The first entry in my journal.

I wanted this beginning to be something uplifting, like the birth of spring. But there it was in the paper. Another man to be tried for war crimes in the former Yugoslavia. For orchestrating mass rape, torture and murder of innocent civilians. And the memory came back, unbidden.

I never served in the armed forces. But I had a friend who did.

We were freshmen in college, young and fresh and na�ve. Among the crew in our dorm, he was older, having served his stint in Vietnam and then making it back to the World. Trying to get an education and a new start. He seemed a lot wiser than his years.

Looking back on it now, we must having seemed like Huey, Dewey and Louie. "Tell us a story Unca Donald, tell us a story about the war." The war was frightening and exciting at the same time, but not so frightening for me. My number was 346.

So he told us a story. You could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. It was true, not some retelling of some war myth. How his unit had captured a suspected VC, a young woman, and interrogated her. She didn't survive.

I don't know why he told us. Perhaps a guilty conscience, perhaps to teach some innocents what war is really like. Perhaps just to shut us up so we wouldn't ask again.

Some would say that is the horror you expect in war, when you give young men guns and a lousy mission in a country where you can't tell the enemy from the civilians. Maybe so, I wouldn't know.

But Americans did this.

My friend did this.

I don't know what part he played. He just said "we did this" and "we did that." For all I know he was outside and never did anything at all. But he didn't shirk his responsibility for what happened. It was always "we."

I've spent a lot of hours the past week or so reading other people's journals. A lot of them are full of pain. Many are just sharing the pains of growing up. Who am I, who will I be, and most common of all, who will I be with. Most of them will be fine.

Some folks have had a lot of pain. Certainly more than me. They say sharing your pain lightens the load, and I hope that's true. Some of you are carrying some heavy loads. But some pains shouldn't be shared. Sometimes you need to just buck up and carry it alone.

Was my friend right to share his pain? It's been 30 years and I'm still carrying part of the load. Memories of something I never saw. Memories of screams I never heard. My load is like a scar that itches once in a while, just to remind you it's there. I wonder how it is for the men whose scars go deeper, through their hearts and into their souls. But we sent them there. Those were my soldiers, fighting my war. Even if I hadn't voted yet.

Was my friend right to share his pain?

Yes, I think so.

But I wish I hadn't been in the room when he did.