A successful elk season has come and gone. Elk season isnât just about the harvest, or packing heavy loads out of the mountains, though those activities are often involved.
Elk season is communion. With the mountain, and with each other. Itâs a time of remembrance. Checking on kids and wives. Eating and drinking together. You might hunt with someone you see often, or someone you havenât seen in ten years.
Nearly every hunter in the camps I frequent is a veteran. We tell old war stories, curse aging, lament losses. We help each other hunt. We carry heavy loads on our backs for each other. We share food, water, motivation.
This year, like most years, military service comes up. Every member is proud to have served. Proud of the combat capability we generated for America.
But we also talk about whatâs changing. Fewer kids can pass a military physical. Fewer towns send their sons and daughters to serve. The gap between those who defend America and those who benefit from it keeps widening.
So this week weâre sharing three stories we talked about in camp this year. Stories about opportunity, about standards, about the investment required to maintain both.
No old personal war stories though. To hear those, you have to come to camp.
The Story of Audie Murphy
June 1925. Hunt County, Texas. Audie Leon Murphy is born in a sharecropperâs shack outside Kingston. And when I say shack, I mean it had a dirt floor. No electricity. No running water. His father, Pat Murphy, was a sharecropper who worked other menâs land for a cut of the cotton crop. His mother, Josie, bore twelve children. Nine survived infancy.
The Depression hits Texas like a hammer. Pat Murphy starts disappearing, for days at first, then weeks. Heâs drinking, chasing work that doesnât exist, abandoning his family in slow motion. Audie is the sixth child, small for his age, but he becomes the provider. At age twelve, heâs dropping out of school to pick cotton. A dollar a day if heâs fast. He hunts rabbits and squirrels with a borrowed rifle to keep his siblings fed. He becomes an excellent shot because he has to be. Every missed shot is a missed meal.
Audie is sixteen. His mother dies of complications from malnutrition, exhaustion, and poverty. The family disintegrates. The younger children are farmed out to relatives and an orphanage. Audie and his older brother pick cotton and sleep in barns to survive. Pat Murphy is long gone, fully vanished now. Audie weighs maybe 110 pounds. He looks barely fourteen.
December 7, 1941.
Audie Murphy decides to enlist. Heâs seventeen, has a fifth-grade education, and weighs 112 pounds soaking wet. He tries the Marines first. The recruiter takes one look at this skinny kid with hollow cheeks and laughs him out of the office. âCome back when youâve grown some, son.â
He tries the paratroopers. Rejected. Too small.
He tries the Navy. Rejected.
His sister helps him falsify his birth certificate to prove heâs eighteen. He tries the Army. June 1942. The recruiter is skeptical, but the Army needs bodies. They take him. Private Audie Murphy. 112 pounds. Five-foot-five. Baby-faced. Assigned to the 15th Infantry Regiment, 3rd Infantry Division.
They ship him to North Africa in 1943. Then Sicily. Then Italy. The kid can shoot! Everyone notices immediately. Heâs calm under fire in a way that unnerves the older soldiers. No hesitation. At Anzio, he kills two Italian officers attempting to escape, drops them both at distance with a carbine. His platoon sergeant gets wounded. Murphy takes over, leads the men through German positions, takes prisoners. Heâs nineteen years old.
Southern France, 1944.
The 3rd Division lands at Saint-Tropez, pushes north. Murphyâs collecting medals now. Bronze Star, then another. Silver Star. His superiors keep promoting him. Corporal. Sergeant. Staff Sergeant. Heâs still barely old enough to vote. His friends keep dying. He keeps replacing them, learning their names, watching them die, replacing them again.
One night in the Vosges Mountains, Murphyâs best friend, a man named Lattie Tipton, gets killed by German machine gun fire, cut nearly in half. The Germans had been waving a phony white flag of surrender. His death hardens Murphy.
By late 1944, Murphy has a Distinguished Service Cross and battlefield commission to Second Lieutenant. The sharecropperâs son from the dirt-floor shack is now an officer. Heâs twenty years old and has personally killed approximately 240 enemy soldiers, though he doesnât brag about it, doesnât talk about it much at all.
