, shoot them without like, you know, warning them of their (non-existent) Constitutional rights?”
I think most Americans had already assumed that those orders had gone out. I surely did. If someone had asked me that question, my answer would have been, “Yup! Twice, in the head, just to make sure they’re really dead. That’s how we respond treachery and cowardice. Just ask the citizens of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.”
Of course, the problem goes back much further. The Senate Select Committee to Study Governmental Operations with Respect to Intelligence Activities, chaired by Senator Frank Church (D-ID) (“the Church Committee” ) was established in 1975 to look into intelligence activities that might have been connected to the Watergate affair.
Delving into highly classified activities in a televised series of hearings, the Democratic majority of the Committee revealed, among other things, that the United States government had attempted to assassinate or actually succeeded in assassinating foreign leaders, including Patrice Lumumba of the Congo, Rafael Trujillo of the Dominican Republic, the Diem brothers of Vietnam, Gen. René Schneider of Chile. They also revealed President John F. Kennedy's plans to use the Mafia to kill Fidel Castro of Cuba.
The evidence with respect to Lumumba is very tenuous—it was the Belgian government that did him in. The rest, with the exception of Schneider, were authorized or openly condoned by the Kennedy and Johnson administrations.
I recall watching the hearings. In particular, I was amazed by Senator’s feigned shock that the President of the United States (John F. Kennedy) had repeatedly ordered that Fidel Castro be killed.
Senator church and I were both shocked. Church was just disconsolate that JFK had taken such action. I asked, “If, in 1962 or ’63, the President of the United States said he wanted Castro dead, then why is the sob still breathing?” I guess it’s a frame of reference thing.
At any rate, in response to the Church Committee revelations, President Ford issued an Executive Order banning U.S. sanctioned assassinations of foreign leaders. He was strong-armed into doing so by threats that the Congress would enact those prohibitions into law; an EO can be superseded by the President. Whether any American would have the guts to stand in front of a jury and argue that bin Laden is a “foreign leader” is an open argument, but I am sure that there are some boneheads out there that would try.
But, here we are, once again. Lint-for-brains pols put their interests before ours and warn people who intend to do us harm that they may continue to make such plans with impunity.
11 July 2009
FIRST SERGEANT LEE
The flight to An Hoa lasted about 10 minutes. The LZ was on the south end of the runway. As I left the bird, a Marine directed me to the Ops bunker.
From there, I began my trek into the maze that was the combat base. There were rows upon rows of strongback tents, wooden frames designed to fit the standard General Purpose tent. They were built on stilts approximately 4 feet above the ground—a necessity to allow air flow, drainage during the wet season, and rodent control. The side walls were 8 feet high—the bottom four feet were plywood and the top four feet were screened. Three or four light bulbs provided lighting. A boardwalk of pallets connected the strong backs to dirt roads that ran through the combat base.
Strong backs were used for billeting and for offices. Other offices were in prefabricated bunkers. A frame made of 12 x12 supports that were 12 feet by 20 feet, and then walled and ceilinged with 2 x 12 boards. The floor was three-quarter inch plywood. Once set in place, the bunker would be sand-bagged. The S-4 bunker had approximately 25,000 sandbags for protection: walls were 6 sandbags deep, from the ground to the roof level. Three layers of sandbags were placed on the roof, then a layer of steel runway matting followed by three more layers of sandbags, another layer of matting and a final three layers of sandbags.
Charlie Company’s office was in a strong back on the battalion street, three rows down from the main supply route (Main Street An Hoa.) Office furniture was field desks and camp stools. A field desk was a 4 x 4 x 4 “suitcase.” One side could be removed and attached to the box (that contained drawers) to form a desk.
As you entered the office, the First Sergeant’s desk was on the left. In front of the desk, he had had the troops paint a pair of yellow (properly, “gold,” because as one of our Jodie chants says, “Marine Corps colors are scarlet and gold…”, but we’ll go with yellow) footprints. Any graduate of MCRD Parris Island or MCRD San Diego will know the purpose of those footprints. They are a recruit’s first sight at a Recruit Depot.
As a new recruit leaves the bus, he or she is herded to rows of yellow footprints, heels together and feet at a 45 degree angle, the first position of “Attention.” And that is what the First Sergeant had in mind.
As I entered the office, First Sergeant Lee was hunched over the desk, signing the Skipper’s signature to the Unit Diary, then the principal daily personnel document in the Marine Corps. I entered and positioned myself on the footprints. “Just a minute, Marine,” the First Sergeant growled without looking up. “Be with you in a minute.” A couple of the clerks were grinning ear-to-ear.
