Twelve Months by Steven Manchester

freedom. I envy them. And I also wish we could have talked about the pain before you left for good.

During the fighting, so many friends were lost and so many promises were broken by those who sent us into the jungle. Though I returned home visibly whole, what I brought in pent-up rage was more than any man should ever be asked to carry. Some said, “You were serving your country.” I still wish folks saw what really went on.

When I got home, I carried a souvenir called PTSD, with nightmares, flashbacks, depression and insomnia. I also suffered from blinding headaches and some mysterious digestive problems. But, according to the VA, my problems weren’t service-connected, so I couldn’t get any help. And then I thought of you and felt guilty that I’d even complained.

Before that fateful afternoon, I sensed you had a tough time in the jungle…trying to patch up some of the Vietnamese kids who never made it. Those gory pictures have haunted me for years. I pray that they don’t still haunt you.

When we got home, the rest of the Dream Team parted ways and saw each other only at special events. It actually became less painful to avoid faces that served as reminders of a difficult time – no matter how much we loved the people behind those faces.

Marc, trust me, it’s taken me years to realize that I was never alone in that damn jungle. This is probably the greatest tragedy to come out of Vietnam. Not one of us had to suffer alone. Yet, that’s all any of us have done for years.

I still pray that your death brought you peace from your demons. I’m writing you now to let you know I haven’t forgotten you, that none of us have.

I love you, brother, and I’ll be seeing you soon.

Your eternal comrade,
Don DiMarco

    I folded the letter and thought about the devastating effects of Vietnam. Although the shiny medals had lost their gleam, the war was still far from over. I’d done my best to ignore it, but that one year of my life so long ago had carried me away in the eye of a terrible storm; the type of storm that rages out of control deep inside, tearing at the spirit.
    I looked up to see my new bride standing there, watching me. “You’ re right,” I told her. “I do need to go back to ‘Nam and make peace with it.” Unhealed pain stunted growth and stifled the spirit, and it had gone on much too long. “I’ll go check for flights,” I told her.
    She nodded once and started for the house.
    I got up after her, but before heading for the computer, I went to the hallway closet to grab the luggage we’d taken to Martha’s Vineyard. Though I doubt this trip will be as relaxing , I thought.

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    The flight took even longer than I remembered – New York to Anchorage Alaska in seven hours. From there to Taipei in eleven hours. And then into Vietnam, which took five more anxious hours. The only ray of sunshine throughout the entire trip revealed itself when we boarded in New York. I spotted three American soldiers dressed in desert camouflage uniforms sitting in coach. By the time we were a half hour in the air, three passengers seated in first class offered to swap seats in a show of gratitude. Each time one of the soldiers made his way to the front of the plane, my chest swelled with a newfound pride.
    â€œLooks like some things have changed since you returned from war,” Bella whispered.
    I nodded. It was hardly the welcome home I remembered.
    â€œIt’s about damn time!” she added.

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    On the final leg of our journey into ‘Nam, my thoughts drifted back to places in my mind I’d vowed to never visit again.
    Bella nudged my arm. “You can share it with me, you know.”
    I smiled at her.
    Her eyes bore into mine. “Talk to me, Don. You don’t have to do this alone.”
    I felt a weight lift off me and I was surprised at how quickly I jumped at the