January 26, 1945. The Colmar Pocket, Alsace, France. Temperature near zero. Murphyâs company of 128 men gets orders to hold a position near the town of Holtzwihr against a German counterattack. Six Panzer tanks. Over 250 infantry. Murphy has about 40 effective soldiers left; the rest are wounded or dead.
The Germans attack. Murphy orders his men to fall back to the woods. He stays forward with his artillery observer to direct fire. A German tank shell hits an American M10 tank destroyer near Murphyâs position. It catches fire, ammunition cooking off. The artillery observer is wounded and runs. Murphy is alone.
He climbs onto the burning M10.
Understand that the tank destroyer is on fire. Fuel tanks could explode any second. The Germans can see him, one man, silhouetted against burning metal. He grabs the M2 Browning .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the turret. Itâs loaded.
For the next hour, Audie Murphy stands on a burning tank destroyer and kills Germans.
Heâs wounded in the leg but ignores it. The radio headset lets him call fire missions to his artillery battery while heâs shooting. German infantry gets within ten yards. He kills them. The Panzers fire at him and miss. He swivels the .50 cal, rakes their supporting infantry, calls in artillery to adjust fire onto the tanks. Rounds are snapping past his head. The tank destroyer is still burning under his feet.
Finally, his ammunition gone, Germans retreating, Murphy climbs down. He walks back to his men. Refuses medical attention until heâs reorganized the defensive line. The citation for his Medal of Honor says he killed or wounded approximately 50 German soldiers during that hour. Some historians think it was more.
The war ends three months later.
Audie Murphy, now Lieutenant Murphy, became the most decorated combat soldier of World War II. Twenty years old, three Purple Hearts, and the Medal of Honor.
The Army sends him on a publicity tour. Life Magazine does a spread. In Hollywood, he meets James Cagney, who suggests Murphy try acting. Heâs got the face for it, still baby-faced, unthreatening. Universal Pictures offers a contract.
Murphy uses his GI Bill benefits to take acting lessons. Heâs awkward at first, uncomfortable with the attention. But he works. Makes his first film in 1948. Over the next two decades, he appears in forty-four films, mostly westerns. In 1955, he plays himself in âTo Hell and Back,â adapted from his memoir. It becomes Universalâs highest-grossing film until âJawsâ twenty years later.
The military gave Audie Murphy what poverty never could. Training, discipline, purpose, opportunity. He buys a house in California. Invests in oil wells and breeding horses. Brings his siblings out of Texas, sets them up, breaks the generational cycle. The sharecropperâs children become middle-class Americans.
But Murphy never pretends military service is easy or cost-free.
He has nightmares. Sleeps with a loaded pistol under his pillow. His first marriage collapses; his wife says he wakes up screaming and unreachable. He struggles with what we now call PTSD, what they called âbattle fatigueâ or âshell shockâ then. The VA doesnât know how to treat it. Most veterans donât talk about it.
Murphy talks about it.
He testifies before Congress. Uses his celebrity to advocate for veterans with psychological wounds. Pushes for better VA funding, better mental health care, better recognition that war doesnât end when the shooting stops. Heâs open about his own struggles in ways that are radical for the 1950s and â60s. A Medal of Honor recipient admitting heâs damaged, that he needs help.
May 28, 1971. Murphy is flying from Atlanta to Virginia in a private plane. Bad weather. The plane crashes into Brush Mountain near Roanoke, Virginia. Audie Murphy dies on impact. Heâs forty-six years old.
They bury him at Arlington National Cemetery with full military honors. His grave: Section 46, Grave 366-11, becomes the second most-visited site at Arlington after President John F. Kennedyâs. People still leave medals, coins, flowers. They leave notes thanking him.
From a dirt-floor shack in Hunt County to Arlington. From a dollar a day picking cotton to Captain. From fifth-grade dropout to college courses on the GI Bill. From generational poverty to homeowner, breadwinner, advocate.
The military didnât just give Audie Murphy a paycheck. It gave him a ladder. And he climbed it all the way to the top.
Murphyâs story isnât unique in American history. The military has always been the most reliable ladder out of poverty America offers. Training. Discipline. Purpose. Healthcare. Education benefits. A path to homeownership. A chance to break the cycle.
