The Cavalier daily. :: Tuesday, May 6, 1969 :: University of Virginia Library

He's twenty years old and his job is to
kill. He was eighteen when the military took
him, trained his body to murder and twisted
his mind to believe war was the way to
peace. They put him in a Commando unit
and taught him to parachute.

Now he's back from Viet Nam where he
spent 13 months. Kind of a nice guy, plays
the guitar. Sings folk songs. We gave him a
ride when he was hitchhiking the other day.
He told us about the war.

I jumped into Cambodia and had to
fight my way back. Some cat came at me
with a machete in the jungle. There wasn't
enough time to throw a grenade at him, so I
took the knife out of my jump-suit. He
swung at me and slit my elbow to the bone
and I saw the blood come pouring out. He
came at me again but I caught him in the
neck and got him from car to car. Ever see a
man die? He struggled a little, his body
writhed a couple of times, and he died."

He told us he loved to walk through the
jungles and search for the enemy. He feels
'it's what I was made for.' His father was
killed in Korea, one brother teaches
hand-to-hand combat at Fort Bragg and the
other is a fighter pilot.

As we drove down Route 22 on one of
those days people say it's good to be alive,
he asked us if we didn't believe in killing.
We said no, not really, and he said they're
things that are worse. I guessed maybe a
politician who authorizes war and tells
soldiers and people killing is right. He said
yeah and told us about the time a "fat-gut
Senator" visited him in Du Nang.

Still Blood On It

"He asked me if I liked it over there.
Called me 'son.' I looked him right in the
eye and told him 'Hell, no!' Then he said
that's probably 'cause I'd never been in
battle, didn't know what it was really like to
defend my country. A buddy o' mine
laughed and said show him my knife. We'd
just come back from a mission and there
was still blood on it. I pulled it out of the
sheath and handed it to him. Then I said
'pick you fingers with that, Fat Gut. Cause
that's about the closest you'll ever come to
what this war's all about. Then he asked us
what the best way to see the truth about
what was happening over there. I gave him a
parachute and gun and said 'there's a C-45
scheduled to leave in two hours. Take that.
Fat Gut. And you'll find out what this war's
like.' But he just turned and walked away."

My friend was playing the soldier's
guitar. I asked the soldier if there was as
much marijuana in Viet Nam as they say. He
offered a profanity and said "just look in
any window. It takes your mind off things.
Everyone's stoned most of the time. Once,
when I made a jump into the jungles I was
really conked. When I tried to shoot my gun
it jammed." Later, after we had let the
soldier out, we wondered if his gun had
really jammed or if maybe he just didn't
want to shoot it.

Teach Others To Kill

My friend, playing the guitar, asked the
soldier how much longer he had in the
service. "Two years, but they won't let me
fight any more. When I came back I shook so
much I couldn't light a cigarette. I told
them I wanted to go back over and rip some
more heads, but they want me to go to
school so I can become an officer." He's
going to train his mind now so he can teach
ethers how to kill.

Ask him who he thought was winning
the war. "Hell, no one's winning. We're over
there fighting an unproclaimed enemy. You
kill one, and two more come over the
border. All we're doing is wasting men. My
best buddy was in a fox-hole about thirty
feet away from me at the same time a
mortar shell was there. I saw his flesh and
blood splatter into a thousand pieces. Hell,
no, we ain't gonna win no war."

Kicked Him Four Times

When we had first picked him up he told
us about getting off the bus in Charlottesville.
Seems a colored fellow jumped him
and four of his paratrooper buddies, with a
knife. "I didn't train to take no — from a
—. I took the knife away and knocked
him down. Only kicked him four times but
that was enough to send him to the
hospital."

He wanted to show us the knife he had
won. He pulled it out of his pocket, opened
the blade and gave it to my friend. It was
the only time I saw the soldier smile.

"My fiance wrote me a letter when I was
over there. Said she was really worried
about me and the War and everything. I
wrote her back and told her I appreciate her
concern but I know how to take care of
myself. First thing I'm going to do when I
see her is slap her face." Then he mumbled
something about loyalty that none of us
heard clearly.

After about a half-hour ride we let him
out by his mother's store. It was the first
time he had been home in thirteen months.
He told us his mother would be mad
because he was wearing his regular uniform
instead of his Airborne one.

As the soldier left the car his medals
glistened in the sun. "Ought to join the
military," he said: "Good place to be if you
ain't doing nothing and want to kill
someone." Then, as he turned, he added,
"or be killed."