Master Chief

Master Chief Wilbur Witt III retired last week in San Diego. When he joined the Navy back in ’93 we had no idea he would take it that far, but we should have. At two years old he would put his fireman’s hat on and race around our living room going to “work” every morning. In high school he played in the marching band his shoes were shined and buttons gleamed. Then he joined the Navy.

Master Chief’s career was a mirror image of the schizophrenia that has overtaken America in the last twenty years. One day he was throwing the enemies of our nation into the Persian Gulf, and the next he was fishing them out. Still, as I mingled with his shipmates I came to realize that the “old Navy” is still there. They’re smart enough to keep their heads down, but as they walk down that red carpet with the ship’s bell ringing them into the twilight of their lives they’re leaving an inspired core that knows how to take care of the Uns, the Putins and ISIS, and understand that there’s just no nice way to kill people, but there are those the world would be better without.

Our armed services are not dead, but have been restrained. Elements in our society such as Antifa and Black Lives Matter work hard to disrupt America and the Men and Women standing the watch do so to protect their right to do so in some sort of perverted divine comedy. This is the way America works. All voices need to be heard, not shouted down, to develop a consensus of direction for the people, not just the loudest mob in the street.

Today Master Chief is resting in Northern California with family, comfortable in knowing that his phone will not ring ending his vacation to race back to the ship, but knowing that as he was relieved another stepped up to keep the watch and slay the dogs of war who would silence the voice of liberty. Fair winds and following seas are earned, not given.

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