They itch and chafe him still…

He relives the events that marked him in his dreams…

He can still feel the desert winds, the scorching sun, and biting sand…

Reawakens to the fear, dread and excitement of impending action…

He still hears the crack- whump of incoming rifle fire…

The cruump-whine of mortars and artillery…

And the garbled staccato of radio traffic…

The high pitched screams and low moans of the wounded and dying…

He still feels that awful guilt of surviving what some did not…

That gnawing disquiet that begs the question- Why me? What makes me so special? What did I do to deserve this life

When so many of my friends were carried off the plane by six good men?

His scars are hidden, they are not visible to the untrained eye…

But to us who have been there,

His scars are reflected in his eyes and in that distinctive way we carry ourselves…

Ever alert, ever watchful, always aware of who’s around us… Looking for the next threat

and in the tears that well up when we see that flag of ours, which we hold so dear...

draped over another casket…

Our scars are hidden… to all but our brothers and now sisters who have served and carry their own…

Hidden scars…