As he finished the Diary, he yelled “Brown, get this over to S-1.”
PFC Brown took it and “got.”
“Now, Marine, what can I do. . . my Gawd in heaven, Lieutenant, just look at you!”
He was looking at a 6’2” Marine who weighed 118 pounds (down from 171 in December). My helmet cover was faded, muddy, and covered with the black print of my “zap number” (M6086), blood type, and my short-timer’s calendar. My flak jacket was faded, ripped, and most of the plates were bunched over my right kidney. My towel was around my neck, and under my flak jacket I wore the faded green T shirt I had worn since 23 December. My rifle was clean, but my utility trousers were still wet and muddy to the knees and my jungle boots were muddy.
“Morning, First Sergeant.” [The Army calls the unit First Sergeant the “top kick” or “top” for short. No good Marine First Sergeant will tolerate that. “A ‘top’ is a goddam kid’s toy! I’m the First Sergeant!”]
“Well, damn, Lieutenant. You are a sight! Johnson, scoot down to Supply and get the Lieutenant a clean set of dungarees.”
“Which Johnson, First Sergeant? Light green Johnson or dark green Johnson?”
First Sergeant Lee had about 21 years in the Corps. He was one of those pioneers who had entered the Marine Corps at about the time that President Truman had issued the Executive Order which desegregated the Armed Forces.
Serving with Marines such as Sergeant Major Edgar Huff (the first black Sergeant Major in the Marine Corps) and Sergeant Major Gilbert H. “Hashmark” Johnson as mentors and role models, First Sergeant Robert E. Lee was one of those giants who helped mold both the modern Marine Corps and the America we know today. (“Giant,” you ask? Well Hashmark Johnson served in two wars, three branches of service, and for 32 years, half of which were in a segregated Armed Forces. Two years after his death from a heart attack, the Montford Point facility at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, which had been the segregated “black boot camp” during WWII, was renamed Camp Gilbert H. Johnson, the first military installation to be named after an African-American. I’d say that qualifies for “Giant.”)
And First Sergeant Lee’s first maxim was “I ain’t got ‘black Marines’ or ‘white Marines.’ All I have are ‘green Marines.’”
But I digress. “Light green” Johnson took off.
“Thompson, you get over to the shower point and tell them the Lieutenant will be there in five minutes.” He shook his head. “Now, Sir, let’s get you squared away.”
Within an hour, I was showered and shaved (cold water, but who cared), had new, clean clothes and had had my first real meal in over a month. (There was a huge sign on the mess hall bunker—in scarlet and gold, naturally—listing the hours of operation, followed in large letters by “MARINES IN FROM THE FIELD—ANY TIME.”)
I returned to the office, ready to get to work. “What should I do, First Sergeant,” I asked?
“Well, Sir. Why don’t you go over to the BOQ tent (Bachelor Officers’ Quarters) and take a nap? Maybe write a letter home?” [Interpreted, he was saying “Everything is under control. Don’t try to fix what ain’t broke.”]
Hmmmmm. Not a bad idea.
The only other officer in the BOQ was Lieutenant Jim Webb, a platoon commander in Delta Company. We introduced ourselves and settled in for the afternoon. I explored the Q, noting many jagged shrapnel holes which were circled and dated—reminders of rocket and mortar attacks on An Hoa. Suddenly, I missed my nice safe hole out in the Arizona.
What would tomorrow bring?
From there, I began my trek into the maze that was the combat base. There were rows upon rows of strongback tents, wooden frames designed to fit the standard General Purpose tent. They were built on stilts approximately 4 feet above the ground—a necessity to allow air flow, drainage during the wet season, and rodent control. The side walls were 8 feet high—the bottom four feet were plywood and the top four feet were screened. Three or four light bulbs provided lighting. A boardwalk of pallets connected the strong backs to dirt roads that ran through the combat base.
Strong backs were used for billeting and for offices. Other offices were in prefabricated bunkers. A frame made of 12 x12 supports that were 12 feet by 20 feet, and then walled and ceilinged with 2 x 12 boards. The floor was three-quarter inch plywood. Once set in place, the bunker would be sand-bagged. The S-4 bunker had approximately 25,000 sandbags for protection: walls were 6 sandbags deep, from the ground to the roof level. Three layers of sandbags were placed on the roof, then a layer of steel runway matting followed by three more layers of sandbags, another layer of matting and a final three layers of sandbags.