Nearly every veteran has some version of Murphyâs story. Maybe not Medal of Honor level, but the same trajectory: grew up poor, served, came out qualified for something better. The GI Bill. VA home loan. Skills that translate to civilian work. A network of people whoâve supported you along the way.
The men around the fire this year talked about this openly. The financial benefits. The medical coverage their families needed. The education they couldnât have afforded otherwise. The home they were able to buy. None of them are ashamed of it. They earned it. They carried loads, literal and metaphorical, that many Americans will never carry.
But thereâs a disconnect. We know this ladder works. We are living proof that it works. But back home, many of us see generational poverty, families stuck on social programs for decades, with no clear way out. The very cycle Audie Murphy was born into.
Murphyâs transformation wasnât an accident. It required an intervention. The Army was that intervention. It grabbed him, gave him structure, and demanded he meet a standard.
This led to a hard idea we talked about in camp. If America is serious about willfully breaking the cycle of poverty for kids growing up on social programs, why would we leave the single most effective tool we have, military service, up to chance?
The proposal that came up: What if we connect them? If a family receives federal assistance, the ladder of military service isnât just an option, itâs the mechanism. Two years of service becomes the pathway to breaking that cycle for good.
Not as punishment. As opportunity. As a deliberate investment. As the most proven pathway out of generational poverty America has. You get training. Discipline. Healthcare. Education benefits. A pathway to homeownership. The same ladder Murphy climbed.
Service is never cost-free. Murphy proved that, too. The nightmares. The broken marriage. The PTSD he carried until the day he died. Some men climb the ladder and make it to the top. Some donât make it at all.
We shouldnât pretend otherwise.
But the alternative, generational poverty with no ladder at all, is worse. Murphy knew that. The veterans in camp know it.
The ladder works.
But Murphyâs transformation only worked because the institution he joined was uncompromising. The military didnât just give him opportunity; it demanded capability. That transformation is only possible if the standards at the other end meet Americaâs needs.
The Story of Chosin Reservoir
November 1950. North Korea. The Korean War is four months old.
General Douglas MacArthur has pushed north from the Pusan Perimeter all the way to the Yalu River, the border with China. Heâs told President Truman the war will be over by Christmas. The troops will be home for the holidays.
The 1st Marine Division, roughly 15,000 men, is deployed around the Chosin Reservoir in northeast Korea. Itâs mountainous terrain, remote, brutal. The temperature is already dropping below zero at night.
The Marines donât know it yet, but 120,000 Chinese troops have crossed the Yalu River and are surrounding them. The Chinese have been moving at night, in complete silence, avoiding roads. American intelligence has no idea theyâre there.
November 27, 1950. Night. The temperature drops to 20 below zero. Then 30 below.
The Chinese attack.
They hit the Marines from all sides. Fox Company, Easy Company, positions all around the reservoir. Bugles blowing, whistles, human wave attacks. The Marines are outnumbered roughly 10-to-1, maybe worse in some sectors.
The fighting is close, vicious, desperate. Chinese troops are pouring out of the hills. Some Marines are overrun in their sleeping bags. Others fight hand-to-hand in the dark. Machine guns jam in the cold. Rifle bolts freeze. Morphine syrettes freeze solid. Medics have to thaw them in their mouths before they can inject wounded men.
The Marines hold. Barely.
By morning, itâs clear: the 1st Marine Division is surrounded. Cut off. The Chinese control the roads, the high ground, everything. Major General Oliver P. Smith, the division commander, gets orders to retreat.
Smithâs response: âRetreat, hell! Weâre not retreating, weâre just advancing in a different direction.â
What follows is a 17-day fighting withdrawal from Chosin to the port of Hungnam. 78 miles through frozen mountains, under constant attack, in temperatures that drop to 35 below zero.
The Load
Every Marine is carrying 80 to 100 pounds. In subzero cold. At altitude. While being shot at.
Hereâs whatâs in that load:
An M1 Garand rifle. Weight, 10 pounds, plus 8-10 pounds of ammunition. 80-100 rounds minimum, many carry more. Grenades. 4-6 fragmentation grenades, 1-2 pounds each. Rations: C-rations, frozen solid, 3-5 daysâ worth. Water: their canteens freeze. Marines melt snow or carry water inside their jackets against their bodies. Cold-weather gear: a heavy, bulky sleeping bag, parka, wool layers, gloves, and extra socks. Frostbite kills men as fast as bullets. An entrenching tool: For digging fighting positions in frozen ground. Ammunition for larger crew-served weapons: Machine gun belts, mortar rounds. This is distributed among the squads. Medical supplies: Bandages, frozen morphine, sulfanilamide powder.
