Author: babatim

Retired Marine, former contractor blogging about the US military in general and Afghanistan specifically
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The Bravest Woman I Know

I have a friend named Beverly “Bev” Cook whom I have never met in person. We became friends after she contacted Michael “Mac” McNamara, the host of the excellent All Marine Radio (AMR) podcast. Bev had recently lost a friend she corresponded with daily, and was looking for something to fill her time. She had been amusing herself stringing along a Nigerian scam artist who, in his social media profile, was using a picture of Marine Corps General John Allen while begging for money because his “was all tied up”. Beverly tired of the scammer, but one day she discovered a long-form interview Mac had done with General Allen on All Marine Radio, and she found it fascinating.

Bev started listening to All Marine Radio daily in 2017, and for good reason. Mac is an excellent interviewer who has put in his 10,000 hours of practice, as Gladwell would say, honing his skills on an AM talk radio station in North Dakota. She listened to the AMR live broadcast daily but became annoyed when Mac failed to post one of his episodes to his podcast page. Bev sent Mac an email alerting him to this lapse, and he promptly wrote back, inviting her to assume the position of the All Marine Radio quality control officer.

Beverly Cook during her teaching career.

In the Marine Corps when we like each other we constantly give each other shit. We expect the same in return, and Bev, a retired schoolteacher from the plains of Canada, seemed to understand this immediately. However, she was incapable of responding appropriately, as she does not habitually use gross profanity. She came on the podcast, endured Mac’s relentless (good-natured) teasing with grace. I have it on good authority that her favorite segment was the Mensa Brothers demonstrating excellent taste and an appreciation of ironic humor.

It wasn’t until Mac developed and deployed his remarkable Post Traumatic Winning (PTW) seminars that I learned Bev had been handicapped from birth by congenital lymphedema. Lymphedema is the accumulation of fluid that’s usually drained through the body’s lymphatic system. Undrained lymphatic fluids constantly swelled her legs and arms, which made her the target of bullies when young and social ostracism as an adult. She was a schoolteacher who maintained contact with many of her former students, but she lived alone, her social circle limited to family. When Mac started offering his Post-Traumatic Winning classes in an online seminar format, she was the first person to sign up.

Before that seminar, she had never talked about herself or the problems she endured growing up with such a debilitating, disfiguring disability. All her life, she had held the pain in; during the PTW seminar, she let it all out. I saw it as it happened and have loved her ever since because she gave me, and the others in that class, strength.

Bev became a student of the Stoics, who figure prominently in Mac’s work, and she became a regular at the twice-monthly PTW graduate seminars. She had built the best life she could before meeting Mac. Still, like any person cursed with a congenital, disfiguring condition, she was lonely, searching for a community that would accept her without question. She found one headed by a retired Marine Corps infantry officer who practiced truth-based tough love. I’ve always enjoyed her wry sense of humor when participating in the PTW seminar with her. She is generous with her time, voluntarily reviewing and editing the manuscript of my memoir about Afghanistan. She is a genuinely good-hearted, loyal friend.

Bev and her Father

Three years ago, Bev lost her freedom and independence to lymphedema. She was admitted to a nursing home, confined to a hospital bed because she could no longer walk. She was forced to sell her house and car, and, because she’s a Canadian, she went on a year-long waiting list for a powered wheelchair so she could get around the facility to socialize with her fellow patients. She bore this life-altering setback with dignity and grace. She isn’t perfect, and several times during the PTW seminars, it was evident that she was distraught, but she received the same tough love that Mac gives to us all. Life is a battlefield, and sympathy is not valuable ammunition in the fight. Watching her handle a fate that to many of us is worse than death was inspiring, not just to me but to everyone who knows her.

We go through life unaware of the impact that our example and encouragement have on others. We can hope that the effect is positive; nobody wants to serve as an example of cowardice, weakness, and selfishness. Bev daily demonstrates the traits of a true warrior: discipline, fortitude, courage, selflessness, and sacrifice. Once the nursing home staff got around to helping her into her wheelchair, she spent the day helping other patients who were less fortunate than her. When confined to her bed, she corresponded with friends and posted frequently on social media about the weather, old classic comics, eagle nest cameras, and fascinating historical tidbits. Every day, she posts meditations on wisdom, perseverance, and the art of living from Ryan Holiday’s book The Daily Stoic.

On June 4th, a bed rail that had been identified as deficient and in need of replacement over a year prior suddenly collapsed when she turned on her side. PTW seminar members familiar with hospital beds had told her it was not a model appropriate for somebody who is confined to it for 18 to 22 hours a day. Bev had raised these issues repeatedly in the past, and she was ignored every time. Canadian medicine might be free, but it’s not fair, and like all free healthcare, a nightmare of bureaucratic indifference and incompetence. When the rail gave way, she fell over a meter onto the floor, shattering both of her femurs as well as her right knee.  

The Canadian medical system has refused to repair the broken bones, arguing that her lymphedema would prevent the repaired bones from healing correctly. I’d bet a month’s pay that the reason she is not getting her shattered bones repaired had more to do with cost and a faceless bureaucrat’s assessment of what constitutes quality of life years. In Canada, if they won’t fix your broken bones, they will offer you medically assisted suicide. That dark malevolence disguised as compassion fools no one, but it’s to be expected when you replace God with the State.

She has been given tight splints, but any movement of her legs causes excruciating pain. She has no idea when she will leave the hospital, no idea if she will be able to use her wheelchair when she returns to the nursing home, she now faces the very real prospect of being confined to her bed, plagued by unremitting pain from broken bones that will never heal for the rest of her life.

Her comment about this tragedy: “All I can control is my reaction.”

She has continued to post comics, birthday wishes to friends, daily Stoic quotes, and links to Mac’s media interviews about his newly published book, Post Traumatic Winning. There is no trace of bitterness or anger on her Facebook page; she has managed her reaction well. I have not. There is no excuse for allowing a patient to fall out of bed and fracture both femurs. Bev was raised in a high-trust, homogeneous society but is now living in a country rapidly becoming a third world shit hole.

What do you do when every moral authority in your country behaves immorally? When every act of compassion by the political class conceals cowardice. What happens when the political class is stripped of loyalty to their people and turns against them under the guise of virtue? The mechanisms of the budding globalist hegemony are the same throughout the Judeo-Christian West: manufactured guilt, elite betrayal, moral cowardice, and the belief that goodness consists in submission.

The Canadians who built the Great White North are rapidly being encircled, outnumbered, and betrayed from within by those who worship the act of opening the gates. Look at the picture below from a lake in Brampton, Ontario, home to an ever-expanding population from India. This is the future of Canada: public spaces polluted by people from a culture uninterested in assimilation and unconcerned about the environment.

Brampton Lake, Ontario. When you encourage mass immigration from India, your country will soon look like India.

Canadians like Beverly Cook are forced to deal with the consequences of a virtue-signaling political elite that is itself immune to accountability or the results of its failed policies. Like their American liberal counterparts, they are given safe, highly compensated sinecures when they leave office. This is why there is a growing backlash against the globalist agenda. This is why I am furious at what has happened to my friend. And for her, I leave these words of wisdom because the comfort of old Stoics and the friendship of old Marines are the only comfort she can count on as she deals with a crisis that should never have happened.

Don’t you know life is like a military campaign? One must serve on watch, another in reconnaissance, another on the front line. . . So it is for us—each person’s life is a kind of battle, and a long and varied one too. You must keep watch like a soldier and do everything commanded. . . You have been stationed in a key post, not some lowly place, and not for a short time but for life.

Epictetus Discourses, 3.24.31-36

Stay the course, Bev, and stay strong; you are an inspiration to more people than you realize, and we love you for it.

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No Kings McAllen Protest

Small, Short, and Friendly

Saturday’s No Kings protest in McAllen was well-organized and peaceful. Hundreds of protestors lined up outside the Federal Courthouse along the Business 83 throughfare, waved a mix of American, Mexican, and Fuck Trump flags. Many homemade signs advocating for keeping federal hands off families made no sense, and the professionally made No Kings Day signs were totally inappropriate, as we Americans celebrate No Kings Day on the 4th of July.

At the height of the protest, there were a few hundred people. I found it boring, and after walking past the assembled protesters on both sides of the street, I headed home. I wasn’t the only one to leave early. It just wasn’t that interesting.

There were shouted obscenities directed at passing traffic about The Bad Orange Man but no cigarette smoking because there were bambinos present, and nobody wanted to set a bad example for them.

I walked through the crowd in my Seatec SPF 50 Patriot hoody, knowing the red, white, and blue motif would identify me as one of the opposition. I encountered the opposite of hostility; everyone was being exceedingly polite to each other. Ever the gentleman, I said excuse me several times as I moved through the crowd, and several women complimented me on the cool hoodie. I don’t think the Patriot shirt does what I thought it does for the IFF (identify friend or foe) equation.

Does this shirt look right-wingish to you?

There were two Antifa Larpers dressed in all black with respirators around their necks, and one deranged-looking old woman wearing a respirator and eye goggles. Nobody else in the crowd was dressed for rioting. The white folks in attendance were mainly sedentary boomers with pot bellies and ponytails. The rest of the crowd was Hispanic, and I’d estimate 70% of them were women.

There were a couple of McAllen police vehicles staged on the periphery, a few uniformed Federal officers staged in the shade behind the courthouse, but no visible police presence in the crowd. As I walked around the corner of Business 83 down Bicentennial Avenue, I ran into a knot of cigarette-smoking men who were furious that the state prosecutes drunk drivers for having a blood alcohol level of .08 when everyone knows you’re not drunk until your BAC is in the .10 to .12 range. They were adamant that the current drunk driving laws are culturally insensitive and not shy about telling anyone in earshot all about it.

This is a look down Bicentennial Ave – the smokers’ corner/DUI protesters were at the end of this line. Note the crazy woman in a respirator and goggles. People dressed like her make me nervous.

