For many, war doesn't end when the shooting has stopped and the smoke has cleared. This is an "account" of a trip I organized and led for the veterans of the HOOTCH Program, a therapeutic community of veterans suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, at the Department of Veterans Affairs Medical Center in Brooklyn. Little did I realize how personal the trip would become or how much I would be affected by this experience.

Journey to the Wall

Phase One: The Preparation.

Keeping occupied was the answer.

Tour guide I could handle.

Motel reservations, bus charter,

and a million and one

sign-up lists.

You going?

Fill out the form, send it back.

Where's the money coming from?

We raise it. Thanks.

Everyone goes who can take the risk.

What risk? I'm only the planner.

Where we going?

Washington.

For what?

Government purchase order.

What's that? Just get it,

the government doesn't pay taxes you know.

Now we're the government.

How'd that happen.

Oh shit.

Planning ain't bad.

Maybe I'll spend the rest of my life making plans.

I'm good at it.

Plans for what? No difference,

I'm just responsible for the planning.

Check and double check.

Smooth like silk, no foul ups.

Proper prior planning . . .

Bus here? Lunches ready?

Where 're we going? Washington.

Keeping Occupied was the answer.

Phase Two: The Journey

Volton the mad, driving.

My god; maybe we'll never survive the trip.

We do. Maps over maps.

Where's the motel?

Changed the name, didn't tell me.

French landmines on the beach,

eighteen years old,

couldn't plan on that either.

Should've. Aren't I the planner?

They look to me to get them there,

to get them home.

My back strains under the weight.

Ten minutes from bus to room,

and twenty-five dollars.

Big deal, it's expected.

Three hours and back on the bus.

Got everyone? Yes?

Next activity, lets roll.

We're here.

Where? The WALL.

What for? What do you mean,

this is what you've been planning.

Oh yeah, I forgot.

The WALL.

OK, I'm coming.

Wait! I can't go down there.

Why not? It's what you've been planning.

I'm afraid.

Of what? The ghosts,

too many ghosts,

this place is filled with ghosts.

Why am I crying,

I can't stop crying.

They never told me

they changed the name of the motel.

How was I supposed to have known?

You should have.

We were relying on you,

you should've known.

I'm sorry.

You let us down.

Stop it, leave me alone!

This is an awful place,

I'll go no closer.

I'm sorry,

I'm just the planner.

You let us down.

I'll stay on this bench and wait,

and maybe plan the next activity.

Bus after bus,

what a nuisance.

All those people down there.

Not everyone sees the ghosts, however,

only the tortured do.

You can tell who they are.

Squirrels running back and forth.

One comes over to me

and jumps up on the bench.

I watch.

I've always heard that animals

can sense the presence of ghosts.

I wonder if that's true.

I guess he's looking to be fed.

I have nothing to give you,

I'm sorry.

You let me down.

I know.

The squirrel walks across the bench and comes up on my lap.

How cute.

He doesn't know who I am.

Maybe he does.

Maybe he's the ghosts avenger,

poised to jump at my jugular.

Get away!

He goes.

Discovered.

Have to answer questions.

I'm not ready to walk down to the WALL.

Thanks, I will though,

that's why I came, right?

That's why I came.

Squirrels keep their distance now,

word has spread quickly.

I'll go.

Check the book.

Too many names. I'll just look for one,

one out of fifty-nine thousand.

"L" "O", not here,

how come?

Check "L" "A"

still not here.

"L""E" no.

Maybe you imagined it.

Maybe I imagined it.

Computer.

Check the computer.

Still no.

Oh God.

Are you sure he's dead?

. . . I'm sure.

Another book,

by state.

He's from New York.

I find it.

They spelled his name wrong.

Change it.

Of course you can change it,

it's spelled wrong.

A relative?

No, uh . . . a friend.

I'll write.

24 East, line 9.

Ghosts block my way.

Leave me alone!

Everyone has disappeared.

Just the ghosts remain.

And me.

26 . . . 25 . . . 24,

nine lines down.

I relied on you to get me home.

I tried.

You failed.

I didn't know they changed the name.

How could I?

You should have.

I should have.

Ghosts all aroung me.

You failed, you failed.

I failed, I'm sorry.

A baby crying.

I hear a baby crying.

I gaze down. A baby bottle.

Someone left a baby bottle.

Oh no! I'm sorry.

Mamma.

Oh no . . .

Blank.

Huh? The bus?

OK, the bus.

Let me go, please.

Stay.

No. Let me go!

I'll come again tomorrow..

Try and sleep.

I may never wake up.

Calm down it's over.

It's never over.

Why am I crying.

Mamma.

Stop!

Group.

There's a group going on.

I'll go.

Noise, I hear voices

and words without meaning.

What are they talking about?

I can't stop crying.

Leave, I must get away from this.

I went too far this time.

Blank . . .

Another custodian of the ghost finds me,

sits down. She talks.

I hear noises at first,

then words.

She shares the horror,

the grief,

but hasn't identified its source.

Yet. Let her be.

Maybe her denial provides the sanctuary

that enables her to survive.

Something has brought her here, though.

The ghosts.

I see them all around her.

She bleeds from her wounds,

but bravely endures the pain.

We form a bond,

of victims who have seen too much of suffering and death.

No sleep is possible now,

so we talk,

and soon are joined by others

seeking relief from the misery.

Mamma.

Oh god.

Day Two

I'll not spend this day alone.

I'll find protection from the ghosts

by staying in control.

I'll help my new friend

explore her hell and be a lifeline

to draw her out of the inferno should she be overcome.

44 West, line 67, our destination.

47 . . . 46 . . . 45 . . .

You're back.

I'm not here for you.

But we're here for you.

Not again.

Line 65 . . . 66 . . . ,

her shoulders droop,

the ghosts pound down upon her.

I hear them scream.

Mamma.

Do something.

I Can't.

Help her, hold her, bring her back.

I can't

I'm sorry.

I didn't know they changed the name.

We relied on you,

we were children.

I was a child myself.

My friend pulled back,

and they pursued.

We walked,

and talked of endless grief . . .

and cried.

We continued on a bit further

and, upon leaving this canyon of death,

we rested.

Exhausted we sat there relating to eachother

the stories of each of the ghosts

that haunt us.

Together we gave them

the recognition they demanded and,

one by one they became placid

until at last we had some peace.

Phase Three: The Return

Got everyone?

Good, lets go.

Where?

Back to reality, to the world.

Home.

What for?

I don't really know.

Volton the mad driving.

My god, maybe we'll never survive the trip.

We do.

Radio blasting and loud singing,

covering the remnants of the screams

that remain in our minds.

At last, it's over.

I say goodbye to those who have shared my grief,

and wait until everyone has left.

Slowly, I make the long walk to the parking area,

listening, waiting.

Hoping that those who have haunted my dreams

and my waking hours

will remain buried in that marble canyon of death.

It's very quiet, and peaceful.

I pause before entering my car,

savoring a much needed

moment of peace.

Perhaps it's over.

Perhaps I have at last

put to rest the memories

of times long gone.

Pause for a moment.

I'm tired. Sleep.

But I may never wake up.

So what.

Mamma.

Copyright 1995 Camillo Bica