War.  Simple enough in name, and as a childhood game, it was simple in consequence.  A quick ten count or a push of the reset button and the consequences of the war were all but over when we were children.  I grew to love this game of no consequence and easy winnings.  As an adult I was to find that the consequences of war are far more reaching and long lasting than any ten count.

I have experienced moments of terrifying beauty, compassion, hatred and horror of artistic proportions.  I have seen the cold reality of what a breakdown in communication can do to two peoples.  I have stood between those sides, I have tried to protect the weak, and build their schools, and repair the damage caused by their hatred.  It is a hatred that I cannot understand.  It is a hatred that I cannot empathize with.  But regardless of my understanding, or lack of understanding of their reality, the nature of my profession had plunged me amidst their conflict.  Their reality had become mine.

There is an indefinable feeling that is shared between people who have sworn to defend one another and watch out for each other regardless of the situation, regardless of what shade of right or wrong they operate in.  There is an implicit trust. It is a love, not a romantic love, but a love born of mutual respect for each others talents as a warrior, and their willingness to endure the worst of situations with you.  Because of this friend you can handle not only the worst that life can throw at you, but also the messes the rest of the world wont deal with.  I had that friend.

What do we do when we lose that friend, the loss of that bond, the loss of that faith, the loss of our sense of mortality?  The loss of that friend is similar to the pain associated with a broken heart.  This heart that will not mend with the addition of a new love, this pain is irreparable.  Will the pain left in absence by my fallen Brothers, or the pieces of my heart taken away by the suffering victims of war, ever relent?  It is a bumpy road to the bottom looking for those answers.

Once bottom becomes boring, there is nowhere else to go and only one thing to do, and that is the same thing you have to do after any party (including a pity party) and that is clean up.  Stop drinking; stop drugging.  Put all remnants of your lamentable past behind you, pick up the remaining pieces that have yet to be destroyed, and start placing one foot in front of the other.  I left the Green Machine feeling let down, disappointed, disillusioned.  It was time to march to the sound of a new drum.

The sound of that new drum to me came in the form of help from my close friends and family (who could have justifiably given up on me long ago), and OSISS, a peer support network of ex service-people like me, a group of like minded individuals, equally struggling to navigate in a world far more foreign to us than any village in the Middle-East, our old backyards.  Some have watched the sun set in the mountains of Afghanistan and some have watched it rise in the jungles of Vietnam.  Some gave witness to the bullet scarred architecture of the Balkans or even served in the uniform of their country during our endless pursuit of victory during the Cold War.  Regardless of our branch of service or our generation or our conflict, or the even the flag on our shoulders, the gatekeepers to our nightmares all hold the same key.

There is help where the military institution failed.  That help is OSISS (Operational Stress Injury Social Support).  OSISS and their affiliates were able to lend me a hand in my rehabilitation process.  I need to stress the positive impact that the support and patience of my family and friends were able to have on my recovery.  OSISS was able to show me that I am normal, that what I have experienced is a normal reaction to an abnormal situation.  OSISS showed me that being diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was not a detriment to my person.  Even G.I. Joe had some troubles readjusting. This is for you that have watched someone elses back and had the comfort of knowing that your back was in turn being watched, you are not alone.  OSISS is there for you. You started out this mess with a fire team partner, its time to finish with one.

Around the table here at Legion Br 143 it looks to me like a painting found in my grandparents basement focused around a motley crew of dogs from the pound playing cards, but we belong to an exclusive society of former warriors.  Membership was earned through tears and blood.  We are as different in age as are the conflicts that we fought.  Some of us are in our twenties and thirties, and there are some of us that push into our fifties and sixties and beyond. We are the Veterans of our greatest generations wars, we are the baby boomers of Vietnam, and we are the Generation Xs and Ys of UN missions of the 80s and 90s.  We are the fighters of the War against Terrorism.  What brings us together today is living with the realities of where we have been and what we have done. This table is full of former dogs of war.  These men were once called upon by their country to commit the ultimate sin, and make the ultimate sacrifice.  We are old dogs now and a bit worse for wear.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning, at the lighting of a cigarette and in the driving of a car, in the writing of this article and with the shedding of tears, I will remember you.