As I walked through the crowd, the signs held aloft and coordinated Viva La Raza chants evoked a vibe of Mexican nationalism and reactionary Hispanic cultural revanchism. It is so weird walking through a crowd of young, attractive Hispanic women just 4 miles from the Mexican border that none of them are stupid enough to cross. Femicide is an enduring, intractable problem in Mexico, and young, attractive Mexican American women know it but never talk about it. The younger generation may not know much about current news or history, but they all know about the four Mexican coeds (and five male teens with them) who went missing last spring and were found dismembered in the truck of a car.

Spring Break vacations are dangerous for Mexican coeds who are subject to abductions, multiple rapes, hideous torture and a brutal death. That happens to seven women every day in Mexico. This woman pictured here was one of the coeds who disappeared last March.

I don’t understand how Americans, regardless of ancestral heritage, support millions of undocumented Hispanics demanding access to and benefits from a State they are hostile toward and have no legal right to enter.

Antifa was in attendance – the guy on the right kept his camera like that until I moved on. I guess I made him nervous.

By 1 p.m., the crowd was reduced to a few women huddled under shade trees waving American flags, and a group of Hispanic women with small children across the street, getting blasted by the sun while waving Mexican flags. Even the cattle in South Texas know to get out of direct sunlight and huddle under any available trees, so I have no idea why those women stayed in the sun, but they looked miserable.

The man walking down the street was one of the organizers who politely asked the participants to stay on the sidewalk. There were no attempts to impede traffic, despite the numerous vehicles that passed, with drivers giving the protesters the finger.

I walked around the area in the late afternoon to find the sidewalks completely free of litter and refuse; the organizers had stayed around to clean up after the crowd dispersed. That’s an impressive end to an unimpressive protest. It is safe to assume that most of the 1400 No Kings protests were peaceful affairs where people on both sides of the issue treated each other respectfully.

As I and hundreds of others have pointed out, these protests were financed by NGOs that have received millions of our tax dollars. Why is this still happening? I thought we had shut down USAID, I thought we were clawing back that money, I felt that Congress would take the hint we delivered with the election of President Trump. I expected them to complement DOGE by addressing the fraud, waste, and abuse. Where the hell is the 20 billion dollars that the autopen running Biden’s failed administration dumped into just eight NGOs?

As is often the case these days, AI-generated memes reveal a truth that the media ignores.

During the Biden era, 10, 20, maybe 30 million (we have no idea how many) desperate, unskilled, illiterate line jumping ingrates came into our country expecting a handout. They got it too from democrats at the state and federal level, and the NGOs they lavishly support with our taxes. How do we rectify this situation? Who is going to be held to account for this invasion of malcontents? How do we get our country back?

Congress isn’t up to the job, as they demonstrated with their pork-laden Big Beautiful Bill. The President can’t do it alone and is being hamstrung by the liberal progressive judiciary. The only administration to successfully deport millions of illegals was the Obama administration and we all know why he could do it without the liberal media going bat shit crazy.

Four hours after the protest ended, there was not a scrap of paper on the ground. No Kings McAllen is hereby officially recognized for being great citizens by this mention in dispatches.

When Elizabeth Willing Powel asked Benjamin Franklin, “Well, Doctor, what have we got, a republic or a monarchy?” He famously replied, “A republic if you can keep it.” Suppose we allow the 20 to 40 million illegals to stay. In that case, they will be counted by democrats in our 2030 census, allowing the democrats to establish a one-party rule countrywide just like they did in California. We will no longer be a republic but a dysfunctional third world shit hole just like contemporary California. If that happens, the chances of a hot civil war will be nearly 100%.

I cannot imagine living in California today

The Rio Grande Valley remains Trump country. The light turnout at the heavily marketed No Kings protest proved that. The premise behind No Kings, that President Trump is a dictator, was silly, but the people manipulated into protesting by progressive NGOs and Walton family sociopaths were polite, friendly, and picked up after themselves. Let’s hope the spirit of friendliness and tolerance across the political divide holds in our divided nation. I’m sure it will in South Texas because an armed society is a polite society.  

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Valley of Birds

Of the 914 bird species listed by the American Birding Association, over 500 of them can be found in the Rio Grande Valley (RGV). Eighteen bird species reach the northern limits of their ranges in the Rio Grande Valley and cannot be found elsewhere in the United States. I’ve listed those birds here, not to brag on them, but because my wife has accused me of never writing posts that are happy and positive. What could be more uplifting than seeing a Plain Chachalaca, White-tipped Dove, Groove-billed Ani, Common Pauraque, Buff-bellied Hummingbird, Harris’s Hawk, Gray Hawk, Ferruginous Pygmy-Owl, Ringed Kingfisher, Green Kingfisher, Northern Beardless Tyrannulet, Great Kiskadee, Green Jay, Long-billed Thrasher, Clay-colored Thrush, Botteri’s Sparrow, Olive Sparrow, or the ever colorful Altamira Oriole?

Green Jays are beautiful birds, but they hit bird feeders like Navy jets hit carrier decks: fast, loud, and flashy.

The most common bird in my backyard is the large black great-tailed grackle. I spend a lot of time watching the males fluff their feathers and dance around trying to impress female grackles, who ignore them as they eat bugs from my lawn. Male grackles can be annoying; they are loud and urbanized, so they mostly ignore humans while they pester females with their crazy dancing and fights with other males. They must annoy other bird species, as I often see little two-ounce mockingbirds relentlessly attacking the much larger male grackle. I’ve seen mockingbirds wear out feral cats who come too close to their nest, too. There’s a reason why they are the Texas State Bird.

The Great Kiskadee is just as colorful as a Green Jay, but more mellow and musical. It makes you feel calm and peaceful just looking at it, right?

The Rio Grande Valley Birding Festival will be in Harlingen this year from the 5th through the 9th of November, and you can’t find a more positive, happy, wholesome family event. Events like this make me proud to be a Valley resident, so never let it be said I don’t write in favorable terms about my home because I just did.

Birding is no longer of interest to me after I discovered the Hawk kettles I mentioned often on the All Marine Radio podcast were turkey vultures who congregate here in the winter—fake hawks who fly around defecating on their legs to cool off. Real Hawks move down the Mississippi Flyway to winter in the tropics, returning up the flyway in the spring. They often form large kettles flying in a circular pattern on warm thermals that lift them several thousand feet so they can glide towards their destination without expending energy. I kept seeing these kettles long after the migratory birds had passed, and often reported to the All Marine Radio fanbase that I was seeing hawk kettles after they should have moved through the area.

My wife heard me talking about hawk kettles on the podcast one evening and told me they were turkey vultures that winter in the RGV and spend the evenings surfing the thermals, much like a bunch of stoners on skateboards. Those nasty fake hawks played me like a rube, fooling me into thinking they were massive real Hawks, so I’m done with the birding. But I’m not done heaping praise on my valley home.

Just last week, ICE and Border Patrol agents spent a few days visiting construction sites on Padre Island and Brownsville to round up illegal migrants. As you can see in the photo below, these are well-paid heavy equipment operators working those sites. The response from the local majority Hispanic population has been muted. Residents of the Valley of the Birds understand why so many illegals are given such high-paying jobs.  It’s not about reducing project payrolls but the employer’s exposure to OSHA fines and lawsuits from injured workers.

Illegal labor reduces employer exposure to OSHA violation fines and injured worker lawsuits.

Suppose an American worker loses some fingers or has a foot shredded on the job site. That accident and the injuries must be reported to OSHA, and you can bet that soon after, one of the ambulance-chasing lawyers with the same digit phone numbers will be suing. If an illegal is badly injured he is shit out of luck, no OSHA protection, no lawyers suing on his behalf, he might get some extra cash to limp back across the border to heal up if he’s lucky.

As is often the case in our current media environment, memes reveal a truth that is evident to everyone not employed in the media.

Mexico has a long history of blaming its problems that it doesn’t export to the United States on the United States. This deeply rooted victim mentality has served the Mexican state well when dealing with fickle American officials from past administrations. Now they have to deal with President Trump and a cabinet full of uber competent Americans who are uninterested in fleecing American taxpayers. President Trump is revoking visas of high-ranking, obviously corrupt Mexican officials; he has closed the border, and he is going to start taxing remittances.

The ever-prescient Joshua Treviño of the Texas Public Policy Foundation diagnoses the dilemma facing the Mexican government when dealing with President Trump succinctly:

Though the Mexican regime does not particularly care about the welfare of its people – having presided over an internal war that has seen the slaughter of hundreds of thousands of ordinary Mexicans by its own cartel allies and sometimes its own armed forces – it does care for its own position and privileges, and so an economic collapse alarms it in ways that death and cruelty among its own people does not.

When a country develops a permanent victim mentality, it becomes incapable of understanding the history behind its current state of malaise and incompetence.  People with no understanding of their past will have no control over their future. That is why Mexico attempted to combat the endemic violence plaguing the country by suing American gun makers. The Supreme Court dismissed this frivolous lawsuit with a rare unanimous decision last week.

Another meme, nobody in the No Kings organization or the American media understands

Rio Grande Valley history supports the thesis of the recently published The Culture Transplant. The introduction of a handful of Scots-Irish entrepreneurs who accumulated their wealth in the traditional way of my people transformed the valley into an economic powerhouse. They gained power and land by marrying into wealthy Hispanic land grant families. I admit to being the descendant of those handsome rouges with technical educations and good dental hygiene. A few hundred years ago, dental hygiene was of critical importance when romancing comely daughters of the land-owning Hispanic aristocracy.

A book written by an academic that reflects reality, not a progressive narrative? Will wonders ever cease? If you want to live in the thrid world shit hole vote democrat.

Then the newly minted landowners spurred economic growth, transforming the once-tragic soil of the Rio Grande Valley into magic soil. They started with the Steamboat landings in Brownsville and Rio Grande City to stimulate commerce. They established safe, secure, honest banks where their Mexican relatives could stash money, accumulating compound interest rates without fearing periodic Peso devaluations or confiscation by the corrupt Mexican federal government. Anglo engineers figured out how to build a gravity-fed irrigation system, turning the RGV into a farming paradise.

