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Cover Story November 11, 2004

by lyle e davis


He was 18 years old. 


Chronologically, he was still a kid, but he had been trained for and was acting in a manís job.  It was his first time in combat and he had killed three enemy soldiers, one of whom died in his arms. 


Taking a human life is a difficult thing to do . . . at least the first time.  I donít suppose it ever gets to be easy.  This first time was devastating to the young lad.  And he had taken three human lives that day.  Three.


Upon returning to base he went to his chaplain and spilled his guts.  The chaplain looked at him, told him to wait there and left the room.  He came back with a fifth of Canadian Club whiskey and told the young warrior that would help him get through the pain.


It was probably the worst counseling he would ever receive.  It ended up with the young warrior becoming an alcoholic.


His name is Richard.






My Gold Fish Died


Little Nancy was in the garden filling in a hole when her neighbor Tom peered over the fence.


Interested in what the youngster was up to, he asked in his friendliest way, "What are you up to, Nancy?"


"My goldfish died," replied Nancy tearfully, without looking up,   "and I've just buried him."


The neighbor commented, "That's an awfully big hole for a

goldfish, isn't it?"


Nancy patted down the last heap of earth and then replied,

"That's because he's inside your damn cat."