Proud Highway:Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman (16 page)

Although I don't feel that it's at all necessary to tell you how I feel about the principle of individuality, I know that I'm going to have to spend the rest of my life expressing it one way or another, and I think that I'll accomplish more by expressing it on the keys of a typewriter than by letting it express itself in sudden outbursts of frustrated violence. I don't mean to say that I'm about to state my credo here on this page, but merely to affirm, sincerely for the first time in my life, my belief in man as an individual and independent entity. Certainly not independence in the everyday sense of the word, but pertaining to a freedom and mobility of thought that few people are able—or even have the courage—to achieve.

Even Rand, who can make it live and breathe between two paper covers, seems to have trouble putting this certain spirit or attitude into words, so I don't think that I, at an age where this thing is just beginning to slip into the realm of reality, should offer any excuses for not being able to express it in the everyday language of words. That will come later.

And I can see your dilemma—in wanting to believe in this thing, yet not being able to find a way to believe in it and eat too. Keep in mind that the ability to create is an integral part of the makeup of man. If a lack is encountered, it lies not in the ability, but in the scope of perception of one's own creative ability.

With that, I leave you to your efforts on the assembly line. I don't write many letters like this, so don't be afraid to drop me a line.

Cheerio …
Hunter

TO LARRY CALLEN
:

In late October Thompson learned that he would be given an honorable discharge from the U.S. Air Force. He was ecstatic at the prospect of beginning
his civilian career as a journalist, as he wrote to Callen, who had been editor of the
Command Courier
when Thompson arrived at Eglin and was now assigned to an Air Force post in Iceland.

October 30, 1957
Eglin AFB
Fort Walton Beach, Florida

Dear Larry,

By the time you get this letter, there will be no “H. S. Thompson” listed on the payroll of the nation's bird division. Colonel Campbell called me at the PGN [
Playground News
] office this morning that the Comm Sq sergeant had a message for me—to report for my discharge physical tomorrow at 7:15.

And so, after two years of “arduous service,” the walking anomaly that is HST has escaped into the jungle of insecurity called civilian life. Yes … it's an honorable.

Surprised? You aren't alone. A little disappointed? You still aren't alone. At any rate, I knew you'd be interested.

You'll also be interested to know that I recently finished reading
The Fountainhead.
To understand something of the philosophy I'm now flirting with, all you have to do is, first, consider my overall attitude—then imagine how it was affected by reading
The Outsider
and
The Fountainhead
one right after the other.

I'm not exactly certain that this is the most desirable kind of attitude to carry back to “civilization” with me, but I am sure that I'll never be able to sincerely believe in anything until I'm convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that god doesn't live in the mirror.

They say that “he who flies highest, falls farthest”—and who am I to argue? But we can't forget that “he who doesn't flap his wings, never flies at all.” And with that, I'll stop trying to convince myself that I can't fail: how dull the whole thing would be if that were true.

If you get the time, drop me a line at the
Playground News
and tell me a little about what you've done since your arrival in the far, frozen north. I probably won't be at the
Playground News
very long, so make it soon, if you make it at all.

As for some of the incidentals down this way: the purge of the
Command Courier
spts ed will probably interest you most. Yes, they finally got me. Fred [Fulkerson] took over and is doing surprisingly well.

And that last sentence recalls the letter I got from that captain at AFPS, in which he said that my work for the
ComCourier
was “enviable” … which also recalls your comment on Barrie French—something about damning with faint praise … which also makes my point.

Naturally, I continued with the
Playground News,
although my dual life was made considerably rougher by a master sergeant in the radio shop, who did his best to do me in. In the end, though, it was he who almost tearfully pleaded with the classification board to delete my radio AFSC—thus making me eligible for an early out.

For the past month, I've been the “official statistician” for the football team, working one or two days a week, living off base, and making trips to Denver, Louisville, and Washington, D.C. for games.

I don't mean to gloat, but I can't help it today. It's almost too much to believe—but don't let me put words in your mouth.

I'm running out of paper, so I'll cut this short. Drop me a line when you can and look for me in the first breadline you see when you get back. Until then, I remain, your friend.… Hunty

TO KRAIG JUENGER
:

While enjoying the clever way he finagled an honorable discharge out of the Air Force, Thompson was considering moving to St. Louis to work for the
Post-Dispatch
or the
Globe
in order to be near Juenger.

November 4, 1957
Eglin AFB
Fort Walton Beach, Florida

Dear Kraig,

First and by all means, foremost…: the case of THOMPSON VS THE USAF has come to a boiling, bubbling climax. The mule train of military bureaucracy, with the help of a few expertly placed jolts of high-detergent oil, has been rolling in high gear for the past two weeks and, believe it or not, has finally come to a logical conclusion: that being that “a square peg cannot exist in a round hole.”

And so, with that truism staring him straight in the eye, old Uncle AF has decided to arrange a suitable burial for AIRMAN Thompson. Sadly enough, the burial will have to be accomplished without the usual fanfare—trumpets, sobbing lovers, and that sort of thing—and the ceremony will be brief and without melodrama of any description. It will nonetheless be final—and wild.

There will be a few tears—and some sighs of relief. There will be some angry, dumbfounded protest—and some shrugging of shoulders. A military manner will prevail where pandemonium used to exist. The sports pages of the
Command Courier
will once again appeal to the military mind.

There will be no “Scoop” Thompson serving vodka-flavored coffee in the Eglin AFB fieldhouse—nor any Cuubley Cohn
¹²
to grace the Sports Section of the
Playground News.
In short, a vicious, dangerous, radical individualist has finally gone the way of Marshall Zukov: purged—rooted from the ranks—and discharged.

