Several decades ago, during the Clinton administration, I participated in a joint State Department/Marine Corps conference at Camp Pendleton. The subject was America’s future foreign policy. The six working groups were each chaired by a typical State Department weenie who had drunk deep of the waters of Babylon. The world was theirs for remaking in the name of “democracy” and “human rights,” the latter mostly of the feminist and gay varieties. By the end of the first day, the Marines were ready to puke.

So at the next morning’s plenary session, I announced a new group for “those who may have some small reservations about our ability to transform every flea-bitten, fly-blown Third World hellhole into Switzerland.” As the Marines grinned, the State Department apparatchiks audibly gasped. How could it happen that they were to face dissent? In their world, such a thing was inconceivable. Illustrating why, the Commandant of the Royal Marines came up to me and, after looking over both shoulders, said, “I should love to join your group, but I’m afraid it is not worth my career.”