The visuals of the LA riots perfectly represent the magic versus tragic soil theory first propagated by Steve Sailer when addressing the topic of white flight:

So that explains white flight: whites who lived in Compton in 1950, like those white families that included two future Presidents, depleted the Magic Soil, leaving only Tragic Soil for all the blacks who moved in, causing them to shoot each other and make rap songs about it.

I’m not sure how to explain why Compton got less shooty after the Latinos pushed most of the blacks out, but no doubt future advances in Soil Theory will answer that question too.

This is not how to win friends or influence people, unless you’re a democrat, in which case this is just a peaceful protest by hard-working people who deserve never to be held accountable for anything they do

Today’s LA riots don’t look anything like the 1992 LA riots due to the conspicuous absence of black rioters. There are some to be sure, and they seem to have cornered the high-end store looting market, but their numbers are a fraction of what they once were in LA. That has nothing to do with white people, so it is ignored by the legacy media, who despise facts that run counter to their preferred narrative about the evils of Caucasians.

The Mexican Americans in LA are rioting to protest the enforcement of our immigration laws. They are looting, burning cars, assaulting cops, and destroying property while waving the Mexican flag as if there is a reason to be proud of the history of Mexico. Mexican history is a nightmare of callous incompetence, unwarranted arrogance, and total disregard for the people of Mexico. The sole exception to this rule is Mexicans living in the United States; for them, the Mexican government will advocate, insisting that they be able to send remittances untaxed.

There are moments of greatness, compassion, and kindness in Mexico’s history. One of them was the treatment of the five boys captured after the defeat of the 1842 Meir expedition. That expedition was little more than a filibuster operation, and if you don’t know what those were, read The Blood Meridian. The five boys captured by the Mexican army were treated with kindness and affection by Santa Anta and his generals. And not the kind of affection lavished on boys in Afghanistan, I’m talking old-fashioned, appropriate Christian European affection traditionally afforded to children. But I’m saving it for the next time my lovely wife accuses me of not writing positive, uplifting blog posts.

The progressive gringos funding this protest do not understand how hot it is in McAllen in mid-June.

This Saturday, McAllen, along with hundreds of other cities, will experience the joy of No Kings protests. The social media announcements for this protest stress that they are “volunteer organized” which is absolute bullshit. No Kings receives millions of dollars in grant monies from all the usual suspects, meaning you, the taxpayer, are funding the riots and destruction of your cities. They are receiving additional funding from Christy Walton, the heir to the Walmart fortune. Like all the Walmart Waltons, she is an imperious psychopath who gleefully destroyed the independent hardware, clothes stores, sporting goods dealers, pharmacies (the list is endless) across the United States. Mexico, too, for that matter, where their supercenters are called Wally Martinez

Your tax money is hard at work thanks to democratic criminality. This Screenshot is from the Data Republican X account.

The McAllen protest is scheduled from 10:00 am to noon, and the weather forecast is for bright sunshine and 99-degree temperatures, which far exceeds the tolerances of most local citizens. The closest businesses to the planned protest site are rooftop nightclubs, but there are no Roof Koreans around here, so they are, in theory, vulnerable.

There are several rooftop bars and nightclubs with names like Santa Diabla tucked behind the Federal Courthouse. They open after 9:00 pm and often featured Mexican bands singing narco corridos, before Mexico made corridos ballads illegal. Then the narcos started killing the bands off for refusing to sing them. Now we’re stuck with the Mexican folk bands who still have visas, and they always have accordion players. If there is a musical instrument more obnoxious than an accordion, I have thankfully never heard it.

I expect American flag-waving counter protesters will outnumber the No Kings crowd just like they did when President Trump visited McAllen during his first term. But it’s going to be a scorcher this Saturday, so there may not be many people braving the heat, leaving only the paid agitators to stir up a riot. LA has Roof Koreans, Mexico has Roof Dogs*, if Saturday’s protesters try to riot, they will be introduced to a new phenomenon: Roof Mexicans. We’ll have to wait to see how this plays out.

*Do not look at the roof dogs link if you love dogs – it will upset and red pill you into supporting mass deportations.

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Desperate Times on the Southern Border

Last week, in an act that combined desperation and stupidity with ingenuity and hard work, a Narco group built a raft to float a pickup truck across the Rio Grande River near Brownsville. The raft was constructed of blue 55-gallon drums and plywood, and it got the truck safely across. Upon reaching our side of the river, the pickup sped off through an open gate in the border wall. The driver then noticed Border Patrol and State Police trucks waiting for him on the levee once he cleared the wall, so he turned around and drove right back into the river.

You have to give these dope smugglers an A for effort, but an F for planning

Several Mexican nationals then swam to the truck to recover some of the bundles of drugs; the rest floated downstream and were retrieved by the Border Patrol. The large bundles contained marijuana, which raises questions. Thanks to American ingenuity, weed in the form of delta eight and delta 10 THC is (for the time being) legal in Texas. Delta 9 is the high-inducing tetrahydrocannabinol found in legalized weed, but Deltas 8 and 10 will get the job done, especially in smokable concentrates, vapes, or ingested via gummies, drinks, or brownies.

Potent THC hemp derivatives blindsided Texas lawmakers, who claim they legalized hemp for industrial purposes, not psychoactive gummies, so this September, the multimillion-dollar industry built on hemp buds is scheduled for eradication. I’ve gone from supporting THC products as a safe alternative to alcohol to acknowledging that THC is an addictive drug that robs one’s vitality and drive while being difficult to quit. The only safe alternative to alcohol is not drinking alcohol. Still, I’m not sure closing the hemp weed loophole is the best idea because it will encourage Mexicans to build flimsy rafts and float pick-up trucks across the Rio Grande River. The Rio Grande is polluted enough, so adding trucks and whatever was in the blue plastic drums to the water is Eso no es bueno. For readers who do not live in the Rio Grande Valley (RGV), I’m obliged to inform you that it is never correct to say “no bueno.”

Why did the weed smugglers go to all that trouble when the market for shitty Mexican weed is so depressed? Granted, the border appears unguarded because illegal crossings are now rare, but the Border Patrol isn’t stupid. They watch the open gates in the wall and have a Tethered Aerostat Radar Systems (TARS) and Ground-Based Operational Surveillance Systems (GBOSS), both of which can see a long way. The federales claim the TARS is used for detecting aircraft, but I watched a contractor using one at Combat Outpost Lonestar in the Nangarhar Province of Afghanistan to smoke check a few miscreants. He had observed three dudes planning an IED on the road leading to Tora Bora and summoned a soldier from the fire direction center, who dropped some 155mm artillery on them. The TARS system can see plenty on the ground, just like the smaller GBOSS.

Tethered Aerostat Radar System Site Lajas, Puerto Rico. Photographer: Donna Burton

Even when the border looks empty, there are plenty of eyes watching it, and they don’t miss much.

Improvised explosive devices (IEDs) were a constant menace for me in Afghanistan, and they have now made an appearance in the RGV. Last February, a local rancher, Antonio Céspedes Saldierna, was killed by an IED on the Mexican side of the border near Brownsville. Mr. Saldierna, like many RGV ranchers, has property on both sides of the border and was traveling to his Mexican Hacienda when he hit the IED. His son, Ramiro Céspedes, an army vet who served in Iraq and Afghanistan, was injured in the blast. An IED that kills the driver but not his son or wife, who were in the truck with him, isn’t much of an IED. I assume the Gulf Cartel has yet to tap into terrorist expertise from Afghanistan or Iraq. Mexico imports tons of calcium ammonium nitrate fertilizer, which is easily converted into a powerful homemade explosive.

Ammonium nitrate IEDs with simple, easily fabricated pressure plates. These were recovered in Nimroz Province, Afghanistan. It is only a matter of time before these are deployed in Mexico and the United States.

In a recent interview on Chuck Holton’s Hot Zone podcast, Mexican Journalist Oscar Ramirez claimed that the Arellano-Félix Cartel in Tijuana has already imported Taliban from Afghanistan to train them on tunnel digging and IED construction. It’s just a matter of time before we start seeing the boom in Mexico and on this side of the border. It’s more effective than throwing children into the Rio Grande River (a routine occurrence during the FJB administration) to distract American law enforcement so they can complete their nefarious missions.

Our side of the border is like a ghost town, while Mexico is filling with ghosts. Last Tuesday, Ximena Guzmán, the personal secretary to the mayor of Mexico City, Clara Brugada, and José Muñoz, a municipal advisor, were shot and killed in the Moderna neighborhood of Mexico City. It has been five years since there was a high-profile assassination in Mexico City. That shootout was triggered when sicarios from the Jalisco New Generation Cartel (CJNG) ambushed the chief of police.

Murders on busy streets in broad daylight are depressingly common south of the border—photograph by Teun Voeten from his book Drug War in Mexico.

This hit indirectly targeted La Presidencia, Claudia Sheinbaum. It’s a safe bet that one of the Sinaloa cartels carried it out, targeting associates of allies of President Sheinbaum because they are afraid to target her directly. It is an undeniable fact (according to my Blanco Brujos neighbor, who knows things) that she’s a powerful Negros Brujos. I, too, am afraid of her after she flooded out the RGV in a 3-hour supernaturally powerful rainstorm.

The following day, protestors from Reynosa closed the international bridge connecting their city to Pharr, Texas. They were protesting the disappearance of five musicians from the Grupo Fugitivo band, who may or may not have been writing and performing narco corridos. Corridos are ballads that portray powerful Narcos as Robin Hood-like figures. Singing Narco corridos songs in Mexico is now illegal. Not singing Narco corridos in Mexico is deadly. A few days after the protests, the bodies of the five men were found outside Reynosa.