And thatâs just personal gear. The company also has to move:
Crew-served weapons: 31-pound M1919 machine guns, 42-pound 60mm mortars, and ammunition for both. Radio equipment: radios and heavy batteries, essential for calling artillery and air support. The wounded: As casualties mount, Marines carry stretchers, drag sleds, and support bleeding men who canât walk.
Could They Have Carried Less?
Sure. And more of them would have died.
Every item in that load was survival. If you carry less ammunition, you run out during the next Chinese attack and die. Less food? You lose strength, canât march, freeze to death, or get captured. Ditch the sleeping bag? You freeze to death overnight. Men are already dying of exposure. Leave the machine guns? You lose fire superiority. The Chinese overrun your position. Abandon the wounded? Not the Marines. They do not leave each other behind.
The Chinese were traveling lighter. They have quilted uniforms, tennis shoes, a bag of rice. No heavy winter gear. Minimal ammunition resupply.
And theyâre dying in huge numbers. Freezing to death. Starving. Unable to sustain offensive operations because they donât have the logistics, the ammunition, the food.
The Marinesâ heavy loads were their advantage.
The March
The withdrawal is a continuous running battle. The Chinese attack at night, every night. They blow bugles, charge in waves, try to overrun Marine positions. During the day, the Marines move south, fighting through roadblocks, under sniper fire, in whiteout conditions.
Fox Company, 240 men, holds a mountain pass called Fox Hill for five days and nights against repeated Chinese attacks. Theyâre surrounded, low on ammunition, taking casualties. Air drops resupply them, but the ammo comes in parachutes that drift into Chinese lines. Marines have to crawl out under fire to retrieve it.
They hold the pass. Without it, the rest of the division canât escape.
The Chinese have blown a bridge at the Funchilin Pass, a critical choke point over a 1,500-foot gorge. Without a bridge, there is no way forward. The entire division is trapped.
Engineers request an airdrop of Treadway bridge sections. Huge, heavy steel spans. C-119 Flying Boxcars drop them by parachute. The Marines assemble the bridge under fire, in subzero cold. It takes hours.
They get the bridge up. The division crosses. Tanks, trucks, artillery, 15,000 Marines, and over 100,000 North Korean refugees fleeing with them.
The Wounded
Casualties are catastrophic. Roughly 900 Marines killed in action. 3,500 wounded. Over 7,000 non-battle casualties from frostbite, exposure, and exhaustion.
The Marines carry their wounded. Every man. Stretchers, improvised sleds, men supporting men who canât walk. They carry their dead too. Even had they wanted to, the ground is too frozen to bury them.
On December 11, 1950, the 1st Marine Division reaches Hungnam. Theyâve marched 78 miles in 17 days. Fought through 10 Chinese divisions. Brought out their wounded, their dead, their equipment.
The Chinese suffered casualties as high as an estimated 60,000 trying to stop them. Some Chinese units cease to exist. Frozen, starved, combat-ineffective.
Why Heavy Packs Mattered
The Marines survived Chosin because they had capability. Enough ammunition to win firefights every night for 17 nights. Enough food to sustain a forced march at altitude in subzero cold. Enough winter gear to prevent total casualties from exposure. Enough crew-served weapons to establish fire superiority. Enough radio equipment to call in air support and artillery. Enough discipline to carry the wounded and the dead.
Could they have made the packs lighter? Sure, with better materials, lighter fabrics, and more efficient rations.
But had their packs been lighter, the Marines would have filled that weight savings with more ammunition. More machine gun belts. More mortar rounds. More grenades. Because when youâre surrounded 10-to-1 in subzero mountains, you donât want a lighter pack. You want more capability.
The enemy gets a vote. The terrain gets a vote. Physics gets a vote.
The packs will never be lighter because if gear gets lighter, we immediately carry more ammunition, more batteries, more capability. The weight isnât arbitrary tradition. Itâs what the enemy and terrain demand.
