(AP) WASHINGTON, DC, UNITED STATES – OCTOBER 7, 1964

I wasn't entirely sure what to call a man with so many names.

"I go by Snake."

"Not Big Boss?"

He was remarkable in that he was exactly what I expected. Tall, muscularly-built, with a subtle beard and sharp, masculine features. His dress was very plain, almost utilitarian – a white t-shirt and khakis, in lieu of a dress uniform. His voice had a growly, harsh cadence to it, but he spoke very softly, taking quiet, thoughtful pauses between drags on his cigar. One of his eyes was covered by an eyepatch, but other watched me attentively, like an animal wary of a nearby predator.

"No," he replied shortly.

We had arranged to meet after one of his survival classes, which he held in a tiny community center in a suburb of Washington, DC. I caught the last few minutes – he was explaining how to distill purified water to a full, mesmerized classroom.

He was a surprisingly easy man to find, and, perhaps more shockingly, didn't seem to mind sitting down with me. Everything I'd read about him – the missed press conferences, the one-word quotes in his 10 Questions interview in Time, and, more recently, his public resignation – had led me to believe he was a recluse. But if he was, or had been, it didn't show.

He asked if I minded his smoking. Of course I didn't.

"Why survival classes?" I asked, hoping to start with something easy.

"It's what I know, and what I'm good at." He folded his arms over the plastic card table we shared. "I thought it might feel nice to help out ordinary people."

"Seems like a nice turnout so far."

"Yeah, I guess it is." He seemed reluctant, and his gaze drifted away from me.

"Are you unhappy here?" I asked, somewhat tactlessly.

"Not…" Snake frowned. "Not unhappy. I guess I was expecting too much." He fell silent, as though this were a complete thought.

"Expecting too much?"

"From civilian life. I'm not used to this. I have so much time, suddenly." Snake fidgeted. He was not a talkative man, no more so in person, but I felt he chose his words very carefully. "The days feel so much longer now, and there's no structure to them. I thought getting into a routine like this might help, but…"

He trailed off, exhaling another billow of smoke.

"I take it readjusting has been hard for you."

There was something I was itching to ask, but I held my tongue. He was expecting me to spring it on him, I figured, and I didn't want to be so blunt. This was supposed to be more of a conversation than an interrogation; I wanted an afternoon chat with an All-American hero. If that meant waiting to ask, I would be patient.

Snake nodded in reply, sitting up a little straighter. "It's hard for everyone," he said.

"You're not an average soldier, Snake." He kept glancing listlessly around our table. Like someone was watching us. "Is there anything you personally have struggled with?"

"Yeah, you could say that." It took him a long few seconds to respond. "It's strange. I don't feel like a real person anymore."

I could see the words trying to form on his lips.

After a pause, he continued. "I'm so used to blending in, but now I feel like there's always a spotlight on me. And I can't sleep." He was not an expressive man, but I could see him tense, his tone growing somber and pained.

"You don't have to answer anything you aren't comfortable with," I reminded him. He nodded, eyes on the floor.

"Why can't you sleep? Is there something bothering you?"

"Just stressed." He hesitated. "When I got back, there was a lot on my mind. They all – the rest of my unit, I mean – they all said I should just relax. Go on vacation somewhere. Take some time off, then come back." He sighed heavily. "But I'm the kind of person that needs to be kept busy, and I haven't been busy enough."

Snake was quiet for a while, the smoke casting a veil over him. I grew uneasy when he paused like that. I worried perhaps I'd hit a nerve.

Then, slowly, finally, he looked up at me. I had seen 'soldier's eyes' before, but none like his. There was an immense, profound sadness in his expression, a remorseful sleeplessness in his stare. It was unbelievably haunting.

"I… I had to make some very difficult decisions. In the heat of battle, you don't think about the long-term. You don't wonder what it will feel like six months later, when you get home and have to replay it in your head over and over and over." He took another puff, closing his eyes. "I lost someone very close to me. And I feel it all catching up to me now. The horrible things I've done, all for the sake of some obtuse political objective."

Now was my chance. "Is that why you left FOX?"

"Yes." He gave me a bitter glance. "I had to get out. It didn't even feel like a choice. I miss the ritual of it all, and I miss the purpose it gave me, but nothing else. I can't go back."

I waited for him to take another drag. "Do you have any regrets, Snake? About your service?"

He laughed darkly, humorlessly. "Have you asked a soldier that before?"

"No."

"Never do it again." He cracked a small, empty smile.

"Why?"

"It's a trick question." He drummed his fingers on the table, almost whispering. "I am a killer. I have taken sons from their mothers, and fathers from their children. I…" His voice cracked softly. "I've done a lot that I can't be proud of. But I can have no regrets, because everything I did, I did out of necessity. I did it all because I had to. And if I had to relive those nights in the USSR, I would do it all over again."

He snubbed out his cigar on the plastic table, melting it slightly. "But what you mean is do I have remorse. And I do." He leaned in closer, dead blue eyes frozen on me. "I do."

I couldn't respond for a long few moments. There was something in the phrase, something heartbreaking in its simplicity.

"I only have one more question, Snake," I managed.

"Yeah?" He sat back up, his expression draining away and his tone evening.

"Why didn't you want me to call you Big Boss?"

He flashed that sad smirk again, and shook his head slightly. "Because the Boss and I aren't the same person. As convenient as it would be if we were, I'm not her." He forced his smile a little wider, and offered me his hand to shake, all traces of that raw sadness gone.

"I'm just Snake. That's it."

I took his hand as we stood. I didn't realize I had been sweating so much. "It's been a pleasure, Snake. It'll be in next month's issue."

"Hmph." The smile seemed less forced. "I haven't made the cover of anything in a while."

"Well, no promises," I said. "But I'll see what I can do."

I was halfway out the door when he said it. His posture seemed so cavalier, but his tone was strikingly serious.

"Thanks."

When I turned and left that little rec center, I walked away shaking, his words on endless playback in my mind. I never forgot that interview. I never forgot that look in his eye. Every now and then, my thoughts drift back to him, the legend and enigma, and all the questions I never thought to ask.

At the time of this writing, he no longer teaches. He quit one week after I spoke to him. I have been trying to contact him since, but I haven't gotten a word back in reply. A rumor circulated that he moved to Alaska and became a hunting guide. I heard somewhere else that he's been doing work for a nonprofit.

On a personal note, I'll be happy for him if he readjusts. When I see him next, I only hope he's not in uniform.