Ironically, a local VN era commander told me that the rest of us aren’t real vets. They can kiss my ass too.
It's not anything to go crazy about but very few of us who did serve with the infantry made in back in one piece. I just wrote down 20 or so of my friends on a card for today's prayers at church and I don't even remember the names of a tenth of them that were killed. Every single day that goes by, I am in moderate to severe pain from my bullet-shattered leg.
I was jeered when I got back, refused rides hitchhiking, refused service in restaurants and a beautiful young women spat in my face.
I do admire you, that you served, but don't get resentful if I tell you that combat service is something unique and horrible and lonely.