I have a very good friend, a man whom I respect and admire, who struggles very hard every year at this time. He suffers from post traumatic war syndrome. You would probably not know it if you met him. Unless you happened to be with him when "America the Beautiful" or "God Bless America" or "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" were being performed.

I was a young punk during the Vietnam War. I fashioned myself an antiwar protester. I was a peace-nic, a pacifist. I never really thought about the poor guys over there. Not while I was shooting my mouth off about how we shouldn't be there anyway. I was really upset with my government. I wanted them to stop sending our boys over there. I went nuts when the peace talks were delayed by arguments over the shape of the conference table.

I never considered the impact of the protests on the soldiers themselves. I didn't know that our soldiers were unaware of the protesting, and how many came home expecting a hero's welcome. Just like Hollywood showed us again and again as we were growing up. But what they got were screams, jeers, slogans and spit on.

I didn't know that before my friend told me. I didn't know he felt hated when he came home, after having suffered experiences for which no one could ever prepare him. No one said "Thank you." No one told him "Good job," or "Thanks for trying." The uniform he wore so proudly when he left home now was kept locked in a trunk.

Locked in that trunk were also 12 months of horrors. Unspeakable things. Some of which I know. Most of which I probably don't because he doesn't remember them. He packed them away. The names, the faces, the sounds.

But every once in awhile a name comes to mind. Or a face is remembered. Or a gruesome event. You can tell when it happens. His face changes, his eyes mist, his chin quivers, his breathing quickens as he struggles to pack it back down. Usually he succeeds. Sometimes he doesn't, but I don't see that very much. He keeps that secret.

He, and others like him, are heroes. They don't make the war. They courageously defend our country. They are our heroes. My Uncle Skip was a hero. My Uncle Butch was a hero. My Grandpa was a hero. My dad was (is) a hero. MOTH is a hero. And so is my friend. Thank you.

TODAY'S QUOTE

"It wasn't me that started that old crazy Asian war. But I was proud to go to my patriotic chore."

*As sung by Kenny Rogers and the First Edition*

The Digital Bastard's Claim as of date 5/20/02:

Beginning Weight: 204.5

Goal #1: 184 (Met 5/19/02)

Goal #2: 164.5

Total lost: 22.5

Pounds to go for goal #2: 17.5

Pounds to go to my final target....58.5

I hope to meet my final target by May 1, 2003

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