One thing I'm really starting to notice in the reports coming out of Ukraine is the effects of kleptocracy on the Russian military units. Vehicles have inadequate tires, haven't been maintained or moved for perhaps years, soldiers' equipment is substandard, and their rations are years past their shelf life.

Corruption in the Russian defense structure has led to what we are seeing, the Hollow Legions effect. Armor crews that don't know how to operate their vehicles, equipment failing. . .that infamous column north of Kyiv is immobile because not only have most of the units run out of gas, many vehicles are simply falling apart and there are no mechanics or spare parts available.

When I was in the 3/7th (Cottonbalers, By God!) we spent endless days at the motor pool doing PMCS (Preventive Maintenence, checks, and Services) on our tracks until every man in the squad could fix minor issues. We all knew how to break track and repair a broken tread. We were infantrymen who knew that our -113 was our taxi and shelter, and it was up to us to keep it in fighting trim.

The Russians don't have that. Instead, I'm sure that many officers and apparatchiki have very nice dachas and imported cars, as well as hidden bank accounts. But they've left a hollow army that can barely fight.

Maurice's Strategikon: Handbook of Byzantine Military Strategy by Maurice

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


It turns out that there is a sort of missing scene in Roman military history. At the end of the 4th century, the Romans still had the legendary legion at the heart of their military might. Foot soldiers in gleaming scale with tower shields and short spears and swords dominated the battlefield.

Fast forward to the early days of the 5th century and everything has changed. Cavalry equipped with stirrups are now the kings of the battlefield, with infantry serving a supporting role. How this change happened, and its evolution, are kind of a mystery. But how that new army fought is perfectly clear thanks to Emperor Maurice and his Strategikon. Maurice (539 – 27 November 602) was a very successful general before ascending to the throne in 582. The earliest known copies of the Strategikon date from 605, so it's possible that he wrote it, or ordered it written, and we only have later copies.

What is it? It's a Field Manual. It is literally how to train, equip, move, encamp, and fight a Byzantine army. There are chapters on choosing officers, how the army is organized, military law (some of which I recognized as still being part of the UCMJ,) scouts, spies, medics (who also are responsible for looting enemy bodies and turning over the spoils to their commander,) baggage trains, sieges, provisioning. . even how to cross a river in enemy-territory, something else that took me back to my days in the infantry. They used the same damn process!

Also included is a long list of maxims for the commanding general. All very good advice.

But what really got me were the diagrams of how to organize the army, from each tagma, or company, all the way up to a full army lined up for battle. Though the symbols are a little hard to make out at times, you really visualize how this army of cavalry, clad in mail, with bows and lances, would have looked as they moved.

This is a great book for anyone interested in military history.



View all my reviews

So, as we all enjoy this holiday weekend, I want to remind you of something.

I have friends buried in National Cemeteries. I have friends whose parents have a folded flag next to the last picture they have of their child. I have friends who served this nation and died for it.

This isn't about me, or veterans or those currently serving. This is about those of my brothers and sisters who gave the last true measure of devotion in the service of this nation and the ideals upon which it was founded.

This weekend is about those in the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and the thousands whose only tomb was a hastily dug hole that was never reported to Graves Registration. It's about the 22 former servicemembers a day who give in to the horrors of war and kill themselves every single day. It's about every hero who died covered in glory and every kid who died because he was just doing his job and got caught in the wrong place at the wrong moment.

Every veteran has a friend whose name never made it onto a wall, who never got a parade, and maybe was buried with sandbags replacing the weight of a body. It's the reality of the job.

So enjoy the weekend, but please remember those who died to bring it to you.

I'm a bit drunk, I'll admit it. So I'm going to get maudlin for a moment. SGT Gordon Greene, US Army, 1966-1991. Listen up Honkie, when I finally join you I expect fucking good beer on ice and you are picking up the damn tab. For once in your fucking life.

Fuck. I miss you, man.

I was thinking today about my long medical history, and how hard it has been, and realize that without the training and examples I got from my Drill Sergeants, I would have long ago curled up and died. Infantry OSUT taught me that I could go that extra mile, that what I thought was my wall was really a door to what I could be.

This wasn't in a class or on a training range. It was a process, one so slow and subtle that I never noticed it happening, the same way I didn't notice that I had added so much muscle until I tried to put my civies back on.

I'm here because a group of instructors who I would have gleefully set on fire at the time dragged me through the mud and made me perform. The made me learn to not quit.

