HE HOLDS THE RANK OF MAJOR AND boasts a nom de guerre, but "Born to Suffer'' is no ordinary soldier. He is a smooth-faced, somewhat frail boy of 15 with an extraordinary past. For five years, starting from the age of 10, he fought with one of Liberia's main warring factions, commanding a "small-boy unit" of 56 other child soldiers. One of his company's regular missions, he reports, was to lead so-called silent killing raids on opposing camps. He and his unit would creep into the thatch-roofed enemy huts at night, cut off a few heads and retreat, planting their grim booty at roadblocks to ward off future incursions. "It was fine," recalls Born to Suffer, expressionless. "Our enemies killed us, so we killed them."

Today Born to Suffer has resumed his prewar name of Paul Nelson and is living in the capital, Monrovia, in a center for the rehabilitation of child soldiers and other young victims and perpetrators of Liberia's civil war. He is one of a handful of teenage rebels to have laid down their arms voluntarily after a cease-fire was signed in the small West African country last August. As Liberia slowly edges its way toward peace, local authorities are struggling to find a way to reintegrate these boys into normal society. It is an overwhelming task. "A lot of these children have done and seen things that the rest of us can't even imagine," says Freeman Ford Dennis, an executive consultant at the Children's Assistance Program in Monrovia. "To bring them back to the real world--to teach them to be children again--is going to be difficult. But we have no choice."

The alternative, says Dennis, who spent four years living in territory controlled by rebel leader Charles Taylor's young army, would be "catastrophic." Tens of thousands of children have fought in Liberia's five-year war. Some joined--or were press-ganged--at ages as young as eight, and have spent their adolescence roaming the densely forested countryside spreading terror with their AK-47s. "Those we fail to reach," says Dennis, "will migrate to the cities and end up in the streets, robbing and killing at will. They will be pariahs."

Even now, despite the peace agreement, some 15,000 boy soldiers--along with an additional 45,000 slightly older militiamen--remain fully armed in the hinterland. Faction leaders who have formed the transitional government in Monrovia, Taylor among them, say they are awaiting the full deployment of Nigerian-led peacekeeping troops before issuing the final order to disarm. When that time comes, claims a politician, disarmament "will be like shaking plums from a tree." Others, however, are less sanguine. "There is no way that these fighters are going to say, 'Here is my gun,' for a few bags of rice and a pair of sneakers," says the U.S. embassy's deputy chief of mission, John Fuhrer. "More has to be done. They have to see a long-term benefit."

For children like Nelson, such benefits seem particularly elusive. As fighters, these boys excelled. Their commanders served as father figures, and the children followed orders without hesitation or moral qualm. To steel them for battle, their superiors supplied them with marijuana and an amphetamine known as "bubbles." In Taylor's last major push to seize Monrovia in 1992, drugged-up boys from several factions were deployed in the swamps around the capital night and day, in a withering siege that left thousands dead. Junior Davis, who fought in that campaign at the age of 12, recalls, "I was a boss. A strong fighter. When the big men were running, we small boys stayed behind." Davis, or "Captain Do-or-Die Killing Mission," as he was known at the time, shows off the scars where blades of swamp grass left festering sores. He also points to a mark the size of a small coin on his breastbone where, he claims, a bullet bounced off, because he was protected by magic. "A bullet hits you, and you can feel it," he explains. "But the spirit comes on you and you keep fighting."

Such experiences are not easy to forget. At the Children's Assistance Program, the first port of call for child soldiers like Davis who have laid down their arms, ex-combatants are offered religious counseling and given access to trade-school classes, where in theory they can learn the skills that will help them earn a small wage and support themselves. But counselors at the program are the first to admit that young majors and generals accustomed to the status and purchasing power conferred on them by an AK-47 are ill prepared for boarding-school life. "They won't allow anybody to control them," says David Smokey, who teaches carpentry at the center, noting that few of the former soldiers ever show up for class. Explains another counselor, Seton Korteh: "Bringing them here is like putting them in a cage."

Both Nelson and Davis are still addicted to marijuana. Each morning, while other children at the center go to woodworking or basket-weaving classes, Nelson slips out of the compound to smoke. When he comes back, counselors say, he is spoiling for a fight. "We put him to bed, then give him a bath and then maybe he will calm down," says Korteh, with a shrug. It is easy to see why Nelson would want to get high: he is plagued by war nightmares. "I don't want to be remembering those things," he says. The local authorities' biggest fear is that boys like Nelson will lose patience with the civilian virtues of diligence and hard work and return to the bush to loot. Many former fighters came to Monrovia only after they heard unfounded reports that they would be paid. With no cash forthcoming, discontent is on the rise.

Eze Zean, alias "Colonel Jungle Fire," joined one of Liberia's main factions at age 18. Last month he handed over one of several weapons and came to Monrovia. Three weeks later, unable to find a decent job, he was back behind rebel lines. "I got my arm [weapon]. I got my girl. I am a responsible man," says Zean. "But I don't do nothing for nothing. If you are telling me to put down my arm, you should understand that you need to do everything possible for me."

Local officials admit they have scant resources to meet every former fighter's needs. Foreign donors pledged some $150 million last month to help with disarmament, but with the country's economy in tatters and jobs in short supply, that will not go far. "If you don't help us to fund rehabilitation and just concentrate on taking the guns, you haven't solved the problem," says Taylor, co-chairman of Liberia's ruling council. Moreover, authorities are reluctant to focus all assistance on boy soldiers and other ex-fighters for fear of triggering further resentment on the part of Liberians who did not take up arms. Such considerations are critical to reconciliation in a country where thousands of civilians died at the hands of young soldiers. Dennis points out that families are still shunning some of their own children returning from the war. "Mothers will say to us, 'Keep him,'" he says. "'We don't want this monster in our house.'"

Despite the obstacles, some recent rehabilitation efforts have borne fruit. The Children's Assistance Program claims to have returned several hundred boys to civilian life over the past two years. Many are back in school, and others are attending the recently reopened university. Even Nelson is not beyond redemption, counselors say. Lately he has taken to discussing his ambition of becoming a builder so he can repair houses gutted by soldiers like him during the war. "After all is said and done," says Dennis hopefully, "they are still kids." Most Liberians, desperate for a return to normality after five years of unrelenting horror, can only pray that is true.