"So, the fact that you can enjoy a Howard story, particularly a Conan story, is proof that civilization has not completely erased your soul."

Fuckin'-A.

That point you made about the reader as a companion to the hero reminded me of something. My old squad leader, "Sergeant Bronson," had made his bones as a Cherry Marine clearing Highway 1 in Iraq during the first Gulf War, got out, did dry-wall long enough to say 'fuck this' then joined the Army, going on to just about every deployment they had. He drank and smoked a lot, was often surly, and at one point got busted down and lost his stripes for punching a lieutenant. He and his wife had this on-again/off-again thing that happens when your world revolves around the service, and he never had children, but God only knows how many boys he tried to make into men.

The Beast was very much with him, and when we had a Formal, and my buddy Miller introduced his wife (who is a sophisticated lady) to him, she later told Miller in awe something like, "He shouldn't really exist!" The idea being, even in a buttoned-down polite scenario there was something in him you only expected to see in movies.

Because he knew the job—the life—of an infantryman, inside and out, the leadership always put his squad up front when things were dicey. And because he and I developed a sort of mental shorthand/telepathy, he often put me on point. I later told him I often wondered if he was trying to get me killed and he looked back at me flatly and asked, "Would you have rather been anywhere else? Well shut the fuck up then," causing me to laugh because he'd sized me up and knew like only someone can who's mastered the craft. He made you want to dare to be at least half the man he was, and reading your post, and many others of yours that share that theme, it made me grateful that you try to get those men and that spirit of theirs some daylight. The world suffers for the lack of it.