Luis R. Conriquez, a 28-year-old Sonoran singer with hundreds of millions of views on YouTube 

I’ve been told the mark of a true gentleman is one who can play the accordion—and doesn’t. I’m not a fan of regional Mexican folk music, but those guys have it hard. President Trump, probably acting under a spell cast by Mexico’s chief Curandero, President Sheinbaum, won’t give corridor bands visas so they can’t rake in the big bucks playing venues in San Antonio, Houston, or Robstown. If they play their original ballads in Mexico, they’ll get arrested. If they don’t play them, they’ll be disappeared. It’s not like they can turn themselves into American law enforcement, confess to playing the accordion, and request asylum.

When Conriquez announced he would no longer sing Narco Corridos or corridos belicos (warlike ballads – a term he invented), his fans in Texcoco rioted, ran him and his band out of town, smashed their drum set and amplifiers, but didn’t trash his accordions. Can you believe that?

There are over 124,000 Mexicans listed as disappeared by Mexican authorities. Seven women go missing every day in Mexico. The usual fate for these poor souls is rape, torture, and a gruesome death. Protests and vigils by the family and friends of the missing are a near-daily occurrence, as is the discovery of mass graves, illegal crematoriums, or acid bath operations. There are thousands of heartbreaking stories about mothers dedicating their lives to organizations like Madres Buscadoras (searching mothers).

Cecilia Flores, a member of the “Searching Mothers of Sonora and Jalisco” group. Photo from Israel Fuguemann of NPR

The earliest known madre buscadora is Rosario Ibarra de Piedra, whose son Jesús Piedra Ibarra was forcibly disappeared in 1974. These women lead teams of volunteers on searches throughout Mexico for mass graves, and they stage protests at government offices or popular border crossings. They garner their share of sympathetic international press, but this has been going on for over 50 years and it is obvious the powerful elites of Mexico don’t give a damn about them or their missing children.

The last known photo of 18-year-old Debanhi Escobar, which went viral and was featured on the front page of many Mexican newspapers after she was kidnapped in April 2022.

The elites might give a damn now because Marco Rubio has quietly put them in a very uncomfortable position that will cost them the one thing they care about: money.

Our Department of State is revoking the US visas of Mexican politicians, police, and military officers linked to the Narco cartels and/or fuel theft rings. I have never seen our State Department working for the interests of the American people, or the Mexican people, for that matter. They have always pursued their own progressive globalist agenda, but now their agenda seems to be President Trump’s agenda, and President Trump is putting the American people first.

The most common drug war trope from Mexico is that America’s thirst for drugs fuels the drug war. That is nonsense. What Americans have is lots of money to pay exorbitant rates for drugs. Countries like Mexico don’t have people with much disposable income but they still have plenty of junkies who pay fire sale prices for the same poison that is smuggled into el norte. photograph by Teun Voeten

He is also lending a hand to La Presidencia, Sheinbaum, by placing pressure on bad actors. Not having an American Visa is, for the wealthy elites of Mexico, a serious problem. Being on an American revoked visa list negatively impacts banking and investment, hurts business relationships, and international credibility. I am not implying that every rich Mexican national has amassed their wealth illegally; that would be rude. There must be a way to accumulate millions of dollars in Mexico legally. . . I guess, but check out the names that have been published in the press:

  • Marina del Pilar Ávila, Baja California governor
  • Américo Villarreal, Tamaulipas governor
  • Rubén Rocha Moya, Sinaloa governor
  • Alfonso Durazo, Sonora governor
  • Samuel García, Nuevo León governor
  • Layda Sansores, Campeche governor
  • Mario Delgado, federal Education Secretary
  • Ricardo Monreal and Adán Augusto López, Morena power players
  • Several mayors from Tamaulipas and Chihuahua
  • At least four high-ranking generals

According to the Gringo Gazette Alberto Granados, the mayor of Matamoros, had his visa revoked while attempting to cross into Brownsville. He denied it. But the story didn’t go away.

The Mexican elite can find other countries to bank their wealth, educate their children, and purchase vacation properties. But the modern, enjoyable, safe, and investment-friendly places like Dubai or Singapore are off-limits to them. Those countries, mui eso no es bueno, the drug business. If they’re on the State Department shit list I doubt many European tax havens would welcome them either.

Will putting the soft power screws to the monied elites change anything in Mexico? Who knows, but the cartels are losing tons of money and the head Negros Brujos is keeping the pressure on them. Mexican Marines have been raiding “mega drug labs” in Sinaloa for months now, seizing tons of methamphetamine. Fentanyl seizures are plummeting at the border, although it is unclear why. Illegal border crossings are down 94%, and it is very clear why. The big question is how long the cartels will continue to lose money before they start getting dangerously desperate and resort to powerful IEDs for leverage in Mexico and revenge in the USA.

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A Dark Spell Cast Upon the Rio Grande Valley

Famous son of the Rio Grande Valley, Joshua Trevino, the Chief Transformation Officer at the Texas Public Policy Institute, made a startling admission on the Hard Country podcast about Mexican Presidenta Claudia Sheinbaum. Joshua admitted he was wrong about the la presidenta, who is not a placeholder for the Morena party but a talented executive. She has better managed Mexico’s relationship with the United States than any Mexican president. Joshua observed that the Mexican government cannot guarantee public safety or clean water, but it is an expert at dealing with the United States Government.

My non-expert opinion is that Claudia Sheinbaum is a Brujas Negras (Black Witch) Curandera. Sheinbaum is a non-religious Jew and a lifelong leftist who reads every policy paper she is handed and is preternaturally alert for every second of hours-long policy meetings. She’s a disciplined, sober female version of Bill Clinton without the sex addiction or lazy disinterest in detail. The true face of evil can be found in any human who enjoys multiple, hours-long, policy meetings. It’s not natural.

Last week, I thought the Brujas Negras had struck again when I saw Grubhub had declared McAllen the most overweight and obese city in America. How had the Rio Grande Valley (RGV) suddenly become populated by food blisters? I detected the hand of bad voodoo, only to remember that polite people here never mention obesity or its downstream effects. We’ve been the fattest city in America for years, but nothing is done about it, and nobody talks about it, so it’s easy to forget.

The RGV has been shrouded in a miasma of black magic fog, the fog of woe, that allows people to ignore the obvious. The average resident should stay the hell out of Starbucks, donut shops, and double-fried taco stands. But every day, a new Starbucks, donut shop, or taco stand opens to serve people a few years away from needing daily dialysis. The Catholic Church should be battling this obvious demonic assault on the faithful. But they’re focused on illegal migrant rights because that’s where the money is. . . Or was it before DOGE uncovered the billions of dollars flowing to the dioceses from USAID to facilitate human trafficking via dozens of ‘NGOs’.

Sister Norma Pimentel, Executive Director of Catholic Charities of the Rio Grande Valley, greets a group of some 25 asylum seekers at a bus station in Brownsville, Texas. No mention is ever made about the millions of dollars USAID has given her. That fact is lost in the RGV fog of woe (photo: John Moore / Getty )

This obesity epidemic in the Rio Grande Valley has disrupted the retirement plan I established in 1985, following my first reading of Lonesome Dove. After retiring, I wanted to be an old, tricky, tough bastard living on the Rio Grande River. But there are no cattle rustlers to fight, and I wasn’t sure my plan made sense until the Narco wars started and President Trump declared them terrorists. There was no doubt that all sorts of miscreants had invaded us. I saw it with my own lying eyes for four years running. Suddenly, my dream of replicating Gus and Captain Call seemed to be answered until I researched Narco sicarios.

What happened to the tough, self-reliant Mexican peasant? Where is the self-sacrificing ethos of the Mexican soldiers who overthrew the Spanish, defeated the French, and fought with courage against the Americans?

See what I mean? These two fat bastards couldn’t run 100 yards but still think they’re bad asses. Plus they have man boobs – a clear indicator of low testosterone.

I live close enough to the Rio Grande River to see the border wall lights at night. During the evening, I sit on my back porch, scanning the river bottoms, just like Augustus McCrae or Captain Call, but without a rifle or jug of whiskey, because I don’t want my neighbors to think I’m antisocial. This is Texas, where many people still carry a pistol, but who needs a gun to deal with pudgy nitwits? Having a charged AED at the ready, along with IV fluids, is more practical given the lack of desperados swimming the Rio Grande and the physical condition of the local population.

Who carries around an automated external defibrillator and IV kits? Sheepdogs – I know quite a few of them and we are all much happier to bring a cardiac arrest victim back to life than shooting a scumbag trying to take a life. The savings in legal fees alone make that a winning proposition. I still carry a concealed pistol in honor of Gus and Captain Call. Reality may have crushed my retirement plan, but a man can still dream.

Narcos are not a problem for the law-abiding citizens of the RGV. Many have vacation properties in the Valley and send their children to school here. Lots of Mexicans send their kids to school here, a constant source of aggravation for property tax-paying Winter Texans. This is another topic rarely discussed in polite company because it raises the ugly specter of racism, even though skin color has nothing to do with being Hispanic. Fluency in the Spanish language determines who is and is not Hispanic in the RGV.

The Narcos are a problem for local politicians, lawyers, and law enforcement. They have too much money, and finding a lawyer, politician, or police chief who would not sell their soul to the devil (or a Bruja Negra) for a few million dollars is as rare. The only defense against multi-million-dollar bribes is strong religious faith. A man alone cannot reject that level of illicit wealth; he needs a strong angel riding shotgun. I have St Michael, who I found guarding my six in Afghanistan. Hopefully vulnerable RGV titans have a similar guardian to with which to battle Santa Muerte.

The appearance of tranquil, law-abiding prosperity is another consequence of the invisible black magic fog that infects the RGV. Everything appears normal, which is abnormal given the corrosive effects of abundant Narco money. Lifting that fog falls in the realm of spiritual warfare, the province of curanderas, now that the Catholic Church has abandoned normal Americans.

