Some men are hardwired for war. They are not necessarily hardwired for good order and discipline. It is instilled within a military culture where senior leadership both models and demands accountability. Professional standing armies use good order and discipline to separate the men from the boys. The men stay and the boys are sent home. Or that is the way it is supposed to work. Minus discipline, the classic model of warrior is quickly reduced to that dirty little five-letter word: rogue. “Close the door firmly behind you,” my OIC (Officer in Charge) was seated at his desk with a swathe of paperwork in front of him. A Navy JAG (Judge Advocate General) Corps officer had paid a visit to the detachment. The clearance for an officer had come up for review. The sailor pinged on the legal radar. An arrest brought to light an unusual public behaviour. It counted as a misdemeanour within a civilian courtroom. It was requested that I make a recommendation. The decision came down to two choices. The sailor could agree to a psychiatric evaluation. He (or she) should be processed for discharge. My thoughts were drawn from the envelope of psychiatric disorders. A trained professional combatant who behaves in strange public manner in time of peace will devolve even further with the stressors of war. The sailor was no longer a deployable asset. Good order and discipline can be both brutal and magnificent. It is also purposefully indifferent. Military culture is the antagonist of a victim culture. The military personnel on the ropes made the decision to come under discipline. Their choice of action and the ensuing counteraction wrought by chain of command merely confirms the poor decision of the unruly party. At the point of discipline it is no longer about “them”. It is all about “us” and the oath, rules, and traditions that have been violated within our ranks. There is little sentiment nor room to consider uterine relations. The censured individual looks like protoplasm with a clan of nerve endings, wearing a uniform. It is sought to hit those nerves. The process is impersonal man-to-man and yet highly personal when it comes to the survival of the organisation. The organisation and all its inherent strength is pitted against the solitary soldier. This is not about power. It is not about personal vendetta. Those who have not stood within our ranks will be unable to fully understand military discipline and why it works. Discipline is based on a robust legal framework commonly referred to by the acronym UCMJ. The Uniform Code of Military Justice serves us well. The traditions held dear in each particular branch of service find place under this towering legal arch. US Navy traditions are especially strong. Our marrow and bones belong on the high seas. A bit of rowdiness can be our lot. In the early days sailors were flogged for drunkenness. The orders of the ship’s captain were like the law of God. Today men are no longer whipped but the captain still rules supreme over his crew during the sea passage. It is not fear of the physical whip that dominates thoughts today. It is the lash of a “Duck Dinner” or “Big Chicken Dinner” (Dishonourable Discharge or Bad Conduct Discharge) that rule the deck plates. Rowdiness pulls together as a team and under seasoned leadership the energy is harnessed for the good of our nation. Military organisations are like a Rube Goldberg machine. They have the look of an over-engineered machine performing a simple task: defence. And it is this complexity, the inner workings that look simple to the outside observer, which make the machine run. Rube Goldberg machines are based on chain reactions and they do not perform their task until the last component is put in place. Within the military machine a series of chain reactions, otherwise known as “chain of command”, produce the Rube Goldberg effect. The final component in place in this massive machine is good order and discipline. Minus this component armies become sloppy, unethical, and rogue. Every professional standing army deals with members who show their true colours by defying rules of engagement, violating their oaths by disclosure of state secrets, or the average filth of the anomalous uniformed rapist. These things happen because the military draws from the human pool. The shock should never be that these things happen. There should only be a sense of shock when they are not dealt with swiftly, dispassionately and if need be, in brutal military manner. It seems a good time to dispel a myth. Soldiers do not sacrifice and die for their nations. It certainly seemed like a good line of thinking when the oath of office passed my own lips. It is the public script, the comforting words, which accompany military personnel as they pack their sea bags and grab their rucksack. These are the hallowed words spoken over our warriors when their bones are returned to sovereign soil and families gather to honour the dead. Prolonged military service embeds the deeper meaning of the oath. We don’t give ourselves for our nation. We sacrifice and we die to sustain the values, traditions, and viability of our military organisation. It is never the lone soldier who is the bulwark of the nation. On the battlefield he defends his buddies. At time of death, a buddy brings him home. It is rank, upon rank, upon rank, which provides the backbone of national defence. We are the Rube Goldberg machine: exceptionally engineered and with a deceptively simple appearing ‘mission’. The machine works, because the final component is in place. The writer is a freelance columnist. She can be reached at tammyswof@msn.com