“In the fall of 1968, as I stopped at a traffic light on my walk to class across the campus of the University of Denver a man walked up to me and said, “Hi.”

Without waiting for my reply to his greeting, he pointed to the hook sticking out of my left sleeve. “Got that in Vietnam?”

I said, “Yah, up near Tam Ky in I Corps.”

“Serves you right.”

Frederick Downs in The Killing Zone

The door opened and we could hear chanting of some sort off in the distance. Everyone jumped up and grabbed their duffel bag, now waiting for those ahead of us to move out. The shuffling began as one by one the fifty odd service men made it off the bus into the damp evening air. We all sauntered now toward the door as I could make out a ruckus up ahead at the main doorway. The line slowed slightly; then I could make out a group of about a dozen demonstrators. It wasn't until I got closer that the anti-war slogans became clear. I had seen these groups on TV before I left, I had read about it while I was gone. And now here they were, they seemed older this time, then I remembered. I watched a group of middle age women violently screaming and yelling at the soldiers ahead. I could see the hate in her eyes, god what in the hell is going on now, ever since landing in the states this has been a nightmare?

Then something wet splattered on the side of my face, then again something hit my chest. I wiped my face with my hand and realized it was a raw egg, and then I saw a soldier in front of me splattered in blood and something like guts, chicken guts? “What the hell?” as I turned to see this screaming group of fanatics throwing eggs and some mixture of blood and animal parts at any soldier they could see. The screaming was now mixed with the sound of police whistles arriving in the front of the line.

"Pigs, . . .murderers, . . .baby killers, . . ." I could make out in the barrage of sounds that were attacking us along with the tossed eggs, blood and guts. My thought was to get inside as quickly as I could, as if I was looking for that bunker I thought I had left a million miles behind. Finally I got to the door, but the screaming and yelling continued, a Police officer was arguing with one of the male protesters as he tried to peel him off the back of a soldier in front of me. I shuffled in as fast as I could follow those ahead of us. The words continued to ring out, a small shoving match occurred behind us as several black GI's decided to return some verbiage. A small cheer went up from the rest of us.

"Pigs, . . .murderers, . . .baby killers, . . ." echoed through the doorway as we all stumbled inside. Once inside the airport I realized we had become a spectacle. The business people and families on their way home or to a flight east for business had stopped to see what the noise was all about. I could feel the stares, the cold looks, and not a word was uttered in here. Then they saw the blood and eggs smeared all over the previous pressed army green uniforms. They quickly ran off, several picking up children and looking for the relative safety of a far corner of the airport. So this was home, the wrath of a war gone mad was now clearly our fault.

We all stared at each other, stunned from what had just happened. There was no one in authority to explain what happened, or what we should do. The military was done with us, we had our tickets and as far as they were concerned the faster we headed out of town the better it was for everyone. They had waited till the black of the night to sneak us in here. We had mistakenly thought we had left it for the last time forty-eight hours and a million miles ago, we would be forever wrong.

Then several of us had the same idea, we quickly strolled through the ticketing area in search of the men's room. Once there the duffel backs were ripped open and I grabbed out some "civie's", a regular shirt, jeans and shoes. My only desire was to blend in, to forget where I had been. Reaching down, I picked up my new uniform and pushed it piece by piece into the trashcan. I no longer had a use for these anymore; I no longer wanted to be a target.

From then on Vietnam was my secret, I never let anyone know, I didn't need the judgement. But the war never left me. I quickly went on to finish college, make a career, raise a family. But thirty years later when the drum beats of wars in the middle east filled the newscasts, my demons resurfaced. I could smell the battle again, I closed myself off and began to drink heavily. Because what I hadn't realized, was the war never left me. After Vietnam there was no PTSD diagnosis, there wasn't a VA that gave a "sh", we were simply told to "get over it." Ten years after Vietnam, three times the number of Veterans died at their own hands then are listed on the Wall in D.C.

In 2002 my life literally crashed and it was my fellows Vietnam Veterans who picked me up and dragged me to the VA, there I was diagnosed 100% disabled from PTSD. I spent several years in treatment and was forced to deal with my war, finally, thirty years after I thought I had left it. Now I embrace my heritage, my fellow veterans, and we have formed a nonprofit called Dryhootch.org to help these new veterans coming hope, hoping they do not go down the path we lived.

But the news still hurts as I watch our younger brothers and sisters try to return home, when they aren't being sent back. Do I have personal feelings about the war? Yes, I am filled with hate when I see a smug Chaney who avoided his war; or Bush, fortunate to spend his war in the National Guard, guaranteeing he would never went to Vietnam. These rich Elitists who ran from their war, pound their chests and send young men and women to their death, while calling anyone unpatriotic who questions their judgement.

I have to stop myself from entering that debate, the rage is too overwhelming, it would destroy me and those close. So I chose to quietly help those who return, who will be forgotten about when the next media sound bite switches the nations attention elsewhere.

So know that that the war in Vietnam is still going on inside many of my fellow brothers and sisters. Many have not come out of that bunker the nation put them in thirty years ago when it chose to the question the very children they sent off to do its dirty work. Pray for them, as they are merely trying to hold themselves together, against all odds.

So the duty to question a war, to help those who return home wounded of mind and spirit falls to those who chose to remain home. To those who bask in the safety insured by these heros; who chose to go to school, enhance their career, have a family, or to follow George Bush's call to do your part and "shop."

It calls for a little more then slipping a yellow ribbon on your SUV. But if you want to do one thing for your warriors, don't blame these new veterans for a nations choice. Stop denying the money a VA needs to patch their wounds and their minds. And next time, question your leaders. before they go to war. When they label you unpatriotic, know that bruise to your ego will heal with time. Unlike those baptized by fire, who lives will be forever changed.