The hard truth:
Some argue we should lighten loads to expand who can serve in combat roles. And we should never exclude any man or woman capable of serving. But the load is determined by the mission, not by who we wish could do it.
If you can carry the load, you can do the job. If you canât, you canât. The enemy doesnât care about our recruiting goals.
So the standards donât change. The packs donât get lighter. But that doesnât mean we turn away any man or woman who can do the job. And we donât turn away motivated kids who arenât qualified yet. It means we invest in qualifying them.
The Story of the CCC and Project 100,000
Part 1: The Civilian Conservation Corps (1933-1942)
March 1933. America is in the depths of the Great Depression.
Unemployment is at 25%. Thirteen million men are out of work. Young men, teenagers, early twenties, are riding the rails, sleeping in Hoovervilles, stealing to eat. Entire families are collapsing. Fathers abandon their kids because they canât feed them. Boys drop out of school to look for work that doesnât exist.
In rural America, itâs even worse. Farm foreclosures. Dust Bowl. Malnutrition. Kids who look fourteen but are actually seventeen. Underweight, undereducated, no prospects, no future.
Franklin Roosevelt takes office and immediately proposes the Civilian Conservation Corps. Itâs an emergency work relief program: take unemployed young men, put them in camps, give them jobs doing conservation work. Reforestation, soil erosion control, building roads and dams in national forests and parks.
Congress passes it in nine days. Roosevelt signs it into law on March 31, 1933.
By July, the CCC has 250,000 enrollees. By the end of 1933, over 300,000. Eventually, nearly 3 million young men will serve in the CCC over its nine-year existence.
Who They Take
The CCC isnât selective. If youâre male, age 17 to 28 (later expanded), unemployed, and physically capable of manual labor, youâre in.
Many of these kids wouldnât pass a military physical. Theyâre malnourished: underweight, vitamin deficiencies, rotting teeth, untreated medical conditions. Some canât read or write. Some have never held a job, never followed orders, never been away from home.
The CCC takes them anyway.
Hereâs the structure:
The camps are run by the Army. Reserve officers and NCOs supervise. The day starts at 6 AM. Reveille. Calisthenics. Breakfast. Then work details: eight hours of hard physical labor. Planting trees, building trails, stringing telephone lines, constructing fire roads.
Itâs quasi-military discipline. Work denim uniforms. Not military dress, but standardized. Formations and inspections. Chain of command. Organized barracks life. Rules and consequences.
The food is controlled. Not restricted, because these kids need calories for the manual labor, but structured. Balanced meals, three times a day, more food than most have seen in years. Medical officers monitor nutrition. Underweight enrollees are given extra rations. Overweight enrollees are put on controlled portions and heavy PT.
The average underweight enrollee gains 12 pounds in the first three months.
The Transformation
After six months in the CCC, these kids are different.
Physically: Theyâre fit. Lean muscle from manual labor and PT. Proper nutrition. Dental work. Many get their first real dental care in the CCC. Medical treatment for chronic conditions. They can march, work all day, handle physical hardship.
Mentally: Theyâre disciplined. They know how to follow orders, show up on time, work as a team. Theyâve learned that effort produces results. That structure isnât oppression. Itâs stability.
Educationally: Evening classes are offered. Reading, writing, arithmetic, vocational training. Many enrollees become functionally literate in the CCC. Some earn high school equivalency certificates. Theyâre taught skills: carpentry, masonry, equipment operation, forestry techniques.
The CCC pays them $30 a month. The enrollee keeps $5. The other $25 is sent home to his family. Itâs federal relief that requires work, builds skills, and maintains dignity.
These young men are sending money home. Supporting their parents, their siblings. Keeping families together. Breaking the cycle.
Transition to Military Service
December 7, 1941. Pearl Harbor.
The CCC suddenly becomes a pipeline to military service. And the CCC veterans transition at higher rates than their non-CCC peers. Why?
Because theyâre already conditioned.
They know how to live in barracks, follow a chain of command, wake up to reveille. Theyâre physically fit, used to hard work, long marches, sleeping outside. Theyâre disciplined, accustomed to structure, rules, consequences. Theyâre literate. They can read orders, fill out forms, write letters home. Theyâve been away from home, already made the psychological break from family and hometown.