Charlie Company’s office was in a strong back on the battalion street, three rows down from the main supply route (Main Street An Hoa.) Office furniture was field desks and camp stools. A field desk was a 4 x 4 x 4 “suitcase.” One side could be removed and attached to the box (that contained drawers) to form a desk.
As you entered the office, the First Sergeant’s desk was on the left. In front of the desk, he had had the troops paint a pair of yellow (properly, “gold,” because as one of our Jodie chants says, “Marine Corps colors are scarlet and gold…”, but we’ll go with yellow) footprints. Any graduate of MCRD Parris Island or MCRD San Diego will know the purpose of those footprints. They are a recruit’s first sight at a Recruit Depot.
As a new recruit leaves the bus, he or she is herded to rows of yellow footprints, heels together and feet at a 45 degree angle, the first position of “Attention.” And that is what the First Sergeant had in mind.
As I entered the office, First Sergeant Lee was hunched over the desk, signing the Skipper’s signature to the Unit Diary, then the principal daily personnel document in the Marine Corps. I entered and positioned myself on the footprints. “Just a minute, Marine,” the First Sergeant growled without looking up. “Be with you in a minute.” A couple of the clerks were grinning ear-to-ear.
As he finished the Diary, he yelled “Brown, get this over to S-1.”
PFC Brown took it and “got.”
“Now, Marine, what can I do. . . my Gawd in heaven, Lieutenant, just look at you!”
He was looking at a 6’2” Marine who weighed 118 pounds (down from 171 in December). My helmet cover was faded, muddy, and covered with the black print of my “zap number” (M6086), blood type, and my short-timer’s calendar. My flak jacket was faded, ripped, and most of the plates were bunched over my right kidney. My towel was around my neck, and under my flak jacket I wore the faded green T shirt I had worn since 23 December. My rifle was clean, but my utility trousers were still wet and muddy to the knees and my jungle boots were muddy.
“Morning, First Sergeant.” [The Army calls the unit First Sergeant the “top kick” or “top” for short. No good Marine First Sergeant will tolerate that. “A ‘top’ is a goddam kid’s toy! I’m the First Sergeant!”]
“Well, damn, Lieutenant. You are a sight! Johnson, scoot down to Supply and get the Lieutenant a clean set of dungarees.”
“Which Johnson, First Sergeant? Light green Johnson or dark green Johnson?”
First Sergeant Lee had about 21 years in the Corps. He was one of those pioneers who had entered the Marine Corps at about the time that President Truman had issued the Executive Order which desegregated the Armed Forces.
Serving with Marines such as Sergeant Major Edgar Huff (the first black Sergeant Major in the Marine Corps) and Sergeant Major Gilbert H. “Hashmark” Johnson as mentors and role models, First Sergeant Robert E. Lee was one of those giants who helped mold both the modern Marine Corps and the America we know today. (“Giant,” you ask? Well Hashmark Johnson served in two wars, three branches of service, and for 32 years, half of which were in a segregated Armed Forces. Two years after his death from a heart attack, the Montford Point facility at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, which had been the segregated “black boot camp” during WWII, was renamed Camp Gilbert H. Johnson, the first military installation to be named after an African-American. I’d say that qualifies for “Giant.”)
And First Sergeant Lee’s first maxim was “I ain’t got ‘black Marines’ or ‘white Marines.’ All I have are ‘green Marines.’”
But I digress. “Light green” Johnson took off.
“Thompson, you get over to the shower point and tell them the Lieutenant will be there in five minutes.” He shook his head. “Now, Sir, let’s get you squared away.”
Within an hour, I was showered and shaved (cold water, but who cared), had new, clean clothes and had had my first real meal in over a month. (There was a huge sign on the mess hall bunker—in scarlet and gold, naturally—listing the hours of operation, followed in large letters by “MARINES IN FROM THE FIELD—ANY TIME.”)
I returned to the office, ready to get to work. “What should I do, First Sergeant,” I asked?
“Well, Sir. Why don’t you go over to the BOQ tent (Bachelor Officers’ Quarters) and take a nap? Maybe write a letter home?” [Interpreted, he was saying “Everything is under control. Don’t try to fix what ain’t broke.”]
Hmmmmm. Not a bad idea.