So, thank you to:

SFC Redding
SFC Chin
SSG Colom
SSG Rearden

APLHA!
SEVEN!
ONE!
INFANTRY!
ON THE ROAD!
HOOAH!

In the light of the current move to remove Confederate memorials and statues from public places (and thanks to the idiot Nazis who have accelerated that drive no end), I'd thought I'd turn my attention to the ten US Army posts still named for Confederates. In each case, I'm going to suggest a replacement name and give my reasons for why I think that person is the best choice.

In no particular order then:

Fort Benning becomes Fort Bradley. Omar Bradley was an infantryman from the start and embraced combined arms warfare. As both a former commander of the Infantry School and the first commander of the 82nd Airborne (which received parachute training at Benning initially) the post would be well-served by this name.

Fort Bragg becomes Fort Ridgway. Matthew Ridgway commanded the 82nd Airborne through most of WWII before commanding the XVIIIth Airborne Corps. Ridgway jumped on D-Day. Give the Home of the Airborne a name that reflects one of their own.

Fort Hood becomes Fort Patton. Only fitting that the largest armor base in the Army, and a former site of a cavalry post, be named after the General synonymous with tanks in the service.

Fort Lee becomes Fort Lafayette. Only about 50 miles from Yorktown, and holding the Army Ordnance, Quartermaster, and Transportation Schools, This is the perfect place to honor the French officer, and the French themselves, for all Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette, did for our fledgling nation.

Fort A. P. Hill becomes Fort DuPey. It's a training base and General DuPey was the first commander of the Training and Doctrine Command, better known as TRADOC. Also, I just know that troops will moan about a three-week deployment to Fort Dopey.

Fort Pickett becomes Fort Morris. Seriously, the Virginia National Guard names its training base after the man associated with one of the biggest military disasters in American history? SGT Charles B. Morris earned the Medal of Honor in Vietnam and was born and raised in Virginia.

Fort Polk becomes Fort Chennault. An officer from Louisiana who created the Flying Tigers in China and epitomized the idea of self-reliance and ingenuity in battle. Which is what they teach at the Joint Readiness Training Center

Fort Rucker becomes Fort Baker. Addison Baker was awarded the Medal of Honor posthumously for his actions while leading a B-17 raid on the Ploesti oil fields in 1944. Makes more sense for the Home of Army Aviation (and we're coming for the A-10s!)

Camp Beauregard becomes Camp Villeré. Jaques Villeré was the second governor of Louisiana and before that was the commander of the 1st Division of Louisana Militia at the Battle of New Orleans. Can you think of a better name for the Louisiana National Guard's main training facility? (Yes, he owned slaves. You try finding great military leaders from that state who didn't.)

Finally, Fort Gordon becomes Fort Sherman. Because fuck the Confederacy.

What you y'all think? More importantly, what silly nicknames will soldiers come up for these new post names?

Modern Warfare’s first look shows it’s a very different Call of Duty. And that’s good.

If you run around recklessly, you will die. A lot.

A lesson that was pounded into my thick grunt skull many times during Infantry OSUT, and in later exercises. Always have multiple covered and concealed positions picked out, move in 3-5 second rushes, and whenever possible, your team moves while another fire team is providing covering fire.

Years later, I incorporated these lessons into At Close Quarters, the close-combat system for Traveller I co-wrote for British Isles Traveller Support. Once the game was released, the reports were encouraging. The first try, players would burn all their Action Points and end up hanging out in the clear, unable to even drop prone. By the third scenario, players were creeping along, using cover, and holding back a reserve of AP to react if the enemy did anything in their field of view.

Which is entirely as it should be.

So I'm really happy that this new edition dials back the super arcade shooter in favor of awarding sound tactical thinking and planning. Yeah, I need to pick this up and I guess I'll be forming a team. Of infantry vets. Kick some ass, take souvenirs, who cares about the names?

Former President George H.W. Bush has died. While I disagreed with him on many things, I respected him. I even met him once, while in the Army. The looks on the faces of my chain of command as the Republican Vice-President of the United States stopped to chat with the unabashed Marx-quoting liberal were pretty amazing.

For the record, we just chatted about hometowns, how I like being stationed in Hawaii (I lied) and the like for about a minute.

OK, I must rant.

Yes, George H.W. Bush was not the greatest president in our history, but he was far from the worst. So could people manage to be human and hold their complaints for one fucking day? We have the rest of our lives to discuss the failings of our 41st Chief Executive. For the moment, just sit on your hands if all you have to contribute is bile.