Yes Kraig … Cuubley finally made the grade. The “Thompson plan for moral redemption” has met the final, acid test. It took a few shots in the dark, a few master strokes, and no little luck—Thompson will shed his mantle of shame and emerge into the light once again—as a civilian. And for you and anyone else who might have underestimated the “Thompson touch”—it's honorable as hell. A miracle, possibly: but a reality, nonetheless.

After reading your letter this morning, I thought you'd be expecting some word on the above subject, but even I had no idea it would be this soon—or this perfect. Needless to say, I'd like nothing better than to wind up my stay in Florida with a few pleasant hours on the beach with you; but I'm afraid you'll have to hurry if you don't want to miss me.

Naturally, if you intend to come down anytime soon, I'll postpone my departure for a few days and stay around to harass Rosan.
¹³
Nevertheless, I intend to be home for Thanksgiving.

Just let me know when you intend to get here, and I'll make my plans then and let you know. Incidentally, I'm also a little curious as to why you're coming to this wretched wasteland—if you'll pardon my asking.

Although I'd enjoy a night on a deserted beach, any disappointment I might suffer in missing it will be definitely dulled by the thought of my imminent departure from this worthless region. I don't imagine I'll find it too difficult to make my way over to St. Louis (and Collinsville) sometime in the near future. As a matter of fact, I'll have two reasons for heading over that way: you and the possibility of a job on the
Post-Dispatch
—or the
Globe.
At any rate, it shouldn't be too long before I get there.

I enjoyed your letter, but there are several things you mentioned which I think should be straightened out post haste.

In the first place, you know as well as I do that I'm far from “insultingly unconcerned” about Kraig. You also know you haven't “made a fool of yourself” and that I've hardly cracked a smile—much less laughed—about this situation, since the first time I saw you. And if I'd had a “I have nothing to lose” attitude about it, you'd have known it by now.

And finally: you only prove what I said about your “not knowing me very well” by presuming that I might be hurt by any development or group
of developments in this situation. You let me worry about my reasons for caring about you, and you concentrate on doing what you think you should do about your various entanglements. God takes care of fools and drunks—and Cuubley takes care of himself.

So, until I see you—whether it be in Collinsville or on the white sands of the miracle strip—it's … Cheerio.

Hunter

FROM HUNTER S. THOMPSON, NEWS RELEASE
:

As his parting salvo at the Air Force, Thompson wrote his own news release and had it printed in the
Command Courier.
It caused quite a stir.

E
GLIN
AFB, F
LORIDA
(November 8)—S/Sgt. Manmountain Dense, a novice Air Policeman, was severely injured here today when a wine bottle exploded inside the AP gatehouse at the west entrance to the base. Dense was incoherent for several hours after the disaster, but managed to make a statement which led investigators to believe the bottle was hurled from a speeding car which approached the gatehouse on the wrong side of the road, coming from the general direction of the SEPARATION CENTER.

Further investigation revealed that, only minutes before the incident at the gatehouse, a reportedly “fanatical” airman had received his separation papers and was rumored to have set out in the direction of the gatehouse at a high speed in a muffler-less car with no brakes. An immediate search was begun for Hunter S. Thompson, one-time sports editor of the base newspaper and well-known “morale problem.” Thompson was known to have a sometimes overpowering affinity for wine and was described by a recent arrival in the base sanatorium as “just the type of bastard who would do a thing like that.”

An apparently uncontrollable iconoclast, Thompson was discharged today after one of the most hectic and
unusual Air Force careers in recent history. According to Captain Munnington Thurd, who was relieved of his duties as base classification officer yesterday and admitted to the neuropsychological section of the base hospital, Thompson was “totally unclassifiable” and “one of the most savage and unnatural airmen I've ever come up against.”

“I'll never understand how he got this discharge,” Thurd went on to say. “I almost had a stroke yesterday when I heard he was being given an honorable discharge. It's terrifying—simply terrifying.”

And then Thurd sank into a delirium.

TO LIEUTENANT COLONEL FRANK CAMPBELL
:

After Thompson left Eglin, he initiated a lively correspondence from Louisville with Campbell that would last for the next three years. Campbell often asked “Airman Thompson” how he was making out in the world of “cutthroat journalism.”

November 29, 1957
Louisville, Kentucky

Lt. Col. Frank Campbell

723 Osceola Circle—Capeheart

Eglin AFB, Fla.

Good Morning …

And it is a good morning indeed: for I have a job—and a good one at that. Yes, the child prodigy has talked himself into it up to his neck this time: for, on the ninth day of December, I take over as the sports editor of the Jersey Shore, Pennsylvania,
Herald
—a morning daily serving Jersey Shore, Lock Haven, and Williamsport, with a combined population of 100,000 or so. Naturally, I have no idea how I'm going to manage it. I've never even worked on a daily, you know, and it should be interesting, if nothing else.

But the real fine thing about this is that I got it without pulling strings or begging for aid. I had already accepted a job on the Seymour, Indiana,
Tribune,
as wire editor, when the Pennsylvania people replied to my ad in
Editor & Publisher.
The Seymour people had offered me $260 per month, so I wrote to Jersey Shore and asked for $300. The editor called me today and offered me $325. Strange indeed. But, at any rate, I shall leave for Williamsport next weekend, praying that my car doesn't fail, and plan to take up my duties on the ninth. I simply don't understand how I got a job
at all without a letter of flowery recommendation from Pug.
¹⁴
I thought god had a hand in everything. Maybe Darwin was right—there might be something to this “survival of the fittest” thing. You might tell Pug about Darwin.

And, incidentally, has he shipped you out to New Mexico yet? I'll send you my address when I get to my new spot, and wait for a letter informing me of the fortunes of an officer who doesn't bring his superior an apple each morning.