When a CCC veteran shows up to Army boot camp, heâs not starting from zero. Heâs already halfway there. The drill sergeants notice immediately. These kids donât quit. They donât cry for mama. They donât wash out in the first two weeks.
Many CCC veterans become NCOs because they know how to lead men, how to work hard, how to endure discomfort.
The CCC essentially was pre-boot camp. It didnât graduate soldiers. It graduated young men who were ready to become soldiers.
The program ends in 1942 as the war ramps up and unemployment disappears. The camps close. The enrollees enlist. Many go on to serve in World War II. Some die in Europe and the Pacific. Others come home, use the GI Bill, buy houses, start families.
The CCC took broken kids from the Depression and gave them structure, nutrition, discipline, skills, and purpose. It worked.
Twenty-four years later, another administration tried something similar. They got the idea right and the execution catastrophically wrong.
Part 2: Project 100,000 (1966-1971)
Fast forward to 1966. Vietnam War. Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara has a problem.
The war is escalating. Johnson is sending hundreds of thousands more troops. But the draft is unpopular. College deferments mean middle-class and upper-class kids arenât serving. The burden is falling on working-class and poor communities.
McNamara comes up with a solution: lower the standards.
He launches âProject 100,000,â a program to accept men who previously would have been rejected for military service. Men with IQs below 85. Men who are functionally illiterate. Men who fail the Armed Forces Qualification Test. Men who are significantly overweight or underweight.
The stated goal: The military will be a âremedial institution.â Weâll take these disadvantaged young men, educate them, train them, lift them out of poverty. Itâs the Great Society in uniform.
McNamara calls them âNew Standards Men.â
Everyone else calls them âMcNamaraâs Morons.â
From 1966 to 1971, Project 100,000 brings 354,000 men into the military who would have been rejected under previous standards. About 40% are Black, double their proportion of the general population.
The Promise vs. The Reality
Hereâs what was supposed to happen:
These men would get remedial education, including literacy training, vocational skills, and extra support to bring them up to standard. The military would invest in them. Transform them. Send them back to civilian life qualified for good jobs, upward mobility, middle-class life.
Hereâs what actually happened:
They got the same training as everyone else. Same boot camp timeline (eight weeks, not longer). Same Advanced Individual Training. Same deployment schedule.
No extra investment. No remedial programs. No extended preparation.
They were just thrown into the pipeline with everyone else and then sent to Vietnam.
The Results
The data is brutal.
Casualty rates: Project 100,000 men died at nearly double the rate of other servicemen. They were more likely to be killed in action, more likely to be wounded.
Disciplinary problems: Higher rates of non-judicial punishment, court-martials, and dishonorable discharges.
Combat effectiveness: They struggled. Couldnât read maps. Couldnât follow complex orders. Made mistakes that got themselves and others killed.
Post-service outcomes: Lower rates of college attendance. Lower incomes. Higher unemployment. Many couldnât even navigate the VA system to claim their benefits.
One study found that Project 100,000 veterans had lower lifetime earnings than non-veterans from similar backgrounds. Military service made them worse off.
Why It Failed
Project 100,000 failed because it admitted men who werenât qualified and then didnât invest in qualifying them.
McNamara wanted the optics without paying the cost. Extra training takes time and money. Longer boot camps require more drill instructors, more facilities, more resources.
So they just lowered the bar and pretended it would work out.
It didnât.
A kid who canât read at a fifth-grade level canât learn land navigation in two weeks. A kid who scores in the 10th percentile on cognitive tests canât master radio operation, weapons systems, or small unit tactics in the same timeframe as everyone else.
You canât give him the same eight weeks as a high school graduate and expect the same output.
And when you send him to Vietnam anyway, underqualified, underprepared, youâre not giving him opportunity. Youâre sending him to die.
The Betrayal
The cruelty of Project 100,000 wasnât that it admitted unqualified men. The cruelty was that it admitted them without preparing them.
The CCC worked because it invested six months to transform men before asking them to perform. It built the ladder, then helped them climb it.
Project 100,000 pointed at a ladder these men couldnât reach and said âgood luck.â
We told Project 100,000 veterans military service would be their pathway out of poverty, just like it had been for their fathersâ generation. They believed it. They enlisted or got drafted. But they ended up worse off than when they started.