Secondly, I'm seeing a lot of whiners crying about Desert Shield/Desert Storm. For those too young, or too old for that matter, to remember, Iraq invaded Kuwait in August 1990. As Kuwait was a friendly nation, we told Iraq to leave. Saddam Hussein said no.

President Bush then organized a 30-nation coalition (including a Czechoslovakian chemical defense battalion!), a UN Resolution calling for an Iraq pullback and authorizing force to remove Iraqi forces, and moved close to 500,000 US personnel to the Saudi Desert.

This all took about four months, and during that time diplomatic efforts never ceased. We gave the Iraqis a clear deadline. For whatever reason, they ignored it. So we began a month-long air campaign, followed by the now legendary "left hook" ground assault and the 100-hour war.

Then we stopped. All mission goals had been met. Bush resisted calls to roll VIIth Corps north to Bagdad and topple Hussein because he knew that wasn't our mandate. Instead, the US packed up and returned home.

Let us all remember that as a young Naval aviator, Lt. George H.W. Bush saw two friends killed and ended up floating in the water not knowing if he would live another day. He gave Iraq every chance to back down. He practically shouted, "I am building this huge juggernaut which I will unleash on you unless I see you start making moves out of Kuwait."

George H.W. Bush, for all his flaws, had seen war's gruesome face close up. He knew the terrible cost that could be paid by both sides, and that his actions were going to create widows and orphans.

This was not warmongering. This was the very last resort.

Today is Camerone Day.

The French Army was besieging Puebla.

The mission of the Legion was to ensure the movement and safety of the convoys, over an 80 mile distance. On the 29th of April 1863, Colonel Jeanningros was informed that an important convoy was on its way to Puebla, with a load of 3 million francs, and material and munitions for the siege. Captain Danjou, his quartermaster, decided to send a company to escort the convoy. The 3rd company of the Foreign Regiment was assigned to this mission, but had no officers available. So Captain Danjou, himself, took the command and 2nd lieutenants Maudet, company guide, and Vilain, the paymaster, joined him voluntarily.

On the 30th of April, at 1 a.m., the 3rd company was on its way, with its 3 officers and 62 men. At 7 a.m., after a 15-mile march, it stopped at Palo Verde in order to get some rest. At this very moment, the enemy showed up and the battle began. Captain Danjou made the company take up a square formation and, even though retreating, he victoriously drove back several cavalry charges, inflicting the first heavy losses on the enemy.

By the inn of Camerone, a large building with a courtyard protected by a wall 3 meters high, Danjou decided to stay, in order to keep the enemy and so delay for as long as possible, any attacks on the convoy.

While the legionnaires were rapidly setting up the defense of the inn, a Mexican officer demanded that Captain Danjou surrender, pointing out the fact that the Mexican Army was greatly superior in number.

Danjou's answer was: "We have munitions. We will not surrender." Then, he swore to fight to the death and made his men swear the same. It was 10 a.m. Until 6 p.m., these 60 men who had had nothing to eat or drink since the day before, in spite of the extreme heat, of the thirst and hunger, resisted against 2,000 Mexicans: 800 cavalry and 1,200 infantry.

At noon, Captain Danjou was shot in the chest and died. At 2 p.m., 2nd lieutenant Vilain was shot in the head. About this time, the Mexican colonel succeeded in setting the inn on fire.

In spite of the heat and the smoke, the legionnaires resisted, but many of them were killed or injured. By 5 p.m., only 12 men could still fight with 2nd lieutenant Maudet. At this time, the Mexican colonel gathered his soldiers and told them what disgrace it would be if they were unable to defeat such a small number of men. The Mexicans were about to give the general assault through holes opened in the walls of the courtyard, but Colonel Milan, who had previously asked 2nd lieutenant Maudet to surrender, once again gave him the opportunity to. Maudet scornfully refused.

The final charge was given. Soon, only 5 men were left around Maudet; Corporal Maine, legionnaires Catteau, Wensel, Constantin and Leonard. Each had only one bullet left. In a corner of the courtyard, their back against the wall, still facing the enemy, they fixed bayonets. When the signal was given, they opened fire and fought with their bayonets. 2nd lieutenant Maudet and 2 legionnaires fell, mortally wounded. Maine and his 2 remaining companions were about to be slaughtered when a Mexican officer saved them. He shouted: "Surrender!"

"We will only if you promise to allow us to carry and care for our injured men and if you leave us our guns".

