Let me clarify something: I was not for the Vietnam War in the '60s. In fact, I don't know anyone who was -- especially not among the guys getting shot at. Yes, there were those who wanted to "kill gooks" but they were quickly disabused of any fantasies by the crack-thump of the first bullet past their head or the first person they saw wounded or dead (those who weren't were mentally ill, and I knew some of them as well). I served because I had given my word that I would do so.

So did my brothers, both of whom served in Vietnam and came under fire there. I was in the DMZ War in Korea, where the killing was retail rather than wholesale and yes, I was shot at. It didn't matter -- dead's dead, whether it's in the jungle or in the mountains.

And as I sat in the SeaTac airport, all of the Korea and Vietnam returnees on one side of the aisle and the stragglers from Woodstock on the other, I thought "A haircut and change clothes and you couldn't tell who's who."