I'm sitting with my war buddy at a hookah bar in Rhode Island: sweet flavor, low light, good tunes. A few drinks keep us warm, lessening the anxiety of our minds.

Eight years after serving together on the Syrian Border of Iraq, we still like each other’s statuses, keep in touch through text messages, and I visit about once a year.

We used to smoke hookah in Iraq, too. We spent all of our time together and became brothers. In many ways, I know him better than anyone else on the planet. And I’m sure he can say the same about me.

But there’s no timetable for getting over the trauma of war – and there are stories that people don’t want to tell, especially when they’ve secretly been feeling alone.

My buddy is a gregarious, outgoing guy, the life of the party. My visits with him are usually joined by many others: his friends or mine who just want to join in on our celebrations – of surviving the war, of staying best friends, of keeping true to our promises to always look after one another.

But tonight, for whatever reason, it is just us, and there’s a story he wants to share.

Before I was assigned to his team after serving in a different part of Iraq, my friend was ambushed while on patrol. He got out and shot, not knowing whom he was hitting or whom with him was being hit. But he learned right away that his vehicle gunner was shot, and his friend, too. My buddy held his body as the life drained from him all the way from the ambush site to the helicopter that took him away.

I’ve never heard this tale. I’m shocked that it has never been spoken. But I’m happy he’s shared it. He needs this therapy to get better. I will continue to be here for him. I will sleep without silencing my cellphone. He promises to call if he needs.

In regards to my own trauma, I’m better now, I’m happy to report. I’ve been well and happy for a very long time. But even I’ve forgotten that there are camouflaged wounds on our warriors that most of us will never see.