"Nothing can be refused to men like you!", answered the officer.

Captain Danjou's men had kept their promise; for 11 hours, they had resisted 2,000 enemy troops. They had killed 300 of them and had injured as many. Their sacrifice had saved the convoy and they had fulfilled their mission.

Emperor Napoleon III decided that the name of Camerone would be written on the flag of the Foreign Regiment and the names of Danjou, Vilain and Maudet would be engraved in golden letters on the walls of the Invalides, in Paris.

Moreover, a monument was built in 1892, at the very place of the fight. The following inscription can be read there:

Ils furent ici moins de soixante
Opposés à toute un armée,
Sa masse les écrasa.
La vie plutôt que le courage
Abandonna ces soldats Français
Le 30 avril 1863.


"Here there were less than sixty opposed to a whole army. Its mass crushed them. Life abandoned these French soldiers before courage. The 30th of April 1863."

.03 miles. That's it. It is 1924 hours and according to my Fitbit I have a mere .03 miles to go to reach my daily goal of 1.5 miles. But I don't wanna. I just had a big bowl of spaghetti. It's warm in here. The internet is amusing me tonight.

But somewhere back in the monkey house of my brain, five U.S. Army Drill Sergeants have lept to their booted feet and are yelling at me.

"Son," says Drill Sergeant Redding, staring down from his impressive height of 12 feet, "get your ass in gear and head out!"

Drill Sergeant Colom face palms and moans "You are killing me, Berry . . . get moving!"

Drill Sergeant Rearden drawls "If'n you think we are just going to let you sit there and be lazy, y'all are dumber than my dog, an' he's pretty dumb."

Drill Sergeant Chin comes up with a maniacal grin and starts shouting "Belly! You too weak Belly! You skinny man made of sticks! Walk Belly, grow muscle! Do diamond push-ups!"

Finally, Senior Drill Sergeant Swanson ambles up, looks at me, and smiles. "Berry, stop fucking up my company. 'On The Road Alpha' means get on the fucking road. NOW."

I thought I was rid of them when I graduated from Alpha Company, 7th Battalion, 1st Infantry Training Brigade, 33 years ago. But know. They are always there in my head, cajoling me to push harder, find my strength, get past that next obstacle and move out at double time.

See, I was a bit of a challenge for my cadre. I showed up at Fort Benning's Reception Center and measured out to 6' tall and weighing a mighty 129lbs. That was before the haircut. I struggled to do five push-ups in the first few days of training. I was, as Drill Sergeant Chin noted, too skinny.

The Army's solution was terrifying in its simplicity. I was put on a triple meals plan. Every meal, I went through the line twice for full meals. After that, one of the Drill Sergeants would load me a third time with proteins and starches. Yes, there was vomiting involved. The good thing was I never noticed if the food was bad because I was shoveling it down my throat so fast I barely had time to chew!

Combined with A-7-1's commitment to physical training (we took that "on the road" stuff seriously) consisting of two full PT sessions a day plus a "voluntary" PT session on Sunday mornings, which was our only free time all week, meant that the results of this massive calorie intake were obvious within a week or so. I put on slabs of muscle, my performance soared, and I was better able to handle the rigors of Infantry One Station Unit Training (OSUT).

The triple meals tapered off, but I was constantly being watched and being told that there was more chipped beef, go get a plate, or that I could grab an extra hamburger. Over the 13 weeks of OSUT, I gained close to 40lbs. Because along with morning an evening PT, we were doing more field training. Long road marches carrying heavy rucksacks, learning how to move in combat both as an individual and as a team. We were active for 12 hours a day, most days.

In the last week of training, we got our civilian clothes back. Of course, being utterly sick of Army BDUs (Battle Dress Uniform) we all put on our own clothes. Or tried to. I couldn't get my most comfortable jeans past my thighs. My t-shirt ripped when I tried to get my arms through the sleeves. The process of change is so gradual, especially in an intense training environment, that you don't see the changes. But there they are.

Down at the other end of the platoon bay, the opposite was going on. Jerome Guss, one of my fellow trainees, had come to Fort Benning weighing so much he was almost sent to a "fat ripper platoon" for weight loss before training. But Guss had pushed through and was now putting on the jeans he had worn on the plane here. He got both legs into one pant leg. There were plenty of jokes about I had stolen some of Guss' body at night, which made me wonder aloud if this meant I was now African-American.

