Becoming a radical in Vietnam... By ALAN LENHOFF First of two parts J OURNALISTS are constantly ap- proached by people who ask them to write about personal experiences. Many of these people feel they have been the victim of great injustice; like the man who claims he received, a traffic ticket be- cause of his long hair or the student who wants to "expose" his corrupt landlord. Most of the time, a journalist can mere- ly dismiss these stories. Sometimes, he rids himself of these people by offering his sympathy but shrugging his shoulders, saying the story doesn't fulfill that elusive requirement called "newsworthiness." On rare occasions, however, a story of personal experience of the proper genre can take on significance far beyond any news story. Sometimes it can be used to amplify, clarify and humanize day-to-day reporting. What follows, I believe, is such a story. IT IS A STORY of Vietnam and today's Army and what effect it can have on an intelligent, sensitive young man. It is the story of William Davis (his real name) who currently is in an Army jail in Long Binh because of a narcotics conviction. But it is more than the typical cliche account of a reluctant draftee becoming alienated from the Army. Bill Davis en- listed in the Army full of patriotic zeal, in- tending to make the Army his career. To- day, he feels nothing but contempt and bitterness toward that same Army. "They can't hold me forever, and when I get out, OFF THE PIG! The revolution is here," he writes. "The Army has taught me two things-HATE and HOW TO KILL! Unfortunately I will have to use them both." r What follows is, in every sense, a true story. BILL GREW UP in several small Illi- nois towns. His father was a Baptist minis- ter, a conservative man who could often be heard airing typical middle-class pre- judices, which undoubtedly had a great effect on Bill. His father had always looked down upon materialism and the corruption in the business world, but he could never find a way to take a firm stand against it, or even really understand why he disliked that lifestyle. This perhaps, was one of the factors which motivated him to seek refuge in the ministry at the relatively late age of 33. When Bill was 16, the family moved to the wealthy suburb of Deerfield, Ill., where his father became the minister of a local William Davis on his last visit home church. It was a haughty town of preten- tious houses, and Bill, perhaps under the influence of his high school friends, set out upon a distinctly conservative course, studying libertarian and conservative philosophies. HE BECAME involved in Barry Gold- water's campaign for the presidency in 1963. A dynamic, bright young man, Bill worked on campaign advertising in Illi- nois, and soon was named the advertising manager of that state. At the same time, he became a Republi- can precinct captain, although he was only 16, making him perhaps the youngest pre- cinct captain in the state. Bill was proud of his work. It was ex- citing and he enjoyed its glamour. He met John Wayne and large corporation execu- tives through his work. Not only was it a job, it had become a position of social status. Bill began to channel his political ener- gies into other areas. He became an active member of the John Birch aociety, and later, became the only teenage member of the Young Americans for Freedom nation- al steering committee. HE ALSO BEGAN partying and drink- ing with his friends. Drinking became an outlet for the young man when he wasn't playing the old man's political game, One night, Bill got drunk and had an automobile accident. His driver's license was revoked, and, without transportation or an independent income of his own, he was forced to spend much of his time at home. This was not easy for him. He had grown accustomed to being free and he felt trapped. He knew of only one solution: He would join the Army and defend his country. But just being in the Army was not enough for him. He joined the Green Berets, and underwent two years of in- tensive training.. ARMY LIFE suited him well. He was good, perhaps too good. In general tests administered to all men at Fort Bragg, he scored the second highest out of 25,000 men. Officers told him that if he volun- teered to go to Vietnam he would be as- sured of a place in West Point when he re- turned. That appealed to Bill and he volunteered for Indochina duty. Later, he was to find out that he had been the victim of a com- monly used trick to recruit men for com- bat. But then, all he felt was pride. Shortly before he was scheduled to leave for Vietnam, he returned to Illinois to take his brother Dan out for Christmas dinner. He had not recently been very close to his brother, for, in spite of their similar up- bringings, Dan had developed leftist politi- cal ideas which built a barrier between the two