Aztecs are all the rage in Mexico, given the popularity of Santa Muerte, a cross between the Grim Reaper and the Virgin of Guadeloupe, Mexico’s patron saint. But the Aztecs weren’t Mexican Amerindians; they were colonizers from the North. Their Náhuatl language is unrelated to Central Mexican Mesoamerican native languages but closely related to the Ute and Comanche languages. History has become a profound, dark mystery because it is actively subverted in the name of diversity, equity, and inclusion. Understanding legitimate, verifiable history is a superpower that allows you to instantly cut through the bullshit inflicted on us by the elite managerial class.

Santa Muerte swag in Mexico City

If a culture that mocks tradition and devalues sacrifice fails to renew itself, what happens to a culture that calls for holy war against the catholic church while conducting human sacrifice? Mexican Narcos can’t grasp the concept of aspirational sacrifice because they are low-testosterone and low-IQ psychopaths. The Stoics tell us that rudeness, meanness, and cruelty are a mask for deep-seated weakness. You can add man boobs, the physical manifestation of low T, to that list.

Which brings up another crushing disappointment. Old retired guys can’t hang out in smoky bars dispensing the distilled wisdom of an aged International Man of Action. If they do, they risk looking like everyone else around here. Who wants to see another old fool with a beer gut thinking he’s a badass? Not looking like a dangerous man is no way to honor the memory of the best two fictional Texas Rangers in the Western canon, or the canon of Westerns. I’m not sure how to make that point. It is a vivid reminder not to base your aspirations on fictional characters created by the same author who wrote Brokeback Mountain.

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The Rio Grande Valley panics after another Trump win

Last Monday, Mexico acquiesced to President Trump over the South Texas Water War. President Sheinbaum promised to deliver between 324,000 and 420,000 acre-feet of water to the Rio Grande Valley (RGV) by October. The current Mexican drought, caused by Climate Change™ (unlike the hundreds of previous periods of drought), has been miraculously reversed by La Presidenta. Now there is plenty of water to go around. The RGV’s democrats freaked out because they know the capabilities of Brujas Negras and assumed she would send another Training Thunderstorm.  Instantly, the forecast for scattered weekend thunderstorms suddenly morphed into a weekend of torrential rain.

I’ll decipher that RGV coded message for you: “The Bad Orange Man has pissed of La Presidenta Shiebaum and she’s going to conjure up another training thunderstorm flood to punish us.

Five weeks ago, the Rio Grande Valley was suddenly inundated with several feet of rain in three hours. The rain appeared out of nowhere; the sky was clear, and the forecast matched the sky. Suddenly, thunderstorms started forming and stacking themselves so quickly on radar that they looked like the smokestack of a moving train. I explained the supernatural component of this incident in this post. Brujas Negras (black witches) are taken seriously in Mexico and the RGV, lending credence to my theorizing about spiritual warfare.

When rounds one and two produced no rain, the gaslighting continued for the rest of the weekend.

You will be shocked when I tell you it did not rain in the RGV all weekend—not a drop. Don’t shut the stable door after the horse has bolted (one of the oldest recorded English proverbs) warns not to take precautions when the damage is already done.  The flood damage was done five weeks ago. The president won the water war, and there is no reason to expect treachery from Mexico, but nobody fears treachery like treacherous.

The nanny state tricks citizens into believing it cares about them using performative gestures that accomplish nothing. Giving away three sandbags per family (six to local businesses) accomplishes what? Three sandbags won’t help when flood water crests three feet above your front door. If the floods are the work of Curanderas, why not paint your front door frame with lamb’s blood?  There are many tools in the Valley of Miracles to use in a spiritual battle. We have the Basilica of the National Shrine of Our Lady of San Juan del Valle, where you can get holy water by the gallon 24/7. Fill a humidifier with it and create an invisible fog that will repel demons, vampires, and (theoretically) flood waters sent by Brujas Negras.

There was no panic among the faithful. We took President Shienbaum at her word and were proved right. The massive amounts of rain that were supposed to hit us were pushed south at the last minute by the freak formation of a cold front to our north. The water was dumped where needed, in Mexico, where it will be collected and used to meet Mexico’s 1944 water treaty obligation.

Hidalgo County Judge Richard Cortez held a press conference to issue a proclamación that the treaty water will bring only “short-term stability” to the community. Why would a county judge hold a press conference to minimize an accomplishment no American president has accomplished since 1944? It is not like the citizens of South Texas, who voted overwhelmingly for President Trump, are interested in commentary from elected democrats. I’d like to hear his honor explain the constitutional basis for his draconian COVID mandates. But that won’t happen because he doesn’t answer to the public, and the constitution has no provisions for stripping personal liberties in response to a virus that 99.9% of the population survives. During a real pandemic with a high infection fatality rate, the public health apparatus will be focused on the disposal of bodies. The public won’t need to be forced into doing a damn thing because the evidence of a real pandemic doesn’t require gaslighting to digest. The public health response will take organization, cooperation, and leadership to motivate citizens to form teams for unpleasant tasks like dealing with thousands of human remains.

We are not experiencing that kind of leadership from the democratically dominated judiciary. The video pasted below explains why:

Spiritual Warfare is a topic that is gaining traction in normie podcasting and social media. The Shawn Ryan Show has recently featured a series of guests from the Special Forces community, porn industry, and (the most unpopular segment of society) journalists who have been called to Christ in a variety of ways. These men have remarkable back stories; only one, former SEAL, Jared Hudson, is a lifelong practicing Christian, the rest were sinners just like you and me. Jared Hudson is an impressive man who founded The Shooting Institute (TSI), providing tactical training to law enforcement, military, and civilians, and Covenant Rescue Group (CRG), a nonprofit combating human trafficking and child exploitation. He offers free tactical training to police departments. In return, they use his CRG model to run a child exploitation sting targeting human traffickers. Their methodology has a 100% success rate, and you would think it was being used across the fruited plains, but you would be wrong. The sexual exploitation of children is not something police agencies prioritize.

Recognizing the face of good is essential to easily seeing the face of evil.

The CRG website correctly points out that Human Trafficking and child exploitation are among the darkest evils our world has ever known. Over 350,000 unescorted children crossed our border during the Biden administration and were handed over to “charities” like Catholic Charities or Southwest Key Programs and then disappeared. Nobody knows where they are or what happened to them except for men like Jared Hudson, who rescues those children with his police training program. The border remains closed, but evil never takes a holiday; below is the face of evil.


The face of evil. Gloria Lopez-Corona was arrested for attempting to smuggle a druged 5-year-old boy she did not know across the border.

Gloria Lopez-Corona, a Mexican national, had a child hidden under blankets in the back of her car when she attempted to cross the San Luis port of entry. ICE officers were unable to wake the child and noted the boy was years older than the birth certificate, which Corona produced when questioned. It did not take long for her story to crumble, and she admitted she had no idea who the boy was or where he was heading. She also had no problem drugging the kid or turning him over to pedophiles.

What kind of woman smuggles a drugged child across an international border? If she is not, by definition, a demon of the worst sort, then what is she? Why are the democrats and liberal judiciary encouraging this type of gross criminality? Here is another face of evil:

More evil – Patrick Scruggs, a former January 6th federal prosecutor, stabbed a man after a vehicle accident in Florida.

Watching the video of former J6 federal prosecutor Patrick Scruggs viciously assaulting a man after a car accident is heartbreaking for me. It shows a man demon possessed, which isn’t surprising given his former job. It is disheartening that nobody shot him about 15 times, which he richly deserved. He’s been arrested, but the chances of him being prosecuted with the level of severity he showed the people he prosecuted are not high. Nobody trusts judges in America to apply the rule of law to progressive members of the legal system. Maybe we will be surprised, but I doubt it.

The Dread Coward Roberts‘ Supreme Court could end democratic judicial madness this Wednesday. The Democratic Party’s District Court judges have been issuing sweeping orders enjoining the government’s attempts to deport illegal criminal immigrants before even hearing the administration’s side of the case. We have never seen anything like this in our history. What are the chances the dread coward will re-establish the rule of law by smacking down district judge overreach? Not high, but there is always a chance that good will trump evil; it’s time to pray that The Dread Cowards Roberts finds the courage to support the American people, not wealthy oligarchs running the Democratic party.

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The Skipper Moves the Boom

This fictional short story first appeared in the Wrath Burning Tree in 2023

It was a typical Thursday night at the Taj Tiki Bar, tucked away off the Jalalabad–Kabul road in the Bagrami hamlet just outside the Jalalabad city limits. The Taj Guesthouse Tiki Bar was established by a UN road-building crew from Australia in 2003 and was the only bar in Eastern Afghanistan. The Taj was a three-building world-class guesthouse featuring a custom swimming pool that the Aussies built, which we filled with sand-filtered, freezing-cold well water. This being Afghanistan, Afghans were not allowed in the Tiki bar, and because Western NGO women frequented the pool, it was surrounded by a 40-foot bamboo screen. Bikini-wearing women cavorting in a pool with men is haram in Afghanistan and best kept out of public view.

During the summer of 2008, the Tiki Bar was busier than ever on Thursday nights during happy hour. The UN had withdrawn a year earlier, so the Taj became home to the Synergy Strike Force, an MIT FabLab, and the La Jolla Golden Triangle Rotary Club. My USAID-funded Community Development Program (CDP) was also located there. Since Jalalabad and San Diego are sister cities, the Rotarians actively funded projects to refurbish schools, build dormitories at Nangarhar University, and purchase modern equipment for the Nangarhar University Teaching Hospital.

The Synergy Strike Force was a San Diego-based group of high-end tech experts who aimed to “save the willing” by accessing unlimited funding from DARPA to refine their crowd-sourcing software. To bring the internet to the people, the founder of the Synergy Strike Force, a dual MD/PhD named Bob, convinced the National Science Foundation to fund the deployment of an MIT Fabrication Laboratory to the Taj Guesthouse, which came with two Graduate students to set it up.

