Children's deaths were one of the hardest parts of the war. That pix of the girl running down the road, clothing burned off by napalm is an icon of how terrible war can be.

Thanks for helping me keep all of this in perspective. Even one of these images could give someone PTSD for life, and the soldier has an accumulation of such scenes. When they come to mind, it's like...grab the remote and change stations ... but on the next station are more scenes, maybe worse than the one we are running from, and the next station, and the next.

And when we think the program has ended, we see a young boy playing with a toy gun, or we encounter a smell or a sound, and the replay resumes. There's almost no escaping the replays.

There's no way to explain these things to anyone IRL (in real life). Who will understand my weeping because I see a boy walking on the beach? Who will understand my anxiety when I see two young boys riding a motorcycle in traffic? Who will understand the panic in my eyes when I hear about a soldier's funeral? My war is long gone. I'm not supposed to be affected like this. *tears

One afternoon I stood in a Vietnamese village, the only American around. I stood by a well 6' across with only a 6" wall above ground. A momma san drew water with a bucket. Kids were all around. I didn't feel any danger. The first peaceful place I'd seen in weeks. The sun was slanting through the banana palms and the kids were playing.

A old man walked by with a bundle on one shoulder and a shovel on the other. He came near me and nodded and walked up a narrow dirt path among the trees, right into the evening sun.

A kid said in English, "Hi GI" and started a little conversation. In the midst of my asking him about school and his family, he told me about a baby who drowned in his village. I finally came to understand he was saying that the baby fell into that very well and drowned.

I asked how long ago that was. He said, "Today."

He read the shock on my face and continued ... "That man you saw go there on the path. He grandfather. He go bury baby."

Such a tranquil scene that hid such a tragedy for the family and for the village. And a jeep came for me. I got in and rode away, still stunned about the toddler's death, knowing that a few rows of blocks around that well would have prevented the death and maybe others.

Combat didn't allow me to dwell on the infant for long, and the memory was buried for more than 4 decades until my fingers revealed it today. How many more tragedies were buried as was that baby, with no recognition, with no one who cares, with no tears or grief, just put away to come spilling out in unexplained anger or rage.