Thatâs not opportunity. Thatâs exploitation.
The Lesson
The contrast between the CCC and Project 100,000 is the entire argument:
If weâre going to admit unqualified service members, we have an obligation to qualify them.
That means longer training timelines. Remedial education. Controlled nutrition to meet physical standards. Medical and dental care. Extended PT and conditioning. Patient, professional instructors who understand the need for more time.
It means higher cost per recruit. More drill instructors. More facilities. More investment.
And it means accepting higher attrition. Some wonât make it through pre-boot camp. Some wonât make it through boot camp. Thatâs fine. We gave them the shot. The ones who graduate earned it.
But the alternative, admitting them without preparing them, lowering standards to meet quotas, sending them into combat underqualified, is a betrayal.
It gets them killed. And it produces a weaker military.
The CCC proves transformation is possible. Project 100,000 proves what happens when you skip the hard work.
America has a national obligation.
Any kid who wants to serve should get a chance. But obligation runs both ways. If we admit them unqualified, we owe them the training to become qualified. Not the same boot camp timeline as everyone else. A longer pathway with additional preparation.
The proposal is simple: two tracks, same finish line.
Track One is for kids who meet standards on entry. They go straight to standard boot camp and graduate qualified.
Track Two is for kids who donât meet standards yet. They go to pre-boot camp first. Three to six months depending on how far they are from standards. Controlled nutrition and PT to reach weight requirements. Remedial education to achieve literacy standards. Basic discipline and military bearing. Medical and dental care.
You graduate pre-boot camp when you meet the standards to enter regular boot camp. Then you go through the same boot camp as everyone else. Same drill instructors. Same PT tests. Same rifle qualifications. Same standards.
This isnât lowering the bar. Itâs building a ladder to reach it.
Higher attrition is probably the reality. Some kids wonât make it through pre-boot. Some wonât make it through boot camp after that. Thatâs fine. We gave them the shot. The ones who make it will have earned it twice.
Yes, it will cost more. Higher investment per recruit. More drill instructors. More facilities. More time. But it breaks poverty cycles. It creates capability. It fulfills the promise that military service has always represented in America.
Think about Audie Murphy. He probably wouldâve been rejected under modern standards. Malnourished, underweight, fifth-grade education. But someone took a chance on him. The military made him qualified through training and structure. He became the most decorated soldier of World War II.
We need to systematize that opportunity. Make it a pathway, not an exception. The CCC proved it works. Project 100,000 proved what happens when you skip the hard part.
The veterans in camp this year understand this. They climbed the ladder. And they want that ladder to exist for the next generation of kids growing up the way they did.
The Packs Donât Get Lighter
Military service has always been Americaâs most reliable ladder out of poverty. Audie Murphy climbed it from a dirt-floor shack to Arlington National Cemetery. So did most of the veterans sitting around elk campfires this season. The benefits are real: training, discipline, education, healthcare, homeownership. A pathway that breaks generational cycles.
But that ladder only works if we maintain it properly. Combat loads at Chosin Reservoir werenât arbitrary. They were the minimum required to survive and win against a numerically superior enemy in subzero mountains. The packs will never be lighter because the mission demands more combat capability at every turn. Standards at the output end are non-negotiable. If you can carry the load, you can do the job. If you canât, you canât.
At the same time, we have a national obligation to any kid who wants to serve. The Civilian Conservation Corps proved we can take unqualified young men and qualify them through extended training, controlled nutrition, remedial education, and discipline. Project 100,000 proved what happens when we skip that investment: higher casualties, lower effectiveness, betrayal.
The answer is two tracks with the same finish line. Kids who meet standards go straight to boot camp. Kids who donât go to pre-boot camp first until theyâre ready. Then everyone faces the same drill instructors, the same tests, the same standards. The ones who make it will have earned it twice.
It will cost more per recruit. But it systematizes the opportunity Murphy had. It builds the ladder instead of pointing at one these kids canât reach. It breaks poverty cycles while maintaining the combat capability America needs.
The ladder works. We just need to build it right and keep the standards at the top unchanged.
May God bless the United States of America.
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