The Tiki Bar had become so busy that I brought my son Logan, who had just graduated from High School, over to run the bar, allowing me to focus on supply. Buying beer was no problem, but getting it past the National Directorate of Security (NDS) checkpoint in the Kabul Gorge could be a real problem. I had already lost two sets of body armor and five bottles of booze to them, but they headed home early every Thursday, clearing the run back from Camp Warehouse long before the sun set.

There was a giant clay fireplace across from the bar for cold-weather operations, and the patio area between the main house, bar, and pool deck was filled with the usual suspects. NGO workers from the American aid giants DAI and Chemonics, two women from Deutsche Gesellschaft für Internationale, the attaché from the Pakistan consulate who had the hots for one of the German ladies, four agriculture specialists from the Japan International Cooperation Agency and the ever lovely and vivacious Ms. Mimi from Agence Française de Développement. Mimi had a male colleague who insisted on wearing a Speedo bathing suit in the pool area, but we let it slide because Mimi was a most attractive and agreeable guest who often stayed the night and spent Friday poolside.

A Blackwater crew from the Border Police training academy was there as usual, as was the brigade Human Terrain Team from FOB Fenty. There were two Air Force officers from the Nangarhar Provincial Reconstruction Team, technically in a UA status. One of them, an intelligence officer, was dating my Aussie running mate, Rory, which, in my opinion, was a lot of risk for marginal gain. As a retired Marine Corps grunt on the other side of 50 I might have been jealous; I was never sure.

The SSF crew was spending their last night in the country before heading back to the USA for the annual Burning Man festival. They were in rare form, as were the Rotarians from the La Jolla Golden Triangle Rotary Club, who were joined by Rotarians from Perth, Australia. Perth is a sister city to both San Diego and Jalalabad, who knew? The MIT grad students sent to start up the FabLab were immediately nicknamed the twins. They were TS (SCI) cleared rocket engineers from the Center for Bits and Atoms. Both were from New Jersey, both had long, jet-black hair, and smiled so much it made me uncomfortable; one was Chinese American, and the other was Indian American. They were seated at the bar with The Skipper – an EOD trainer who remained outside the wire, living with his Afghan trainees in a compound near the Jalalabad Teaching Hospital. The Skipper was a retired Navy Senior Chief EOD specialist who bore a striking resemblance to Alan Hale from the 1960s-era TV Show Gilligan’s Island. He had laid out a bunch of triggering switches he had collected from disabled IEDs and was taking notes as the Twins examined each with magnifying glasses. The Twins had the uncanny ability to recognize countries of origin and fabrication anomalies in the circuit work.

One of the Twins test-firing an old Soviet PPsH submachinegun she built from a bunch of junked weapons

The Twins were trouble from the start because they proved indispensable. We expected computer geeks from MIT, not engineers who could fix or build anything without apparent effort. They rebuilt the Tiki Bar because they found the original construction to be faulty; they built shelving from wood scraps that were so impressive, they looked like museum pieces. They got bored one day and started working on the War Pig, our up armored Toyota Hi Lux, fabricating a turbo charger and, with the help of our house manager Mehrab and a local diesel mechanic, super charged the engine and lifted the suspension 3 inches so the new tires they “found” would fit the truck. Once done, they surmised the War Pig would run hot and fast on the hairpin mountain turns, which were a feature of the Kabul – Jalalabad highway, and they frequently jetted out of the front gate to drive like maniacs on the mountain roads when unsupervised.

The Skipper was a regular at the Tiki Bar every Thursday evening, drinking exactly two beers regardless of how long he stayed. The Skipper was superstitious; he insisted on driving himself, just as I did, but he was the slowest and most cautious driver I had ever seen in Afghanistan. He also never missed church on Sundays. After documenting the Twins’ comments on trigger switch construction and anomalies, he told the Twins he was heading into Khogyani district in the morning to blow some dud ordnance at the Border Police Training Academy. Friday, a weekend day in Islamic lands, should be quiet enough for them to tag along.

 I agreed to join them to provide an extra hand if things went pear shaped so as dawn broke across the Nangarhar Valley on a scorching hot Friday I was poking along in The Skippers armored SUV with the twins. I was wearing body armor, with my 1911 pistol mounted in a chest holster, and I had my Bushmaster rifle with its 10.5-inch barrel and Noveske Vortex pig snout flash suppressor. We had discovered regular bird cage flash suppressors kicked too much gas and noise back into a vehicle, but the pig snout kicked it all out the end of the barrel, which resulted in a little additional muzzle flip but no gas blowing back in your eyes.

The Twins carried Glock 19s with two extra magazines in Kydex holsters, and they both sported WWII-era M3 .45-caliber Grease Guns. There were hundreds of old M3 submachine guns and 1911 pistols circulating in Afghanistan at the beginning of the War, and we had obtained more than our fair share somehow. The M3 was the only weapon that could be fired out of the muzzle port in the windshield of the War Pig. The poorly designed add-on armor from South Africa featured a V-shaped windshield with a firing port on the passenger’s side. But the angle of the bulletproof windscreen was so steep that the only weapon we could fire out of it was an M3 subgun held upside down with the bottom of the magazine facing the roof.  The Twins liked them because it was easy to modulate the trigger and control them when firing on full auto.

We were poking along the hardball road leading into the foothills near Tora Bora when The Skipper stopped dead in his tracks. His Afghan EOD team driving behind him must have anticipated this because they stopped on a dime, too. “You smell that?” he asked as he opened his door, letting in an overpowering smell of cut hay and shredded leaves. His Afghans were out of their truck, looking up and down the road. The Skipper looked over at me and said, “IED”. That perked the Twins up as the Skipper explained that we should see a carpet of leaves covering the road ahead.

The road doglegged to the right, crossing a large culvert that channeled a fair-sized stream under the asphalt-paved road. The road was covered in a several-inch carpet of leaves, but I could detect no blast signature. We got out of the trucks and started looking around, trying to figure out what had happened, when an Afghan National Army (ANA) patrol pulled up with many villagers in the back of their pickups. The villagers told us there is a bomb in the culvert we’re standing on. The Afghan team leader asks what had just blown up, and an elder pointed downstream and said, ‘The man who put the bomb in the culvert.”

The Skipper was called out to arm caches like this often by locals who didn’t want their children handling old corroded Russian ordinance.

The Skipper retrieved one of those fisheye mirrors used for vehicle searches from the back of his truck, along with a powerful Surefire flashlight, and gave them to his EOD techs. One of the EOD techs lay on his belly and held the mirror in front of the drainage pipe while one of the other EOD men shined the flashlight into the culvert pipe. They spot the IED immediately – The Skipper and the Twins look and see it too; a pressure cooker on a vehicle jack stand jammed up against the top of the culvert pipe with a blasting cap inserted into a hole in the lid and wire running out of the drainage pipe heading downstream.

The Skipper called the IED into the American Army brigade headquarters at Forward Operating Base Fenty, and they instructed us to stay on scene and wait for the route clearance package to lead the EOD team out to recover the IED. The Skipper acknowledged them, but we knew waiting for the army was a non-starter. They would take at least 8 hours to roll out of the gate and another two to get to us; there was no way the ANA would keep a road closed that long. He looked at the Twins and said, “let’s blow this bitch up”. They broke into radiant smiles and immediately started organizing a work area on the tailgate of our truck.

The Skipper retrieved four bricks of C4 and handed them to the Twins, who taped them tightly while he unspooled some detonation cord. The Twins then wrapped the bricks tightly with the det cord and gave them to the Afghan EOD techs. Along with the ANA troops, they glued the charge to a piece of cardboard and then taped it to a five-gallon water jug some local kids had taken down the creek to top off.

The Twins conned The Skipper into giving up his blasting caps so they could prime the charge. The Afghan EOD men attached about 10 feet of shock tube to the charge and, using 550 cord, lowered the water jug over the mouth of the culvert. A few of the ANA troops and some local teenagers had stopped up the downstream end of the pipe that was now filling with water. The other ANA troops were with the EOD techs in the stream bed, making a big show of lining up the shot correctly. Once the shot was perfectly lined up, they threw a yellow smoke grenade into the pipe and scrambled up the stream bank.

When the smoke flowed out of the pipe, the senior Afghan EOD tech looked at the Skipper, who nodded his head while putting on a set of high-end hearing protectors. The Twins and I had foam earplugs, which we fished out of our pockets before sitting on the folding beach chairs the Skipper carries around for such occasions.  With the smoke billowing out, the techs and ANA soldiers yelled ‘fire in the hole’ three times (in English) and the senior EOD man shot the charge.

The C4 went off with a giant WHOOMP; it’s a slow-burning explosive, so it doesn’t evaporate the water, but instead pushes it down the pipe at around 26,000 feet per second. The kinetic energy neutralizes the IED, and the water renders the explosive components inert. A giant gush of yellow-tinted water erupted out of the downstream end of the culvert pipe, arcing over the creek bed for about 100 feet before slamming into the trees like a wave. The water then exploded into the sky, slowly dissipating in a rainbow of colors suspended in the air for 45 seconds.

There were dozens of local people from nearby villages, and the stalled traffic, watching us, erupted in cheers, laughter, and shouts. Their kids were excitedly dancing, laughing, and clapping; local men came up to take pictures with the ANA troops and the EOD team. The Skipper looked over with a big broad smile and said to me “can you believe we get paid to do this shit”? I could not, nor could the Twins who were self-funded volunteers and not making a dime during their time in the Stan but still happy to be here with us.

The Skipper lost his dream gig in 2011 when the position was eliminated, and he moved onto the big box FOB on Bagram. His company felt it was no longer safe for him to free range outside the wire, and they were probably right. Someone in Nuristan had taken a shot at the Skipper that missed due to a low-order detonation caused by incompetent and poor waterproofing. So, despite his willingness to stay, it was time for him to go.  For the three years he roamed around Nangarhar, Nuristan, Kunar, and Laghman provinces, removing the boom from local towns and villages while making a lasting impression on the Afghans. They loved him and he, in return, posed for hundreds of pictures, while patiently fielding complaints about ISAF, the Afghan government, and various American administrations from local elders. The Skipper had balls the size of grapefruit, and he never hesitated to go into Indian Country with just his Afghan EOD crew when called.

