The scars of war may not be visible. This was written about a particular friend, but it could apply to many.

He was just a simple farm boy:
Young, and proud to serve his country.
Used to hunting deer and rabbits,
But they sent him hunting men.

And he can’t forget their faces,
Nor the screams of dying comrades,
But he never heard the bullet
That sent him home again.

People say that he was lucky
That he came home whole in body;
Just a tiny scar that brought a
Purple Heart from Uncle Sam.

But it takes a heap of drinking
To forget the pain inside him
And he left part of his soul in Viet Nam

Janice A. Clark 1996