The only other officer in the BOQ was Lieutenant Jim Webb, a platoon commander in Delta Company. We introduced ourselves and settled in for the afternoon. I explored the Q, noting many jagged shrapnel holes which were circled and dated—reminders of rocket and mortar attacks on An Hoa. Suddenly, I missed my nice safe hole out in the Arizona.
What would tomorrow bring?
10 July 2009
A GOOD PASTOR IS A BLESSING
I'm still having some problems with my regret that I couldn't let Wandro know that I was wrong. Talked to my Pastor who, after praying with me, said, "So, how do you think Peter felt for all those years?"
Wow. Pretty heady company, but I thank God for my Pastor.
Wow. Pretty heady company, but I thank God for my Pastor.
08 July 2009
LEAVING HEARTH AND HOME
The night was quiet and uneventful. The next morning, we moved out to establish a company patrol base. It was the first time since Monday (four days and four centuries ago) that we had not been in a battalion position.
We headed back to “The Hot Dog,” a small hill so named because of its shape on the map. Like the shepherds of the ancient days, we had plenty of time to look at our surroundings. The ancients looked at the night sky. We looked at the ground—physically and on our maps. Shapes leaped out and we named the ground: “Battleship” and “Rock Pile” and “The Hot Dog.”
Charlie 3 drew the night ambush, with a late afternoon patrol en route. Our patrol intentionally took us through the impact area of the Arc Light. It was unbelievable.
Imagine if you will the Paul Bunyan and Babe, the Great Blue Ox had gone to Vietnam. The ground looked as if Paul and Babe had pulled some gigantic plow through a field 900 meters wide by nearly 3 clicks long. Trees were mangled and reduced to kindling. What was left of one village revealed that the hooches had been interconnected by a tunnel system. We found body parts and pieces of AK-47s and a couple of RPD machine guns. We also found a couple of caches of B-40 rocket launchers and rounds, all of which revealed that the NVA had been using the ville as a base or supply depot.
We proceeded on to our night ambush site and set in for what was another uneventful evening. What was left of the 90th NVA Regiment and its VC cadre had apparently withdrawn back into the mountains to lick its wounds. At first light, we moved to a new position about 800 meters from the Hot Dog and secured it for the rest of the company.
From our position, we watched a CH-46 fly to the Hot Dog to resupply the Company. A couple of hours later, the Company moved to our new position. After we linked up, Frank called me to the CP.
“Your relief is in.” He signaled another officer who was in the CP and introduced us. “Take today to snap him in. You’ll go back to An Hoa on tomorrow’s resupply bird.”
I knew that Jerry Ayers had gone back to Regiment to the 3 Shop (Operations) the day before, meaning that I was the last of our class that had reported in December who was still commanding a platoon. I guess the powers that be decided I need a little extra time to get it straight!
My relief was an officer who had done a year in the Second Marine Division at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina before coming to Vietnam. He was eager to take over, and I was cautious about putting my Marines into unknown hands. Throughout the day, I learned that one of his favorite expressions was a variant of “That’s not the way we did it at Camp Lejeune.”
Another quiet night ensued. I told Frank that I would lead Charlie 3 on the morning security patrol, taking the new guy for an orientation. He agreed, but told me to get back by 1030.
We headed out at our usual pace. The troops picked up an interval of 10 to 20 meters between men, and set a slow, cautious pace. Before each checkpoint, I would examine the area through binoculars and then usually, work the area over with a 60mm mortar fire mission.
When I offered to let him adjust one of the mortar fire missions, my relief was hesitant. “Doesn’t the FO (artillery forward observer) do that,” he asked?
I was amazed and a little unsettled--I had called and adjusted about 250 artillery and mortar fire missions and air strikes in the past six months. How would this guy think that he could just let the FO, who was in the Company CP, try to call a fire mission for a patrol several hundred or several thousand meters away. And what would he think when a Lance Corporal squad leader called a fire mission?
[At Camp Lejeune the next year, I discovered the basis for his assumption. In an exercise, I began to call for an artillery fire mission. Our FO from the 10th Marines was aghast.
"What do you think you are doing," he asked? "I'm the FO, I'm the graduate of the Artillery School (at Fort Sill, Oklahoma). If you haven't been through Fort Sill, how can you possibly call and adjust artillery fire?"
He was a second lieutenant who, because of President Nixon's "vietnamization" wind down, would never make it to Vietnam. He seemed to think that calling and adjusting artillery was some arcane practice known only to those admitted to the Guild and taught the magic words and phrases. Naturally, the First Lieutenant infantry officers who were commanding rifle platoons (many of whom had commanded rifle companies) in combat were amused at such presumption. We soon put these poor clowns in their place.]