The Skipper, like every heavily armed humanitarian I knew, made it home safe and sound after staying in Afghanistan (on FOBs) until 2015. He never talked about his free-range past because none of the people he worked with believed his stories. That was a common occurrence among us, outside-the-wire contractors in Afghanistan. Only a few of us invested the time it took to learn the language and put our skin in the game. Like the Skipper, those who did were rewarded with a veil of protection by the local people. That may have been a minor accomplishment in the big scheme of things, but it was a worthy one that came with no small amount of pride. We were able to go places and do things that would have gotten us killed ten times over had we still been in uniform. And that little bit of special pride is borne in silence by us these days because nobody believes that we lived outside the wire with the Afghans, for years, and enjoyed every minute of it.

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USAID Was a Racket: It Deserves to DEI

The United States spent 54 Billion dollars on economic development and reconstruction in Afghanistan. The reconstruction effort was a comprehensive, across-the-board failure characterized by shoddy workmanship from shady contractors invariably connected to powerful national or provincial government leaders. The United States Agency for International Development (USAID) was the lead agency in these efforts, and they are responsible for the failure of the reconstruction battle. You will be shocked, shocked, I tell you, to learn that nobody at USAID was ever held accountable. In fact, the concept of accountability is foreign to USAID. Accountability is organic to organizations with meritocratic competence hierarchies. But meritocratic advancements, like trigonometry, two-parent households, and high standardized test scores (according to the FJB era zeitgeist), were all signs of white racism and, therefore, never considered relevant at USAID.

I was the project manager for the first US Embassy Kabul security guard contract in 2005, which included the USAID compound across the street from the Embassy. The USAID staff lived and worked in a small, tightly packed compound that was connected to the embassy by a tunnel under Masood Road. They worked long hours in tight quarters, and they had unlimited access to inexpensive, top-shelf booze. Thursday evening is the start of the weekend in Islamic lands, and Kabul provided a heady brew of wartime danger in an exotic land far from home. I got an unusually intimate look at USAID officers operating in the wild. and was not impressed. They drank too much, which is saying something coming from a retired infantry Marine.

Wheat for sale in the Qala-e-Naw Bazaar in December 2006. I was inventorying wheat stocks for USAID, and every one of those 50lb bags said, “Gift from the People of Canada to the People of Iran.” No idea what USAID thought about that, as my report was received without comment. Qala-e-Maw is the Capital of Badghis Province.

I should be grateful to USAID for funding some of the greatest adventures of my life. The 2006 Winter Emergency Food Assessment of Western Afghanistan jumps immediately to mind, as does the refurbishment of the Nimroz Province irrigation systems from 2010 – 2012. But the truth is I was working with such nominal sums (5 – 15 million annually) that our USAID supervisor was an Afghan employee. He was a good man, high in trait conscientiousness and impeccable honesty, but he refused to leave Kabul to inspect our operations. He gave us everything we asked for (in additional funding) because we finished every project on time and on budget.

Critics of international aid observe that it takes money from the poor residents of rich countries and gives it to the wealthy residents of poor countries. That certainly happened in Afghanistan, but internal corruption doesn’t explain why the billions of aid dollars spent to build infrastructure and governmental capacity produced such limited results. The failure of aid programs in Afghanistan started with money flooding into the country faster than it could be absorbed and ended with the lack of oversight in project implementation.

Every large USAID implementation partner working in Afghanistan’s countryside followed the UN Minimum Occupational Safety Standards (UN MOSS). These mandated enhanced security measures included hardened compounds with RPG screens on top of massive exterior compound walls, a hardened safe room with radio communications to regional UN security offices, armored SUVs, and personal security details provided by approved international professional military companies PMCs.

Typical CADG cash for work project targeting the central canal in Kandahar City – not the most pleasant work, but it paid well

Brand new armored SUVs drew unwanted attention and were bullet magnets in most of the country. The PMCs providing protection details knew this and limited trips outside the compound walls accordingly. Nobody expected international project managers working in places like Kandahar, Lashkar Gah, or Jalalalabad to inspect any of their multiple projects. I was working for Central Asia Development Group (CADG), a Singapore-based company owned by an American couple. They had direct implementation contracts that allowed us the freedom to ignore UNMOSS rules and travel into any area we felt had adequate security.

We found that wearing a local dress driving beat-up Toyotas, living in nondescript local compounds, and minimizing the use of English when out and about gave us the ability to safely move around contested districts. CADG Provincial managers closely supervised all projects, most of which were simple cash-for-work public works projects. We were working in highly kinetic districts in Kandahar, Helmand, Paktia, Khost, Nimroz, and Uzgon Provinces, so we traveled armed.

Panjwayi Tim (on the left and cropped out on his request) rapping some of our Gaardez workers in Pashto. Notice how the Afghan men in this completely Taliban-dominated town reacted to us when we showed up to inspect projects or pay our workers. Panjwayi Tim was out of Kandahar, and also my boss in 2009 and always happy to help out on paydays (which were dangerous).

Our projects were manpower intensive, so paydays involved Retrieving between $70,000 to $100,000 in American dollars from a local bank, driving it to a company compound, and converting it into low-denomination Afghani. Transporting suitcases full of Afghani to the payday site, which was normally the city mayor’s compound. Then, holding a pay call for 5,000 Afghan laborers. Moving large sums of money around Jalalabad, Lashka Ghar, or Kandahar was inherently dangerous. Moving large amounts out into rural projects or deep into the Dasht-e Margo (Desert of Death, which was an intensely cool place to visit) was even more dangerous.

Our USAID manager in Kabul steadily increased our annual budgets and approved every project we submitted. I was moved down to Lashkar Gah in 2010 to be the Southwest Regional Manager for the USAID-funded Community Development Program. There was a USAID officer stationed with the British PRT there who immediately reprimanded me for carrying a pistol. He then explained to me how project approvals were now going to work because the British Aid Agency was in charge, and they had different protocols for project approval. The next day, I flew out to Camp Leatherneck to talk to the Marines. I was sent to the G9 and told him I had 20 million in USAID Community Development funds and planned to spend all of it in Nimroz Province, where the Brits and USAID had no say in what I did.

The only way to earn a seat at this table is consistent, competent performance over a span of years, not months. The idea of leaving a protected firm base to participate in culturally enriching events like the gladiator fights that dedicated this fine stadium my team and I built was inconceivable to USAID managers.
We didn’t really see gladiator fights but impressive Taekwondo demonstrations from the local youth clubs.

I was a big fan of the governor of Nimroz, Abdul Karim Brahui. Governor Brahui was a graduate of the Kabul military academy who founded and commanded the Jabha-e Nimruz (Nimroz Front) as part of the Mujahedeen Southern Alliance against both the Soviet army and the Taliban. He was a lead-from-the-front commander and the rare Afghan politician who concerned himself more with the people’s problems than accumulating additional power and wealth.

Explaining my understanding of how USAID works to the Governor of Nimroz Province

Governor Brahui was as close to an honest politician as one could be in Zaranj, given that the local economy revolved around plastic jerry cans. They were used to smuggle petrol or heroin across the border or to haul water from various sources for sale to one of the two municipal water treatment plants. Teenage boys selling petrol or diesel out of 5-gallon jerry cans dotted every major road in the city. The only way to generate income in Nimroz was to fix their massive, district-level irrigation systems.

We built a large main irrigation canal in Charborjak district that extended 56 kilometers and services every farming hamlet in the district. We were going to do 60 kilometers but ran into a minefield at the tail end of the canal and could not find a way around it.

The easiest and fastest project was the Chakhansor district because the Khashrod River, which fed the irrigation system, was dry for most of the year. Using 1,500 local laborers, we rehabilitated 300 kilometers of canals and rebuilt a 170-meter reinforced concrete check dam to capture the spring run-off. The Chakhansor irrigation system served 7,200 farms, and the first post-project wheat and melon harvests yielded outputs three times greater than pre-project averages. The Baloch of Nimroz no longer had to import melons from Kandahar, and if you knew how much Afghans love melons (which are excellent), you would understand the significance of that accomplishment, and we weren’t even getting started.

Opening ceremonies for the Charborjak irrigation system.

The Chakhansor district project was completed by Mullah John while I was still in Jalalabad. With the large fiscal year 2010 budget, we could do both Charborjak and Kang districts simultaneously, which would mitigate some of the heavy equipment costs. That year, we built 400 miles of irrigation canals, turning 25,000 acres of the Dasht-e Margo into highly productive farmland, allowing the Baloch to get in on the poppy boom. We hired over 18,000 workers to dig these canals in the middle of the desert where the temperature could hit 120° daily.

Opening the Kang district irrigation system.

The key to completing these so quickly was we were replacing systems, not building new ones, and we hired as many of the engineers who had built the original weirs and dams as we could find. The only problem with this massive project was the USAID stipulation that no material originating from Iran could be used in the construction. Instead of using high-quality Iranian concrete at $5.00 per 50lb bag, we were supposed to import low-quality concrete from Pakistan, which the State Department insisted was our ally. We worked around that somehow, I don’t remember the details, and finished on time and on budget. But we had a problem: the Helmand River was low due to maintenance at the Kajaki Dam, so our new intake check dam dammed the damn river.

We arrive at the ceremony site – you can see dust trails from the escorts who have been working the flanks and are just now crossing the Helmand. Which is dry downstream. Because we built a check dam that is apparently checking the entire river at the moment.

