The Enduring Wit of the Line: Bill Mauldin in the Vietnam Shadow
The auditorium for Pensacola Junior College (Now Pensacola State College) October 21, 1966 was packed—a palpable mix of art enthusiasts and draft-age students. The atmosphere was thick with the constant news of the day, delivered primarily through the three nightly broadcast news channels and the heavy, black-and-white print of the local city newspapers. There was no cable, no internet, and certainly no social media; information was a formal, often grim, affair.
I was actually a Senior in a rural High School in another county. My classmates and I straddled a strange divide: some were diligently pursuing education, while others were simply trying to maintain a deferment. A year from this date, several of my high school friends would be in Vietnam. The news was an unrelenting ticker of troop movements, casualty counts, and presidential strategies. Yet, for many of us, the looming shadow of the draft was a constant, personal reality.
Hearing that Bill Mauldin, the legendary Pulitzer Prize-winning WWII cartoonist, was speaking brought a measure of genuine excitement. I escaped the farm somehow that day.
I was there, in Pensacola, to learn something about Bill Mauldin, whose book I had read and whose cartoons I had viewed at some point. As it turns out, I would become a college student at this very institution where Bill Mauldin was to speak. And almost exactly 5 years later, I would be in uniform, and 6 years later, would be aboard a Navy Destroyer, with a close view of “The Elephant” … and even be there for the very last of the war, which President Johnson had promised to end 6 years earlier. The attached Newspapers are rich with news that would not be that different in 6 years.
From Willie and Joe to the New Front
I grew up immersed in the narratives of the Greatest Generation. My generation of boomers lived among them. We honored them. We devoured old magazines and studied the photos of lost family members on the walls of my relatives' homes. Mauldin's work—especially the sketches of his weary infantrymen, Willie and Joe—was already a topic of my admiration. His ability to capture the profound weariness and dark humor of the frontline soldier with just a few strokes was genuinely inspiring. My youthful ambition, though never fully realized, was to join that lineage of artists who spoke truth through simple, powerful form. My best hope was to run away from the farm, join a circus, and become a cartoonist.
When Mauldin stepped up, he didn't dwell on the war currently underway. Instead, he spoke to the eternal character of the typical soldier who risks eternity day-to-day. His gift was capturing the human psyche of war most clearly, using gallows humor as a navigational tool against the uncertainties of fate.
But his most memorable lesson was about the power of art in the LINE itself.
Economy of Form: Four Charcoal Sketches
Using four charcoal sketches drawn live for the audience, Mauldin demonstrated how few lines it takes to evoke a powerful personality that has been drilled into the public consciousness by newsprint and black-and-white television.
For Lyndon B. Johnson, he emphasized the large ears and nose, capped off by the President’s slightly forced, seemingly eternal politician’s grin.
For Charles de Gaulle, the French icon often seen on the evening news, he sketched a massive nose and the distinctive outline of a military-style kepi—that was virtually it. In an instant, the audience filled in the rest of the recognizable figurehead.
He paired Franklin Roosevelt with his global adversary, Adolf Hitler. A strong jawline and the signature cigarette holder immediately confirmed Roosevelt. Hitler was rendered even more economically: two blobs for the trademark mustache and the distinctive hair, an image seared into every mind since the 1940s. So few lines; so much menace and history conveyed.
The final subject was Marilyn Monroe, a special case. He quickly rendered her face with a smudge, suggesting soft lips, eyelashes, and an air of innocence. He paused, detailing the artistry of her cartoon, before taking a moment to destroy the fine work by drawing a harsh, symbolic “cage” over the face. He spoke briefly, sadly, about a woman of great beauty who allowed herself to be caged by her own fame in real life.
The Simple Line Endures
The lesson from Bill Mauldin that day stayed with me: the most profound truths are often communicated with the utmost economy. His sketches, created in a world of limited media and monolithic figures, proved that a master could use simple lines to convey complexity, history, and human tragedy.
That truth remains just as potent in 2025.
Despite the current media environment—the overwhelming firehose of social media feeds, high-definition cable news, and personalized digital content—the power of the simple line persists. A contemporary cartoonist can still evoke our most compelling figures with Mauldin's same economy of form:
A specific, exaggerated hairstyle and a pair of tinted glasses immediately register the world's most recognizable former leader.
The outline of a space helmet and a manic, wide-eyed grin instantly capture the most dominant tech mogul.
A pair of highly stylized, signature eyebrows and a perfectly-placed, small hand gesture can define a global pop icon.
The gaps between the lines are still being filled in—not by three news channels and a newspaper, but by billions of images streamed across the planet. The lesson is timeless: the most effective artists aren't those who draw the most, but those who leave out the non-essential. The final subject was a special case: a composite modern celebrity/influencer—someone whose fame is built on self-curation. He swiftly sketched a beautiful, innocent face with exaggerated lashes and soft, smudge-like lips. He paused, noting the delicate artistry required to achieve this manufactured perfection.
Then, he took his digital pen and drew a stark, symbolic cage—a grid of harsh lines—over the face.
He spoke a moment further about the tragedy of those who, in the age of constant visibility, allow their own self-image to become a prison, trapping their true selves behind a carefully constructed facade of beauty and innocence. A sad and resonant modern lesson.
The Enduring Lesson
That day, the cartoonist’s lesson stayed with me. Whether in the age of charcoal or the era of the digital tablet, the most effective communication isn't about complexity or noise. It’s about clarity, focus, and the power of a single, well-placed line—a simple truth that still speaks volumes in our overwhelmingly complex world.
In 2026I am offering these original charcoal works by Bill Mauldin on EBAY. Life is a cycle. I was fortunate to acquire these drawings from Ray Davis and his wife, Dr. Wanda Davis, who acquired the signed drawings from Bill Mauldin after the talk. She kept them framed on her wall in her college office at Pensacola Junior College, where she taught English.
In retirement, they have operated a unique organic farming enterprise in a rural hideaway in Milton, Florida. Time and circumstances led to my opportunity to buy these prints. Ray and Wanda are a treasure in the menagerie of folk who populate our region.
Link to the story on the farm. https://nwdistrict.ifas.ufl.edu/phag/2014/09/19/ray-wanda-davis-santa-rosa-county-agricultural-innovators/