Back on patrol, I simply told my relief that it was all his now--artillery and mortar support, air, medevacs, the whole megilla-- and had him call every fire mission for the rest of the patrol. Part of his hesitance, I discovered, was that he was having a hard time reading the map. As I mentioned before, the Arizona was really flat, and figuring where you were could be dicey. We worked on that, too.
Once we reached each checkpoint, I would stop to take a hard look at our route to the next check point. That gave me an opportunity to let half the platoon get a nap of 20 minutes or so. My relief was getting antsy because our pace was "too slow," definitely not the way things were done at Camp Lejeune. Finally, I pulled him aside.
“Listen up, jack! Two nights ago, this company was up to its ass in gooks. They may still be out here, and if they are, they don’t like us very much. There is nothing at the next checkpoint that requires us to get there in record time. Do it right and we get a prize—we accomplish our assigned mission and everybody gets back to the company in one piece. Oh, and by the way, in case you haven’t noticed, we are not in Camp [universal modifier] Lejeune. Now just calm down, listen and learn, and everything will be OK. Got it?”
He nodded and we had a nice quiet patrol from there on out.
When we got back to the CP, we reported to the Skipper for a quick change of command.
“OK, XO," Frank grinned, "grab your trash and get ready to go. The resupply bird should be here in about half an hour.” It was the first time that I realized that I was now the second-in-command for real. My mind returned briefly to a hot Company Street at Camp Upshur, three years and a lifetime ago. I was actually that exalted personage--the XO.
I hurried down to Third Herd. Gibby had my pack made up. I went from Marine to Marine to say goodbye and to wish them luck. I pulled Levi and Henson aside to ask them to take good care of the new Lieutenant. Bob Henson just smiled, handed me a last cup of C-rat coffee, and we shook hands.
Levi chuckled. “Yessir, I heard your little chat. Don’t worry, Sir. If I could train your sorry ass, I guess I can train anybody.” He grinned and we shook hands.
At least I knew that I was leaving Charlie 3 in the hands of two solid Marines. Bob was nearly 20 and Levi was nearly 21. Dear God, we thank You for men such as these.
The resupply bird whop-whop-whopped in, dropped the net and then settled to ground. I hustled up to the CP and said goodbye to Frank. Violating one of the rules of the bush, we exchanged salutes and then I grabbed my gear and ran for the bird, still wet and muddy from the patrol.
As we lifted off, I noticed how small a company perimeter really was. I felt as if I was leaving my family and our little home.
We headed back to “The Hot Dog,” a small hill so named because of its shape on the map. Like the shepherds of the ancient days, we had plenty of time to look at our surroundings. The ancients looked at the night sky. We looked at the ground—physically and on our maps. Shapes leaped out and we named the ground: “Battleship” and “Rock Pile” and “The Hot Dog.”
Charlie 3 drew the night ambush, with a late afternoon patrol en route. Our patrol intentionally took us through the impact area of the Arc Light. It was unbelievable.
Imagine if you will the Paul Bunyan and Babe, the Great Blue Ox had gone to Vietnam. The ground looked as if Paul and Babe had pulled some gigantic plow through a field 900 meters wide by nearly 3 clicks long. Trees were mangled and reduced to kindling. What was left of one village revealed that the hooches had been interconnected by a tunnel system. We found body parts and pieces of AK-47s and a couple of RPD machine guns. We also found a couple of caches of B-40 rocket launchers and rounds, all of which revealed that the NVA had been using the ville as a base or supply depot.
We proceeded on to our night ambush site and set in for what was another uneventful evening. What was left of the 90th NVA Regiment and its VC cadre had apparently withdrawn back into the mountains to lick its wounds. At first light, we moved to a new position about 800 meters from the Hot Dog and secured it for the rest of the company.
From our position, we watched a CH-46 fly to the Hot Dog to resupply the Company. A couple of hours later, the Company moved to our new position. After we linked up, Frank called me to the CP.
“Your relief is in.” He signaled another officer who was in the CP and introduced us. “Take today to snap him in. You’ll go back to An Hoa on tomorrow’s resupply bird.”
I knew that Jerry Ayers had gone back to Regiment to the 3 Shop (Operations) the day before, meaning that I was the last of our class that had reported in December who was still commanding a platoon. I guess the powers that be decided I need a little extra time to get it straight!