men. The differences between the brothers had never before been as evident as they were that night when they sat in a bar discussing politics. As Dan remembers the night, Bill sur- prised him by wearing his entire Green Berets uniform,, but that ended up to be the least significant "surprise" of the eve- ning for Dan. "I DON'T KNOW what they really do to brainwash people in the Army, because I never asked him. But he told me he wanted to become a mercenary to South Africa as soon as he finished up in South Vietnam, if he couldn't become an of- ficer," Dan says. Dan began to speak of black liberation movements, and revolutionary black peo- ple such as Eldridge Cleaver. Bill's re- sponse was a suggestion that "all those niggers should be killed. We should string 'em up," he said. This upset Dan greatly, "We're going to be on the opposite sides of the street shooting at each other, then," Dan told his brother. "I suppose so," Bill responded. SHORTLY AFTER he arrived in Viet- nam, Bill began writing letters home. He began writing to Dan also, still feeling compassion for his older brother with the unfamiliar political stance. Bill had become a "Ranger"-a member of a crack reconnaissance group which would locate the enemy to help direct al- lied troop movements and carry out mis- sions in areas such as North Vietnam which are off-limits to other ground troops. "I've been doing pretty well here," Bill wrote. "We work on six-man teams to recon and ambush the enemy. War is hell, but combat is fun. I must be a bloodthirsty SOB because on one of our missions we killed four gooks and I had to search their bodies and take anything vital they had. "It didn't bother me a bit as I thought it would. Even when some of them started firing on us I wasn't scared. At least untif it was all over. Then I started shaking like a leaf. Oh well ..." ONE WEEK LATER, Bill wrote of his first experiences with marijuana, and told his brother how easy it was to obtain grass. He was embarrassed to smoke grass, something he had long regarded as "a liberal thing," and he joked about how his friends in the John Birch Society might react if they knew he liked to get stoned. Nevertheless, he wrote of meeting a Bircher in his company with whom he often had long discussions. "I get a real kick out of being in the field. I guess its because I'm a gambler at heart," Bill wrote, "The stakes are quite high out there-my life against theirs. You may think its barbaric or 'right-wing,' but to put it in common language, I'm just doing my thing." Bill didn't write home again for almost three months. Finally a letter dated May 15, 1970, reached Dan. It was long, inco- herent and rambling. But the letter made one thing clear: Bill was no longer the same nian he was when he enlisted. "YOU WON'T BELIEVE the change in me," it read. "You no longer have the con- servative, bigoted little brother you once had . . . "Pot is cool. Bobby Seale is a savior of the brothers in our bigoted, white, hate- filled society. The establishment will and must undergo radical change . .. Power, Peace and Panthers are what's happening. Long hair is cool. Drop out, turn on and tune in to the new society that is arising from the ashes of the old." The letter was signed "Peace and Free- dom, your new little brother Bill." Dan later found out that Bill had been tripping on LSD when he wrote it. Bill explained at a later date that he had not written during those three months be- cause whenever his company wasn't out in the bush, he and his friends generally did little besides getting high and discussing the results of their missions. In doing this, Bill met many anti-war soldiers with whom he had long, probing discussions. They traded many ideas and gave him his first exposure to radical philosophies. HE ALSO MET black GIs who spoke of their struggle against racism, both at home and in the Army, and introduced him to the writings of Eldridge Cleaver, Huey Newton and others he had been so dis- dainful of several months ago. Discussing the intolerance of the lifers, the racism of the Army, the plight of the Vietnamese peasants aid hearing anti- war rock music all helped to change him politically. Also during that time, one of his friends died in his arms while they were under an enemy attack. "We were pinned down i# the bush," he wrote later. "There was no reason for us to be there,-because those people (the Viet Cong) are only fighting for their freedom. We- are the intruders. We deserve to be killed." Bill saved his friend's back-pack har- Continued on next page 1' 420 Maynard Street, Ann Arbor, Mich. Edited and managed by students at the University of Michigan Editorials printed in The Michigan Daily express the individual opinions of the author. This must be noted in all reprints. 4 Thursday, July 22, 1971 NIGHT EDITOR: JONATHAN MILLER.