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Independence, MO —
To the editor:
The homeless vet – he was just 21, had completed his college preparation and was about to enter on a career in his field, when his number came up and he was drafted. The war was on, so he was sent to basic training and then to specialized training as a rifleman. He was assigned to a combat unit on his way abroad and was sent immediately to the front. His hatred and fear was only heightened as he engaged in firing at the enemy.
Then one day, it happened. A piece of jagged shrapnel hit his head and rearranged his brain so he no longer knew who he was, where he came from or what he could do. His family finally located him in the military hospital and sought to engage him in conversation, but they were strangers to him, and he rejected their friendship. When he was dismissed from the hospital, he took to the road to live the only life he now knew, that of a soldier living on the edge of combat.
He still had his warm military clothing and pack and went to live off the land he had so sacrificially fought to defend. He was always hungry. When some old friend would seek to buy him a meal in a restaurant, he might reject the warmth and attractiveness in the place and leave to walk on the street, though sometimes he gorged himself in the restaurant, but mostly he ate from garbage cans.
At night he would try to find a place out of the wind, under a bridge, over a street register or on or in a large cardboard box, which some soul who preceded him had left for someone such as he. He sought something soft, like grass or and old carpet, anything soft upon which to rest his tired body.
So there he or she is, one of hundreds of people who roam our nation as a homeless veteran, a victim of war!
To the editor:
The homeless vet – he was just 21, had completed his college preparation and was about to enter on a career in his field, when his number came up and he was drafted. The war was on, so he was sent to basic training and then to specialized training as a rifleman. He was assigned to a combat unit on his way abroad and was sent immediately to the front. His hatred and fear was only heightened as he engaged in firing at the enemy.
Then one day, it happened. A piece of jagged shrapnel hit his head and rearranged his brain so he no longer knew who he was, where he came from or what he could do. His family finally located him in the military hospital and sought to engage him in conversation, but they were strangers to him, and he rejected their friendship. When he was dismissed from the hospital, he took to the road to live the only life he now knew, that of a soldier living on the edge of combat.
He still had his warm military clothing and pack and went to live off the land he had so sacrificially fought to defend. He was always hungry. When some old friend would seek to buy him a meal in a restaurant, he might reject the warmth and attractiveness in the place and leave to walk on the street, though sometimes he gorged himself in the restaurant, but mostly he ate from garbage cans.
At night he would try to find a place out of the wind, under a bridge, over a street register or on or in a large cardboard box, which some soul who preceded him had left for someone such as he. He sought something soft, like grass or and old carpet, anything soft upon which to rest his tired body.
So there he or she is, one of hundreds of people who roam our nation as a homeless veteran, a victim of war!
