PTSD Another night of old terrors! Misty dreaming... the Raven of night upon my shoulder speaking of all the life that has died, and of all the death that has been lived! Where have you gone my Brothers? Why am I alone in my return from where none can ever return? I no longer weep for myself. I weep for all the world. When I shut my eyes I see more clearly. In silence there is the vast echo of screaming...and gunfire, and dying men! How can I be here? and mostly... always there? A clown with many pockets. A painted smile. Hurling my emptiness into the incredible silence of an endless night! RC Copyright © 2001

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This page is Dedicated to all the men and women still fighting the War in their hearts,their bodies and their minds.

.........that we are becoming as shells blanched and broken upon the turbulance of storms and thunderclouds,driven into bright flashes of dark times. War riding upon the tides, resting upon the bright beaches, of a world knowing only the echo of an 'Old War' long ago...So long ago! The echo not understood! The echo of a sound like gunshot.... when time stands still. The echo of war that resides in a a tear. The embrace of a woman who gives a thousand kisses ...willing to embrace eyes wide open and fully into my eyes.... ...so full of despair ....of desperate tears .....lust caught within the arms of death.... reaching for her forgiveness, and then crying! her soft laughter, holding me beside her smile! RC                 Copyright © 2001

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IMAGES Rain. Wet, but not real wet. Steady, more-than-a-drizzle. The sheen of tree trunks, marbled by rivulets. The patter-plop of drops-on-leaves. A thousand jungle timpani beating in time to no-time. A platoon on patrol. Ponchos glistening. Helmet covers soaked to the steel. Moving carefully from hill-top to valley, and back again. Just a walk in the rain. "Just a'walking in the rain." Who was it? Danny Kaye? Yeah. That's the dude. Leaches. Ten hundred million slimy, wet, blood sucking, [expletive]. Squirt a little bug-juice on 'em, and watch 'em squirm. Mud. Two steps forward, one step back. Progress. Muttered curses. Pity the man walking drag. Where to now, LT? "Goin' home in a body-bag. Doodah. Doodah." Play it, Sam. Rest halt. Wet cigs. Pull out ten spongy fags to find one half dry, then light it with dishwater hands squirking the rasp on a Zippo lighter. Good shee-it. John Wayne ought'a see me now. Shred the cigs too wet to light in the arcane belief that the North Vietnamese really care what you smoke. C-ration ham'n eggs. They always taste better when they're wet. Effing gourmet meal. Where's the hot sauce? A beer and a hot fire would go good right about now. Yeah, right. You don't think about it long. Rest halt's over. C'mon feet. Do your thing. The squish of water in-and-out of your jungle boots. Dry socks in your rucksack. Maybe. Yeah. Hope Doc remembered the foot powder. Then, just when you think you're about to get used to the wet, someone steps on a landmine. It's not the point team. They're too lucky for that to happen. It ain't the LT, he's never where he's supposed to be. It ain't the LT's RTO. RTOs are protected by the All Mighty. It ain't none of the above. It's your buddy, Thump Gunner. You rush to help him. Oh, sweet ever-lovin' Jesus. One foot is gone. Gone. No boot, no nothin'. Just white leg-bone stickin' out. And, he's moaning, tryin' hard not to scream and give away your location. Though, God knows, the explosion must have been heard as far away as Fire Base Ripcord. His free-flowing blood mingles with the rain, and pools on the leafy jungle floor. He's got fragments up his legs and in his crotch. Never mind that you picked up a piece or two in your arm. You fumble for his first aid pack and fish out the field dressing--all in slow motion. This can't be happening. You try to scream; for him and for yourself, but words won't come. He's dying. Somebody, please! Help Thump Gunner!!! You try to scream again ... and wake up. It's raining. The plop-patter of drops-hitting-leaves brings you back home. The screened-in porch provides shelter, but you can feel the hard damp. The Sunday paper lies scattered next to your lounge chair. Half an Irish whiskey sits on a small table. The supper dishes are still in the sink in the kitchen. The Sonora chimes strike midnight. Slowly, you move to the porch door and look out at the dark. Tears stream down your cheeks. So long ago. So many years. Gotta' go to bed. Tomorrow's another day. Best wife is in bed. Asleep. Has been for hours. Beautiful; all naked shadows and blond hair. She stirs. "Mfff. You okay, honey?" "Yeah, babe. I'm okay." "You've been crying, darling. What is it? Another bad dream?" "Yeah, just a bad dream." "Come to bed, honey. It's okay now." "Sure, babe. Lemme hit the can first." But, it's not okay--and never will be. You stand, straddling the commode, and try to relax. The warm stream finally comes. Bad aim. You feel the splatter-splash of pee hitting your leg. Piss on it. Piss on all of it. Trav Copyright © 2001

Dear friends, I've come to visit you once again. I love to see you suffer mentally, physically, spiritually and socially. I want you to be  restless so you can never be relax. I want you jumpy and nervous and anxious. I want to make you agigated and irritable so everything and every body makes you uncomfortable. I want you to be confused and depressed so that you can't think clearly or positively. I want to make you hate everything, and everybody, especially yourself. I want you to feel guilty and remorseful for the things you have done in the past that you'll never be able to let go of; the faces of dead comrades or the faces so called enemy of the people, the smell, and the sound. I want to make you angry and hateful toward the world for the way it is and the way things are. I want to make  you paranoid for no reason at all. I want you to wake up during all hours of the night screaming for me. You know you can't sleep without me, I'm even in your dreams. I want to be the first thing you wake up to every morning and the last thing you touch before you black out. I would rather kill you, but I would rather to see you killing yourself. However, I'll be happy enough if I can put you back in the hospital, another institution, or jail. But you know I'll be waiting when you come out. I love to watch  you slowly going insane. I can't help but sneer and chuckle when you shiver and shake, when you freeze and sweat and the same time, and when you wake up with your sheets and blankets soaking wet.  I would like to thank you for the countless jobs you sacrificed for me, all the peoples that you killed men, women, and children...All the destruction you've done. I cannot express in a words the gratitude I have for the loyalty you have for me..you sacrificed all these beautiful things in life just to devote yourself completely to  me. But do not despair my friends, for on me you can always depend. For after you have lost all these things, you can still depend on me to take even more. You can depend on me to keep you in living hell, to keep your mind, body, and soul...For all I know you're all ready dead a long time ago in strange land called Vietnam. God give me the serenity to accept the things I cannot changes. Courage to changes the things I can, And the wisdom to know the different. Tristan. Copyright © 2001

OPERATION HELP is for the Veteran, the family and friends of Veterans.

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This page was last updated on: May 19, 2003

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