That all was 33 years ago, but the memories are very strong. At the time, I really loathed some of my Drill Sergeants. But today, I wish I could thank them. They didn't just teach me to be an infantryman, they taught me to endure, and that where I think I have limitations is where I have possibilities. I owe them for the will to survive everything I've gone through. So they are welcome to stay in my head.

Now, if you will excuse me, I think I'm going for a short walk.

It's a pretty hot day here in the Valley of Silicon. Not terrible, that's still to come, but exceeding warm. Call it about 85 degrees right now. It's much warmer in Offhand Manor (our name for the apartment), and it will turn into an Easy-Bake Oven as the summer progresses.

But as much as I dislike the extreme heat, and it's worse since all my health problems, hot days like this always trigger a memory for me, one that explains my fascination with storm gods.

Back in 1984-85, I was stationed at Fort Benning, Georgia. Home of the Infantry, Benning was situated on a bluff overlooking the Chattahoochee River Valley and the city of Columbus, GA. It is the largest infantry training base in the world. It is also subject to some extreme weather.

The winters were cold, with rain and snow. Spring and autumn were pretty brief. Then there was summer. Summers in the Deep South have to be experienced to be believed. The heat and humidity are unbearable. Moving into the pine forests was like walking into an oven. The sun beat down like an angry god's hammer in some cosmic forge. Smart people retreated to air-conditioned homes and offices, or escaped to Flat Rock Park to spend the day lying in the cool water.

We weren't smart; we were U.S. Army Infantry.

But a couple of times a week, we got a reprieve. An event that cut through the muggy heat and renewed our will to live. We were visited by the storm god.

Picture the scene: a company of infantry moving through one of the vast training areas. You are all dressed in camouflage Battle Dress Uniforms, wearing steel helmets, and carrying up to 60lbs of equipment. Everyone's faces and arms are coated in camouflage paint. The temperature has soared past 90 with no sign of stopping. The humidity is also in the low 90s. The air is thick as molasses, and there isn't a hint of a breeze. You feel as though if you stood still, you would use up all the oxygen around you.

Your M-16A1 weighed about eight pounds when you started out. Now it weighs a ton. Your shirt is soaked with sweat, and you can feel your socks squishing in your boots. You're limited in the number of times you can drink from your canteen. Every gulp of air burns your throat.

Then you come to a clearing, and looking west, you see that someone has stolen the sky. A wall of black thunderheads, towering like the walls of hell, slides across Alabama towards your position. Flickers of lightning light portions of the clouds in unearthly shades of green and purple. Beneath the cloud, you can see the shifting curtain of rain. The storm is coming, and coming fast.

Around you, AN/PRC-77 backpack radios come to life with chatter. The order comes down: get into the tree line and stack all metal gear at a designated point. Those who have been through this a few times tie condoms around the muzzles of their weapons. Then we disperse. And still, the storm comes.

The air remains still and lifeless. You take off your BDU blouse and use it as an improvised rain cover. Nobody bothers with the issue ponchos, they are useless and hot.

Suddenly, the wind stirs, quickly rising to a steady wind. The temperature drops like a rock, and where you were near heat exhaustion minutes ago, now you're shivering in your sweat-soaked t-shirt. The air becomes like the finest crystal glass. What was blurred in the distance seconds ago is now in perfect focus.

With almost no warning, the sky goes black and an assault of rain and hail comes down. Blue-white lightning forks against the black backdrop of clouds and the near-constant crash of thunder roars in your ears and shakes your bones. Above you, the sky boils like a living thing. Lightning flashes from cloud to cloud, and slashes down to strike the proud pines standing on the hills and ridges.

And it keeps coming. The red clay dirt turns to mud, and tiny rivulets of water around you swell to small streams. You realize that you are actually sinking into the mud, and shift to a solid root. Then it comes.

For the briefest moment, the entire world turns white. A millisecond later, an angry ancient spirit, freed from confinement and hungry for vengeance, bellows a war cry that smashes into your entire body. As you blink away the spots, you hear something over the ringing in your ears and the pounding rain and hail.

Cheering. Every man in your company is yelling at the top of their lungs, and you realize that you are as well. You don't know why. It just feels right, and you go with it.

Soon enough, the front passes. The God of Storms allows the Sun God to return. You're a mess, soaked through and coated in red mud. You retrieve your gear and set to cleaning it.

But you know this is Fort Benning in summer. You know that there are good odds that the Storm God of the South will be back tomorrow.

Yeah, sometimes I miss Georgia.