My relief was an officer who had done a year in the Second Marine Division at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina before coming to Vietnam. He was eager to take over, and I was cautious about putting my Marines into unknown hands. Throughout the day, I learned that one of his favorite expressions was a variant of “That’s not the way we did it at Camp Lejeune.”
Another quiet night ensued. I told Frank that I would lead Charlie 3 on the morning security patrol, taking the new guy for an orientation. He agreed, but told me to get back by 1030.
We headed out at our usual pace. The troops picked up an interval of 10 to 20 meters between men, and set a slow, cautious pace. Before each checkpoint, I would examine the area through binoculars and then usually, work the area over with a 60mm mortar fire mission.
When I offered to let him adjust one of the mortar fire missions, my relief was hesitant. “Doesn’t the FO (artillery forward observer) do that,” he asked?
I was amazed and a little unsettled--I had called and adjusted about 250 artillery and mortar fire missions and air strikes in the past six months. How would this guy think that he could just let the FO, who was in the Company CP, try to call a fire mission for a patrol several hundred or several thousand meters away. And what would he think when a Lance Corporal squad leader called a fire mission?
[At Camp Lejeune the next year, I discovered the basis for his assumption. In an exercise, I began to call for an artillery fire mission. Our FO from the 10th Marines was aghast.
"What do you think you are doing," he asked? "I'm the FO, I'm the graduate of the Artillery School (at Fort Sill, Oklahoma). If you haven't been through Fort Sill, how can you possibly call and adjust artillery fire?"
He was a second lieutenant who, because of President Nixon's "vietnamization" wind down, would never make it to Vietnam. He seemed to think that calling and adjusting artillery was some arcane practice known only to those admitted to the Guild and taught the magic words and phrases. Naturally, the First Lieutenant infantry officers who were commanding rifle platoons (many of whom had commanded rifle companies) in combat were amused at such presumption. We soon put these poor clowns in their place.]
Back on patrol, I simply told my relief that it was all his now--artillery and mortar support, air, medevacs, the whole megilla-- and had him call every fire mission for the rest of the patrol. Part of his hesitance, I discovered, was that he was having a hard time reading the map. As I mentioned before, the Arizona was really flat, and figuring where you were could be dicey. We worked on that, too.
Once we reached each checkpoint, I would stop to take a hard look at our route to the next check point. That gave me an opportunity to let half the platoon get a nap of 20 minutes or so. My relief was getting antsy because our pace was "too slow," definitely not the way things were done at Camp Lejeune. Finally, I pulled him aside.
“Listen up, jack! Two nights ago, this company was up to its ass in gooks. They may still be out here, and if they are, they don’t like us very much. There is nothing at the next checkpoint that requires us to get there in record time. Do it right and we get a prize—we accomplish our assigned mission and everybody gets back to the company in one piece. Oh, and by the way, in case you haven’t noticed, we are not in Camp [universal modifier] Lejeune. Now just calm down, listen and learn, and everything will be OK. Got it?”
He nodded and we had a nice quiet patrol from there on out.
When we got back to the CP, we reported to the Skipper for a quick change of command.
“OK, XO," Frank grinned, "grab your trash and get ready to go. The resupply bird should be here in about half an hour.” It was the first time that I realized that I was now the second-in-command for real. My mind returned briefly to a hot Company Street at Camp Upshur, three years and a lifetime ago. I was actually that exalted personage--the XO.
I hurried down to Third Herd. Gibby had my pack made up. I went from Marine to Marine to say goodbye and to wish them luck. I pulled Levi and Henson aside to ask them to take good care of the new Lieutenant. Bob Henson just smiled, handed me a last cup of C-rat coffee, and we shook hands.
Levi chuckled. “Yessir, I heard your little chat. Don’t worry, Sir. If I could train your sorry ass, I guess I can train anybody.” He grinned and we shook hands.
At least I knew that I was leaving Charlie 3 in the hands of two solid Marines. Bob was nearly 20 and Levi was nearly 21. Dear God, we thank You for men such as these.
The resupply bird whop-whop-whopped in, dropped the net and then settled to ground. I hustled up to the CP and said goodbye to Frank. Violating one of the rules of the bush, we exchanged salutes and then I grabbed my gear and ran for the bird, still wet and muddy from the patrol.
As we lifted off, I noticed how small a company perimeter really was. I felt as if I was leaving my family and our little home.
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