Only after I inadvertently dammed the Helmand River did USAID and the Brits in Lashkar Gah find out I had built two regional irrigation systems, and they were furious. But I had been working for the Marines, and the Colonel running the G9 shop ran cover for me because that’s what Marines do. He also attacked USAID for not doing anything in Nimroz Province except cancel the one Women Empowerment Program that actually worked. The Baloch people dominated Nimroz Province, and they had different cultural expectations for their women who wore the Iranian Chador, not the Afghan Burqa

One of our Zaranj students in our USAID-sponsored rug weaving class. We ran several training programs for women that were ended by USAID, who wanted us to stop training women in order to “build capacity,” whatever that meant.
This takes arrogance and hubris to new levels, revealing exactly how reckless USAID officials were in producing propaganda that enraged local Afghans. Rather than spend a few thousand dollars setting up Afghan women to run their own beauty shops or rug-weaving companies, we spent millions on a handful of elite young women to participate in a meaningless feel-good competition that placed their families and everyone associated with the effort in mortal danger when we cut and ran.
I’m all about providing technical training to Afghan kids of both genders, but you have to do this from the ground up, not the top down. Jalalabad kids in the MIT-sponsored FabLab. August 2008
This little girl would have never received a minute of academic instruction if it were not for the MIT grad students who ran the FabLab. She damn sure would have never received the opportunity to be on a USAID-sponsored computer team, although she developed skills that could have got her a spot; her parents were dirt poor farmers, not connected Kabul elites.

USAID did a great job taking money from the poor residents of America and giving it to the wealthy residents of Afghanistan. They spent 20 years inside a little Kabul compound from which they never ventured and created an alternative reality for themselves where workshops on women’s rights and protections for the LGBTQ community made perfect sense. They endangered the lives of the elite children they showcased in international events like the robotic competitions while ignoring the needs of the rest of the children in Afghanistan. USAID will disappear from the international stage without a whimper; they will not be missed, and hopefully, most of them will find their way into 12-step programs. Fat, drunk, and stupid is not a recipe for the good life, and there are thousands of swamp creatures about to find that out.

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Charity is a Racket

The Catholic Relief Charities scam has finally gained the attention of the legacy media. Not for the billions of federal tax dollars they have been given but a video from Catholic Charities of the Archdiocese of Milwaukee on how to avoid ICE detention.  Lawyer Barb Graham made the video, and she opens with the following:  

“All people living in the United States, including people who are undocumented, have certain rights under the United States Constitution,” 

That is total bull-Schiff. Illegal aliens have no constitutional rights because they are not citizens of the United States. But that’s not the issue that the public has focused on; it’s the 2.9 Billion taxpayer dollars that FJB gave the charities sex-traffic women and children on behalf of Mexican drug cartels. But this tawdry situation was remedied this morning by the Secretary of Homeland Security, who cut all government funding to NGOs and religious charities that have been making bank on trafficking illegal migrants. The government is not known for the timely payment of invoices, and I doubt those currently being processed will be paid.

Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem is heading out into the wilds of New York City, leading ICE raids. After this demonstration of competent leadership, she returned to DC and cut all the funding to the NGOs who have facilitated four years of open border madness. Photo from Reuters January 28, 2025

Catholic Charities is a tax-exempt charity, which means we can see its financials on Charity Navigator. Charity Navigator loves Catholic Charities, designating them a 100% four-star charity. But there is an obvious discrepancy in the financials. A 2021 ProPublica audit of Catholic Charities USA concluded:

The group’s local affiliates were taking in a total of nearly $2.9 billion annually from the government — representing about 62% of its $4.67 billion annual revenue.

Charity Navigator lists Catholic Charities USA’s 2021 revenue as 50 million. ProPublica contends it was 4.67 Billion. Clearly, shenanigans are happening at Charity Navigator, which is a shame; I once trusted that site. But who cares about Charity Navigator? I’d like to know how Catholic Charities accounts for the disbursement of 4.67 billion dollars. That is a mountain of money; there is a slim chance that Catholic Charities can account for it.

These are Catholic Charities financials on the Charity Navigator website.
These are the federal tax dollars given to Catholic Charities according to the website usaspending.gov

Catholic Charities USA President Kerry Robinson issued a statement yesterday saying:

“The millions of Americans who rely on this life-giving support will suffer due to the unprecedented effort to freeze federal aid supporting these programs,”

Even more bull-Schiff that reveals the profound disconnect between words and action in the “humanitarian” space. It is clear from the actions of Catholic Charities that they are not concerned with the plight of poor Americans. If they were, they would not be facilitating the influx of tens of millions of dirt-poor, unskilled migrants who are controlled, exploited and abused by the drug cartels who trafficked them across the border. These migrants will drive down wages, drive up crime and housing while straining public schools and other municipal resources. All of these follow on effects impact working class Americans, not the elites who head tax exempt charities or billion dollar NGO’s.

Catholic Charities RGV is closed in McAllen, and now that Section 212(f) of the Immigration and Nationality Act has been invoked, every illegal the Border Patrol catches is bounced back across the border the same day.

So what motivates the “humanitarians” of Catholic Charities USA? It’s not caring for the poor . . . obviously. They may have a few under-resourced programs for the poverty-stricken in the Rio Grande Valley, but the FJB administration wasn’t paying them billions to spend on poor American citizens. That money was to facilitate a massive flow of unvetted aliens from 130 different countries who will draw massive resources away from the American citizens who needed it the most. Using dirt-poor migrants to enrich well-heeled, connected democrat cronies is not something the American taxpayer should tolerate, let alone fund.

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A Bittersweet Veterans Day

Election Day was long and busy as I was the judge for the Cayetano Cavazos Elementary School polling station. This is a blue county, and I was appointed an election judge because I was one of the few Republicans who volunteered to work the polls. Shout out to the Vet the Vote organization, which is where I got the idea to volunteer. Regardless of political affiliation, the people working this election were professional, conscientious, and pleasant to be around. It was a fantastic experience.

Throughout election day, I was asked if I was a veteran, and when I confirmed I was a retired Marine, I was thanked for my service. That made me uncomfortable because our failure to win the Global War on Terrorism has left this country in much greater peril than it was in 2001. Not only did we do exactly what Osama bin Ladin predicted, which was to fight a long war we could never win, only to withdraw in humiliating disgrace. But we degraded our military capabilities and are now ruining the fighting spirit of the fighting men at the pointed end of the spear.

Our military is a broken, demoralized joke that cannot meet its recruiting or retention goals. When I enlisted in the Navy in 1978, the military was considered a hollow force, but that force was full of mean bastards who could fight. And we had the ships, combat aircraft, and officer corps required to take those rowdy misfits into a fight and crush any other adversary in the world. Now, we have a diverse force with women in the infantry and trans moralism making a mockery of the profession of arms. We no longer have the sea lift or aircraft to meet our peacetime obligations, let alone fight a peer-level war.

Battalion Landing Team 1/9 exercising in Australia during the summer of 1987. The Marine Corps can no longer insert and sustain a battalion in the field from Amphibious shipping. A task that was routine when I was on active duty. Photograph of 2ndLt Lynch and my radioman LCpl Kline courtesy of Marines magazine.

Our Navy has shrunk to the point it can no longer control the busiest shipping lane in the world. Instead of using the Red Sea, commercial ships are now re-routed around the horn of Africa, adding 3500 nautical miles to their transit, which takes 12 extra days and a million extra fuel dollars per trip. The Navy can only field 12 Amphibious ships worldwide because a former Marine Corps Commandant reduced the number of amphibious ships the Navy was required to maintain from 38 to 31. He did this to free up money for the Navy to build a new class of ships called Landing Ship Medium, which would support his Force Design 2030 plan. Those ships have not been designed, funded, or built and will never be because of this harsh rebuke from the Congressional Research Service over the ludicrous FD 2030 concept.

The Navy/Marine Corps team can no longer perform the missions they have been assigned for the past 85 years. Now that President Trump is returning, Congress suddenly has buyer’s remorse for agreeing to the radical reorganization it allowed under the commandants Berger and Smith. This article by a former mentor to officers of my generation, Colonel Gary Anderson, USMC (Ret), sums up the state of play well. I’m pasting his last two paragraphs below because they describe exactly how we ended up with a broken Marine Corps.

There are two types of incompetents, active and passive. Active incompetents don’t know they are incompetent. They are dangerous because they don’t know they are incompetent. They are dangerous because they act on the zany ideas. Passive incompetents know that they don’t know what they are doing. They are dangerous because they tend to defer to the active incompetents.

Berger and Smith are active incompetents. Biden and Congress have been passive incompetents. Shame on them. If Congress acted today to repair the Navy and Marine Corps and return it back to 2018 capabilities, it would take at least a decade to recover. Our civilian leaders were sold snake oil, and the rubes bought it.

Those same rubes are now plotting to undermine President-elect Trump. These are the same people who had no problem abandoning Bagram airbase when FJB arbitrarily and recklessly cut the troop numbers in Afghanistan. Without Bagram, there was no way to extricate ourselves from Afghanistan in an orderly manner. Everyone (not inside the Pentagon) who knew anything about Afghanistan recognized that total abdication of service stewardship. The resulting fiasco in Kabul was as easy to predict as it was uncomfortable to watch.

General Furness and Mac hosting me for the 2011 Marine Corps Birthday at Camp Dwyer in the southern Helmand province

However, all is not lost because these two fighting generals, LtGen Dave Furness, USMC (Ret) and MajGen Dale Alford, USMC (Ret), who know how to train and lead Marines, may have been sidelined, but they are not forgotten. They are featured in this All Marine Radio podcast that dropped yesterday, and listening to them is a tonic for the souls of concerned military professionals. It is worth listening to if you (like me) are alarmed by the current state of our military and think the current crop of general officers are a collection of sycophantic yes-men. LtGen Furness tells me the other services still have talent hidden in their flag officer ranks, too, which is remarkable given the ongoing war on competence being waged by DoD diversity/equity mandarins.

I made the mistake of listening to this while lifting weights and damn near broke my back when LTGen Furness popped off with, “I’m just happy somebody gives a shit about what I have to say.” Listening to two of the best generals of my generation will instill some much-needed confidence in today’s broke-ass military.

Have a Happy Veterans Day, and let us hope the incoming Trump administration taps these two retired generals or others just like them to resuscitate our broken, demoralized military.

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