#VETERANS - But by the grace of God, they are us

Veterans

Most are resentful of my affected cheerfulness. They greet me with suspicion and some never surrender it. They are almost all depressed, their chronic diseases and injuries afflicting the soul as well as the body, serving as constant reminders of battlefields best forgotten. However, they will never forget which is why we must never forget them. They are patients at the nation's Veterans Administration Hospitals.

Tripler Army Medical Center, Hawaii

I used to visit them at Tripler Army Medical Center when I was stationed there as the Special Services officer after my tour of duty in Vietnam. Their wounds were fresher then and hadn't yet eaten away at their psyches. Most were still cheerful in a morbid way, still marveling at being alive, their wounds perceived as a winning lottery ticket. The prize, a discharge from the horrors of combat. It was to be a short assignment. Unfortunately, I carried my own wounds. A dose of malaria, a nagging sense of survivor's guilt, and a bad attitude that my colonel couldn't see past. I still carry vestiges of all three. Thus my tour of duty at Tripler was brief, and I was sent on to trouble another, happily a commanding officer who was more tolerant and found a way to channel my energies more productively.

During those months I stalked the wards of Tripler, sometimes escorting visiting USO celebrities, sometimes on my own. I'd chat with patients and talk about home, never Nam. They didn't want to hear about it and neither did I. We never formed an enduring friendship. The Army's policy was to continue their journeys to other medical facilities closer to home where they could recuperate in the company of family and friends. Until then, the USO celebrities and I were just poor substitutes.

That was then, this is now, almost fifty years later. Now I stalk the halls of the Veterans Administration Hospital in Long Beach, California. The patients from Nam are intermingled with others from other wars, some prior, others more recent. Their wounds are more troubling now. They have been allowed to fester over time, eating away at the soul as well as the body. The prize, their escape from combat, no longer golden. Most would have happily completed their tours despite the horrors rather than suffer still.

VA Hospital, Long Beach, California

I bring them hot dogs, hamburgers, or pizza, and a smile. They give me greater gifts once we get past the realization that I can't be turned away by the sight of their broken bodies and souls held captive in a hospital bed. They share their stories.

I met a man whose arm was swaddled in a massive bandage. He proudly informed me that he was one of the first blacks to earn the badge of a Navy SEAL. As we talk, a doctor comes to inspect his recent surgery and instructs me to hold the man's arm up while he unwraps it. Grip here by the hand, I'm instructed, and we continue to chat as the doctor works. I learn that he grew up in Los Angeles and served in Nam helping rescue lost and surrounded soldiers in the Mekong Delta. That's where I served. We're both surprised that we were there at the same time and might have passed each other. The doctor completes his work and asks about the pain. No matter. The Navy Seal proudly proclaims that he can handle pain. I then learn he will have more when they operate on the other arm.

There are more like him waiting for me, although they don't realize it until I arrive with their hamburger, hotdog, or pizza and smile.

I go home when day is done. They don't. Don't worry. I'll be back. It's a debt I owe for the good fortune that my wounds weren't debilitating, just annoying.