Okay, Okay . . . I’ve been in a writing mood of late. I’m returning to my HP life when first joined. A little wandering inspired by your OP . . .
Your post and the Salon article you referenced stir something deep—an ache, perhaps, or a vibration in the compass needle that refuses to settle. The retired officer’s lament reads like a requiem for a republic, and I find myself nodding not just in agreement, but in recognition. His words echo the quiet disillusionment many of us carry, especially those who remember a different America—or at least believed in one.
I’m older than the author, I think, but I share his sentiment. I’ve seen the arc of empire stretch from Cold War bravado to today’s fevered nationalism. And I’ve watched the bleachers slowly empty, as the game of moral leadership gives way to spectacle, profit, and militarized identity.
I think of my dad serving on the Chosin Reservoir with the Korean War. Maybe you saw the movie, “Retreat Hell” from back in 1952. He was stationed at Camp Horn on the edge of Da Nang air base in Viet Nam tool. Flashing now in my mind is a picture of him with my cousin in Viet Nam. Two different generations doing what?
What strikes me most is not just the critique of militarism, but the absence of essence. The article lays bare our existence—our actions, our policies, our wars—but where is our essence? What do we stand for, beyond dominance and defense? Sun Tzu once wrote, “The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.” That principle, rooted in wisdom and restraint, seems lost in the noise of trillion-dollar budgets and warrior ethos.
I think of my Uncle Jack, who participated in the Berlin Airlift after Germany’s defeat. He didn’t drop bombs—he dropped food, medicine, hope. That was a military mission, yes, but it was also a humanitarian one. It asked not what we could destroy, but what we could restore. Is that spirit still alive today? Or has it been buried beneath the ambitions of men like Hegseth, whose vision of Christian nationalism seems more about conquest than communion?
Rubio’s dismantling of USAID, folding its responsibilities under a different umbrella, feels symbolic. Aid is no longer a priority—only arms. War versus ???. What fills that blank? Compassion? Diplomacy? Wisdom? Or have we forgotten how to name the alternatives?
Lazarus Long, Heinlein’s immortal wanderer, once said, “By the data to date, there is only one animal in the Galaxy dangerous to man—man himself.” He also warned, “Your enemy is never a villain in his own eyes. Keep this in mind; it may offer a way to make him your friend. If not, you can kill him without hate—and quickly.” These are not easy truths. They ask us to see the humanity in our adversaries, even as we prepare for conflict. They ask us to question the game itself, even when it’s rigged.
And the game does feel rigged. The industrial-military complex, firmly rooted in capitalism, thrives on perpetual tension. China, for all its differences, plays the same game with equal fervor. The BRICS alliance, the shifting global order, the specter of war over Taiwan—all of it feels like a slow march toward confrontation. But is confrontation inevitable? Or is it simply profitable?
I don’t pretend to have answers. My compass needle is vibrating, not pointing. But I do have questions:
** Can a republic survive when its moral compass is calibrated by profit and power?
** Is humanitarian aid now seen as weakness, rather than strength?
** What does it mean to “win” in a world where victory often leaves ruins behind?
** Are we still capable of subduing enemies without fighting—or have we forgotten how?
I offer these not as challenges, but as invitations. The world is changing, and tradition is trading blows with difference. Fear of the unknown is real. But so is the possibility of renewal—if we’re willing to listen, to reflect, and to wander a bit before we act.
As Lazarus Long might say, “To enjoy the flavor of life, take big bites. Moderation is for monks.” Perhaps we need to bite into truth, even when it’s bitter. Perhaps we need to ask not just what America is, but what it could be—if we dared to imagine a different kind of strength.
Thanks for opening the door, Cred. I’m still finding my way through it. I hope I didn't trip over my left foot, said with jest. Seems my feet has better coordination with the cadence of skipping to an old Boy Scout ditty. . .
Left - Right - Left - Right
Left - Right - Left - Right
Two old maids were laying in bed,
One turned over to the other and said,
That's all I remember of it. Do you remember those marching ditties? Were there hidden meanings?
