"They only count the dead... not the damaged"

That was my father. For forty years he dealt with a world of shit inside his head. You'd look at him in his worldly suit and tie striding down a marbled hall and figure he had it made, but the inside of his skull was a constant bee hive with an insistent ringing at the volume of a fire alarm. All it took was an anti-personnel mine to go off a few yards away from him as he was hoisting up a brother who located a toe popper with his boot. His brother shielded the shrapnel and took it all himself-- took the shrapnel and took the televised coffin ride, but my father took the whole of the blast and the 4 decades of PTSD.

Oh yeah, I forgot. My father didn't need much to remind him of the futility of elective warfare. He'd just show you a small raised red spot just above his elbow directly over the place where a piece of his brother's ulna was presumably still embedded. The same ulna he was gripping "the day the music died" (his words for it). FDJT.