Chapter Eighteen

The Rules of Combat

As the Executive Officer of a Company while in the Marines, I had three rules of combat posted on my wall. They were:
1) Perfect plans aren’t
2) When in doubt, flip to full auto and empty the magazine
3) It’s easier to be re-supplied with bullets than opportunities

One of my Lieutenants, a close friend, made a good point after reading them for the thousandth time.

“That’s too much crap for my boys to remember,” he said. “As my wise and insightful X.O., I need you to sum them up. Something pithy, yet useful.”

In response, I replaced them:
1) Attack.
2) Attack.
3) Attack.

That pretty much sums up why the Marines are so successful, and why Americans love their Marine Corps. Marines attack-- always.

Of all the Armed Forces they have the least men, the worst gear, the least resources, and (usually) the most hazardous mission. But despite it all they attack. The Army, Navy, and Air Force might have smarter men, but Americans love their Marines because Marines take the most real estate.

During the Korean War, the Chinese got so tired of fighting with Marines that their commanders gave the order to avoid contact with “the crazy yellowlegs.” (Marine units could be identified by their distinctive, khaki-colored leggings).

Pretty cool, huh? You’re in a war and you get a pass from combat because the enemy no longer wants to fight you? Nope. The Marines’ commanders got wind of the Chinese order, and gave the order for the Marines to remove their leggings-- and have never put them back on.

Without an agent, and lingering here holding some sort of literary Wyatt’s Torch, I’ve decided to attack.

My humorous history of the United States is what I want it to be, and I don’t need an agent to put the postage stamps on it just to mail it to my publisher. Yes, I could go back and work on it for six months, but at some point a writer has got to say, “That’s my best.” One’s writing can always be improved, so where does it end? Like planning for combat and arranging for the logistical re-supply, editing could go on for years. Decades. Forever, until they plant the unfinished manuscript alongside you in the grave.

Eventually, however, somebody has got to say, “Fix bayonets, Men. And follow me.”

I decided to attack. The manuscript was launched north to my publisher, and as early evening fades to pitch the waiting game begins. Again.

Yes, Mr. Alexander, the VIP Booth is this way…

While playing the waiting game, something exciting actually happened—it came as a one-two punch, and the feeling of micro-celebrity rose to my brain like the sound of trumpets.

First, an excerpt from my book was featured in Auburn Magazine, the official alumni magazine of my beloved alma mater.

Since Auburn pumps out about 20,000 grads a year, that ads up to about 1,000,000 living graduates. If only 10% of them are members of the alumni association, that’s still 100,000 magazines shipping to the four corners of the nation. From here, let’s throw in a reality check, and figure that only 10% of those alumni will actually flip through the magazine, but that’s still 10,000 fellow War Eagle eyeballs scanning my article. Next, I gotta figure only 10% of those folks will actually start reading the piece, because the word “Football” isn’t in the headline. That drops us down to a 1,000. Of those folks, I’m angling on 10% of them finishing the copy-heavy article and looking to see who wrote it, which drops us to one hundred. Of those souls, I figure 90% will want to kick my ass for taking up space that could have gone to discussing football, but 10% will enjoy it, and think I’m a very fine fellow indeed. Of these ten folks, I’m guessing 10% will buy the book and read it cover to cover… and it’s a long-shot, but that person might know my stupid college girlfriend who dumped me, and may tell her that her prediction that I’d amount to nothing was wrong— and that I’d amounted to, well, more than nothing. That’s exciting.

The next exciting thing came in the form of a phone call a few days later. It was none other than the director of the Auburn Alumni Association. What she said was… words fail me. Allow me to offer an analogous anecdote:

It’s a Tuesday, and you leave for work. On the way, you stop by the Zippy Mart for a cup of Yoohoo and a Ding Dong, but as you enter bells and whistles go off—You are the ten millionth shopper, and they hand you the keys to a Ferrari out in the parking lot. On the way to the car you notice a lotto ticket on the ground, and scratch it clean to find it’s a $1,000,000 winner.

You get to work to tell your manager to take the job and shove it, and the CEO stops you at the door—turns out the company needs an Executive V.P. of Client Relations, which amounts to Lear jetting around to professional sports and entertainment events with the bigwig clients. He has decided that you are that person, and it comes with a raise, a personal trainer, and a membership at the tanning salon.

Stunned, you head home to freshen up for your first trip, and discover a Publisher’s Clearing House Prize Patrol van is in the front yard. You stow the six-foot check in the kitchen, hesitate, and think, “Why not? Today is a pretty lucky day.”

You call the toll-free number for Auburn Sporting event tickets, and ask, “Do you have any tickets for the Auburn vs. LSU game?”

The operator says, “Well, that depends.”

“Depends on what?” you query.

She waits a beat and responds, “On if your time machine can take you back nine years to order them, you ignorant AssMonkey”

And yet… yes, that’s right. Your pal Mr. Drawer-Full-of-Rejection-Letters and his beloved, long-suffering bride were invited to the Auburn/LSU game free of charge, seated in the VIP Alumni Box. Say it with me: Ka-ching!

Now, understanding that a critic once dubbed me a “stereotypical, macho Southern male,” I am aware that the thrill of this particular honor might not ring true to everyone, but let me assure you of this: Every fellow “stereotypical, macho Southern male” reading this book has now stopped reading, and is at their computer furiously composing that novel they’ve been meaning to write.

Think of it as, uh… the excitement Bill Clinton might feel if Hillary offered him a no-fault divorce, and Hugh Hefner subsequently offered him his own permanent wing at the Playboy Mansion.

Surely, this would be the beginning of great, great things.

The hits just keep comin’!

So, feeling quite the V.I.P. in the eyes of Auburn, I am unsurprised when a phone call comes in from a very nice fellow—Brian Davis, the university’s director of something. He’s going to be in Charleston, and wants to take me out to dinner!

Well, hell yeah, he does—I’m a seriously important author; in fact, I just had a lengthy excerpt from my book printed in Auburn Magazine. I’m already having the conversation in my mind’s eye—

Brian: So, Prioleau, we want you come this spring to speak to our graduating class, and allow us to bestow on you an honorary doctorate. It’d be a real honor for us.

Me: My wife would need one, too.

Brian: Of course—we’d be pleased to include her.

Me: What else do you have for me, ol’ fella?

Brian: Yes—well, of course, we’ll be extending to you an offer to serve as Writer-in-Residence emeritus, dues ex machina, forty-four magnum.

Me: And the honorarium would entail?

Brian: Sadly there’d be no salary, but there are football season tick—

Me: I’m in.

Brian: Great! Your seats will be next to Bo Jackson and Charles Barkley. Do you remember them? You were classmates.

Me: Well, my years in college were pretty focused on academics, and preparing to enter the Marine Corps, but—no worries. I’m sure they are amiable blokes, whoever they are. Can I get some Auburn t-shirts, too?

So Brian and I got together for dinner, and a beer. He was very pleased with Inn I’d recommended, and we got along famously.

Sadly, Brain quickly found out what you already know-- the only difference between a Rookie author and a struggling writer is one spends their days writing, and the other spends their day begging people to read what they’ve already written. So, there’d be no money.

I did promise him, however, that on his deathbed he’d receive total consciousness. So he’s got that goin’ for him.