No one said "thank you." My tour of duty in Vietnam ended in August of 1972. I flew back to my family in Maine; they were glad to see me, but not even they said "thank you" or "welcome home". Even if they had, I wouldn't have known how to respond.

Too many explosions, searching dead bodies for intelligence, hours of ennui and minutes of terror, lots of blood, holding the dying, all this and more had taken a toll. I also had shared inedible and incredible meals, slept in strange places, cursed at intransigent superiors, and laughed at death but never had time to cry for the dying.

Exhaustion and despair, expectation and exhilaration had been my duty companions for too long. Warriors returning from Iraq and Afghanistan are met with a heartfelt "welcome home" and sincere "thank you". That's much better than the hostility and indifference that marked my return and many of my colleagues. But I wonder if these men and women, like I was, are at a loss about how to respond to these one-sided statements.

These recent wars are so different: communications are vastly improved, more efficient, and disturbingly fast; weapons, vehicles of all sorts, and even rations have evolved; medical assistance and new technologies have saved lives but left individuals and families with terrifying challenges; multiple tours with prolonged separations are common.

Military leadership now recognizes that prolonged stress and trauma create "problems"; perhaps some day they will learn that pills and questionnaires while helpful are not solutions. It is hard for me with my Vietnam experience to talk with these recent warriors – the argot, the slang, of war has changed. When attempting to converse, I need a translator.

What has not changed over the centuries is the profaneness of war; the frustration of returning to a society preoccupied with mindless vicarious thrill seeking, enthralled by "reality" shows; the loneliness one feels even in the midst of a crowd; the terror of the unexpected sight or sound or smell; the rage so easily triggered; and the profound disquiet of the wounded soul.

From the highly varied, always dirty but brilliant hues coloring edgy life in the war zone to the drab, gray, sameness of existence at "home" is a transition hard to make; many never do. I was "lucky" – I survived the war, but at "home" my existence was sometimes touch and go.

Lessons learned in the war zone – detachment, vigilance, control, anger – were habits not compatible with "home". A Vet Center helped me come "home". The story of that journey of transformation is long, complicated and emotional. And that adventure continues. I'll talk about it to the few who ask. I'll risk sharing my story, but who will take the greater risk of listening without judgement, perhaps to learn of the sorrow of war? Many warriors of more recent conflicts are just starting their journey. To them I say: it is worth the pain and tears for the reward may be life and love. I have found it that way.

Over four decades have passed since "my" war. We old Vietnam vets greet each other with a knowing and wry "welcome home". People recognize us by our caps and T-shirts and small lapel pins, and some say "thank you for your service". Civilians see my canes and occasionally ask about them; and I tell them they're a "gift" from Vietnam. Often they reply "I'm sorry." It is all very nice. But these remarks can be terribly one-sided.

I am waiting for someone to say "Forgive me?" That question both admits complicity for what happened and initiates a conversation. I'd like to tell that person this: my friend, we share responsibility. I'm proud to have served my country, even if it meant going to Vietnam. I'm sinfully proud of having been both an enlisted man and an officer. I did my best in an untenable situation. But I wasn't prepared for the haunted eyes in the refugee camp, or the cries of the wounded, or the angry, wary stares of the villagers. Forgive us, yes, if that will ease your mind. But if you will stay and listen to the story, then together we may find salve for our wounded souls.

Thus begins the risky pathway of healing. Will you, beloved and fortunate citizen, do that duty for some returning warrior who has served our nation?