The “Little Corporal” Syndrome

In Editorial on August 28, 2012 at 10:56 am

[I recently ended my two-year old moratorium on Wal Mart that was triggered by the chain’s “partnership” with Big Sis Napolitano’s Department of Homeland Security (Sieg Heil!). The widely touted program of “If you see something, say something” never fully materialized and Napolitano’s leering face vanished from Wal Mart video screens without the sounding of trumpets. Wal Mart is staffed, and patronized, by scrabbling masses simply trying to get by on the pittance left after the ruling class is finished pilfering from the worker’s purse.]


In the years after the Holocaust, good people pondered a central question. It was not, “How could human beings design genocide?” Instead, they asked, “How could the people who committed mass murder bring themselves to do it?”

The question was answered well over forty years ago in the now famous Milgram and Stanford experiments. Nice people are capable of doing terrible things if they believe there is a rational reason to do terrible things and if a person in authority tells them it is necessary for them to commit the terrible act. Egged on by the authoritarians, wholesome people willingly follow instructions of, “You must do it. It is in the interest of the whole. And, it is for the good of the person you are hurting.”

And then there are those whom Holocaust researcher and author, Daniel Goldhagen called “willing executioners” and the “ordinary men” of whom his peer, Christopher Browning, wrote. (“Hitler’s Willing Executioners” – Goldhagen and “Ordinary Men” – Browning)

A homicidal state (a redundant term) recruits its most willing of willing executioners from the ranks of, as I call them, “Little Corporals”.

In any military organization, soldiers having the rank of corporal sit perched upon the lowest rung of authority. For the functional, but intellectually challenged, corporal is as high as they will ever rise in the military hierarchy. Content to simply follow orders and perform the least amount of work possible, these individuals do not see themselves as being marginally fit for leadership roles. They perceive their status as one of honor and, above else, an authority with a minimum of responsibility.

Little corporals exist outside of the military environment as well. They are the minions of bureaucrats, content to follow orders and lord their authority over others.

A good friend of mine lives in a sleepy, West Texas town of about seven thousand souls. He had business to conduct at city hall and swept past a sign resting on a tripod just inside the doors that essentially ordered all comers to, “Sign In & State Your Business”. Perched on a dunce stool next to the sign, was a uniformed policewoman.

When my friend breezed past the sign, the blue-suited goon-ette stirred from her perch and informed him, “Everyone must sign in.”

My friend responded with impeccable logic: “Is there a law mandating me to sign in? Who made this law? When did we vote on the law? Why would there be a law ordering me, one of the seven thousand owners of this building, to sign a roster simply to visit one of the people in the building who, essentially, work for me?” He then told the goon-ette to call her boss and inform him that she was arresting a citizen for failing to sign the building’s guest register. He concluded his business within, asked if he was free to go, and departed unmolested and un-shot.

He got off easy for his transgression. It is the little corporals who will shoot someone over any disobedience to their gods of authority.

One subtype of little corporals rises from the masses of marginalized and brutalized. This phenomenon, according to Holocaust researchers, created the capo system within concentration camps. It also led to Jews willing to join the Jewish Ghetto Police.

“It is far better to rule in Hell, than to serve in Heaven” they rationalized.

It is not from only the bullied where little corporals have their origins. These are individuals who have never been trusted with authority, but worship authority as though it were a living, breathing deity. This subtype of little corporal is the most dangerous of the two.

They are eager to please and will follow any illogical edict, issued by their beloved masters, with precision and ruthlessness. They are trained attack dogs who are willing to rip other human beings apart for a bit of liver treat or a pat on the head.

As with all things, little corporals exist as hybrids and they are the most abundant of the species. My wife and I ran into one over the past weekend.

Bent on enjoying a celebratory steak supper, we dallied into a local Wal Mart after we noticed we were out of charcoal. We purchased a twenty-pound bag of charcoal and a few small items as well. The smaller items were placed in a plastic sack by the clerk and the coal rested, un-bagged, in the front of the basket. We prattled on as we made our way to “Checkpoint Charlie” at the store’s exit.

At the checkpoint, stood a man-child of about seventeen. He wore black trousers and a white golf shirt. [Note: The next genocide will not be carried out by men wearing serge uniforms and tall boots. The killers will wear neat, little golf shirts with a logo or a clever acronym stenciled on its back.] At the child’s waist, fastened to his belt, rode a police-style radio connected to an ear-bud microphone. A few, sparse tangles of peach fuzz hung from his chin and, on his head, was perched an unnaturally glowing blond tangle of hair in the style of the alleged Batman Movie mass murderer.


This Joker had opted for a more Aryan-Juggulo look.

The boy stepped in front of my cart and I drew it back to avoid colliding with his five-foot, four-inch form. Devoid of upper body mass, he did his best to thrust out his chest.

[Note: Homicidal states typically recruit the youth into the ranks of its little corporals. The average age in Pol Pot’s murderous cadres was fourteen. Additionally, Wal Mart has a virtual no-prosecute policy for petty shoplifters stealing less than twenty dollars worth of merchandise. Like the grown up TSA goons they emulate, the exit guards at Wal Mart are all kabuki theater for the masses.]

“Do you have a receipt? I need to see your receipt!” he barked.

I heard, “Paperin Jude! Haben sie einen blauschein?”

Slowly, I reached into the pocket of my “man-bag” and pulled out a receipt. It was the wrong one.

“Do you, or do you not, have a receipt?” The boy glared at me and a sprig of the chrome-yellow hair flipped forward.

“Yes, it’s in my bag somewhere. I did not anticipate being accosted by the Wal Mart’s Hitler Youth and I so irresponsibly stuffed it in my bag. You’re not going to shoot me, are you?”

“You must show a receipt for any item not in a Wal Mart bag.”

My wife looked at him and observed with impeccable logic, “My purse isn’t in a bag and I don’t have a receipt.”

In reply, the child quirked his lip in annoyance and as if to say: “I’m in charge here. Do you not see my white golf shirt? Do you not see my radio and its ear-bud with which I can summon the killer angels?”

I looked at him with an amused expression. A man pushed a cart containing an un-bagged 48-inch flat-screen television past the checkpoint and its unnoticing sentinel. My equally un-bagged eight-dollar bag of charcoal was not the issue. The passing five hundred dollar television was not a concerning issue to the boy.

The issue was my disobedience and my failure to grovel to a little corporal. I am convinced that, had I just pushed past the kid and, were he armed, he would have shot me in the back and subsequently lied in an official report about a felonious assault on my part. “He had a heavy bag of charcoal. I was in fear for my life.”

After about ten minutes of painfully slow searching, I located the demanded receipt in an exterior pocket of my bag. The boy looked at it and glanced at me. Hatred and contempt burned in his blue eyes.

“Am I free to go. Or, will the Wal Mart SWAT team be here soon to haul me to a top secret Wal Mart gulag outside of Bentonville, Arkansas?”

“Yes, you may go.” The boy studied my face for the still-missing signs of submission to his authority. He showed no concern about the two-dozen shoppers (potential criminals all) who had breezed by his post while he interrogated me about the origin of my bag of charcoal.

As we passed through the exit, an elderly woman with a bird feeder pole approached the young Einsatzgrupper.

“Do you have a receipt for that?” he barked.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: