 You're seeing more than a cannonball serve and a neat right cross to the jaw. You're looking at the spirit of America. This is the way we like it, fast and hard hitting and clean. Instinctively, Americans love fair play. It's built up from childhood. Give the other guy an even break. Play the game on the level. Don't hit a man when he's down. There's a 15-yard penalty for clipping. And the fighter who hits below the belt gets tossed out of the ring. We like it fast and hard hitting. And we like it clean. When you step from the gridiron to no man's land, the rulebook is buried and forgotten. Here, there are no penalties except the one for losing. And it's not measured in yards. It's measured in life and death. War is the law of the jungle. Kill or be killed. There are no half measures, no alibi runs. You've got to twist your instincts inside out to play this game because it's played to win anyway. The goal is destruction, pure and simple. Your mind must be tuned to a new pitch to go after your enemy all out. No holds barred, to hurt, to cripple, to kill. This is war. A battle not for a pot of gold or an invitation to the Rose Bowl, but for survival. Your stock and trade is the weapon you're armed with. It's your bodyguard and your battering ram. It's your best friend. A Tommy gun, a 105, a mortar, a carbine, a machine gun. Keep it clean, use it properly, and it won't let you down. But there are other weapons. It's a long way from this, the symbol of civilized sport, the peacetime art of self-defense, to this. But the bludgeon is in use today as it was thousands of years ago. You won't find it in the squared circle, but you will on the battlefield. It's handy in a close fight when only one of you is coming out alive. Brass knuckles outlawed in the ring, but legitimate in war. Sword-off shotgun, pride of the underworld, reinstated for the duration. Blackjack, simple and hard-hitting, trench knife. Not a pleasant-looking instrument, but effective. A flamethrower, not pretty, but deadly. Yes, there are other weapons. Your enemies use them, and so will you. You have two purposes. One is to kill, and the other is to avoid being killed. To that end, you use every method and every weapon you can, but paste this in your memory. Use the one that fits the job. With a rifle, you can tattoo a German at 500 yards. You can drill a jab at a quarter of a mile. This soldier's got the killer instinct, which is right, but he's forgotten that full clip in his rifle, which is wrong. How's the time for the bayonet? And the time for a bullet. When you've got your enemy trapped in a dugout, don't rush in after them. That's what they're waiting for. Toss in a grenade and let them divide it. But remember this, no army ever won a battle without getting its hands dirty and bloody. You can't get a rat out of a rat hole by shooting at the hole. You storm and take a position by sheer physical force, or you don't take it. You'll be in plenty of tight places before this is over, all of you. Then your life depends on razor-sharp reaction. There's no time for a second guess. Title, how to lift a Nazi's face without improving his looks. When your life and the lives of those with you depend on stealth and silence, you do what has to be done. If your instinct says give him a decent chance, remember he wouldn't give you one. The rules of a lifetime may whisper you can't get a man when his backs turned. But you're deaf to the rules because in war there are no rules. Make a mistake and you're a dead mistake. A good soldier is a live soldier, and this is a good way to stay alive. What, sir? For often tumble, the password is killed. You forget the concept of clean-cut fighting. There's no such thing as clean-cut war. Sometimes the neat right cross to the jaw is all right. But there are a hundred times when a neat right thumb in the eye is more dependable. This is brutal, savage, but they asked for it. We can take it and we can dish it out. We can use feet for something besides kicking a football. Not pretty, but practical. A good soldier is a smart soldier. He must know how to fight and what to fight with. His reflexes must be split second fast. When they aren't, this can happen. A good soldier uses the right weapon at the right time. When he doesn't, he can look mighty foolish. A rifle can kill at a thousand yards. It doesn't take a nosedive to tell a good soldier when to take advantage of it. This is called locking the stable door after the horse is stolen. It's a far cry from the prize ring to a bar room brawl, but this is what it's going to be like. Alley stuff. Everything goes, and there's no referee. And these are the boys we're going up against. A gang of bandits, with as much sense of fair play as a scorpion. We'll fight them with their own poison, bludgeons and blackjacks, knives and daggers, fists and feet, bullets and bayonets. We'll use the right weapons at the right time in the right way. We'll hit them above the belt and below the belt. We didn't ask for this war, but we know how to fight it and win it.