Chapter 1

After all these years, I can finally look back on 1968 and 1969 with nostalgia. It was a time that changed my life forever. I was just out of the Army, confused and lonely, hitchhiking my way across the country. (Those were the days when hitchhiking wasn't suicide, when someone would still pick you up just to be a good neighbor.) I was barely 21 but already an old man; twenty-two months of combat in Vietnam had a way of aging one long before their time.

I had spent two tours in Vietnam; re-enlisting after my first tour because when I arrived home on leave I hardly recognized the world that I had left just 12 months earlier.

It was the era of the Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy assassinations, the Chicago Seven trials and race riots in the streets. It was a time of tremendous change in America. The world had gone crazy, stark raving mad. In fact, I felt more at home in the jungles of Vietnam than I did on the streets of my own neighborhood. I guess, in truth, I missed the camaraderie and the true friendships that were forged by the incredible life and death struggle of combat. I probably would have re-enlisted for a third tour had I not been hit in the leg by a sniper's bullet, taking a piece of my thigh bone with it.

In those months of combat, I had seen things that no young man should ever have to see. The death, destruction and sheer terror of war leaves a lasting impression on anyone, especially a teenager still "wet behind the ears." Nevertheless, in many ways it was a rewarding experience, forcing a confused 19-year-old kid to become a man and look at the world in a different light.

When I arrived home after my second tour, my family said that they didn't recognize me and that I had changed. They were right. I acted different, I even looked different; my normally brown hair was bleached sandy blond from the relentless tropical sun, my bright blue eyes had that "thousand yard stare" and I had lost weight.

That jagged hole where the bullet had passed through my thigh was the only physical scar that I had. However, mental scars were another matter altogether. The stress of combat leaves demons that I now know can be controlled but never conquered.

There have been far too many nights during the past years where I would wake up screaming, faces of the dead and dying flashing in my mind. Any delusions of the glory of war died with four of my buddies that day on the side of a nameless hill, in the middle of nowhere. There are times to this day that I can still hear their screams, smell the odor of cordite in the air and hear the screeching of artillery shells passing overhead.

As soon as I arrived back in the States, I wanted to put it all behind me, to try to forget those faces and to find myself, to exorcise my demons. I immediately knew that I would not be able to do it at home. My family could not possibly understand. They wanted me to act the same, and just take up where I left off, to just be "me" again. However, that happy carefree teenager was gone forever. They could never understand that.

My friends all seemed so immature, worrying about cars, girls, and parties. Whenever the subject of the war came up and they would express their uninformed views, I felt like hitting them. Then, when I almost hit my best friend, my anger flaring in an almost murderous frenzy, I knew that I have to get away.

Even my former girlfriends seemed so silly. When I tried to re-establish that incredible sexual tension that was there before I left for the Army I found boredom. Maybe my expectations had changed and I expected too much. On the other hand, maybe I just needed more maturity--sex and someone to talk to about the important things in life.

The truth was that my family and friends hadn't changed; I had.

So there I stood on that lonely stretch of highway, the cold September wind blowing the pouring rain sideways. I stood with my back to the wind; my thumb stuck out at the passing cars, my green duffel bag at my feet, water forming a puddle on the canvas. The wetness had begun to soak through my Army field jacket; the dark area where my buck sergeant stripes had been was barely visible on the sleeves. The hood over my head was no longer preventing the cold rain from running down my back.

For the millionth time I asked myself, what the hell am I doing here on this endless stretch of highway?

Car after car passed me by. Several times, I saw brake lights but then the cars would speed off before I could reach them.

Finally, I saw one slow then pull off the road to the emergency lane. I grabbed my bag and moved as fast as I could on my bad left leg. The blowing wind pushed my hood back and rain ran down my face, blurring my vision. I was desperately hoping the car wouldn't pull away at the last minute like so many had done before.

"Need a lift?" a pretty, young woman asked as she rolled down the window.

"God yes," I answered, quickly opening the back door and throwing my bag on the floor then jumping in. "Thanks for stopping," I said sincerely, using my hands to wipe the rain from my face.

"I'm Sandy and this is my sister Jessica," the driver said, motioning to a sullen teenager on the passenger side of the car. She didn't turn to greet me so I assumed that she didn't much like the idea of her sister picking up a stranger.

"Pleased to meet you, I'm Gary," I said.

"That's Justin beside you," Sandy said.

I turned and was surprised to see a two or three year old boy sitting in the seat next to me. I was surprised that I had missed him because my powers of observation were normally very keen from months of searching the jungle for the enemy. Those same powers had kept me alive many times in dangerous situations. Then I had to tell myself that those skills didn't mean anything anymore, they weren't needed on the streets; that was the past.

"Hi Justin," I said and reached over to tickle the bright eyed little boy. I liked kids; most of the time better than adults. I liked their innocence, their honesty, and their ability to see things without years of accumulated bias.