A Different Kind of Battle

As taps played in low, mournful tones at the close of this year’s three-day Stand Down event, the veterans stood at attention on the Ventura College football field, hands raised in crisp salute just as they must have all those years ago.

Although once they wore military uniforms and regulation buzz cuts, now some had hair to their shoulders, bushy beards and skin turned leathery by exposure to sun and wind.

By evening, they would be back where they had come from, bused back to a Santa Barbara beach or a Los Angeles homeless shelter. For now, though, they were more like a military unit.

At the close of the seventh annual Ventura County Stand Down gathering, an event designed to assist homeless veterans, nearly 180 would return to their lives with new clothes, haircuts, newfound legal knowledge and, the organizers hoped, a new sense of purpose.

At the very least, supporters say, the event fits the military meaning of a stand down--when a unit is shifted from combat to a secure site.

“When they leave today, they have a choice [to seek help],” said Claire Hope, who occasionally chokes up at the memory of a Stand Down success story. “There are some who prefer their lifestyle. The best we can do is give them three nights of R and R.”

Hope and the other organizers don’t think in terms of success rates and percentages. They know they’re facing an uphill battle and that three days is not much time to turn around the life of a person who might have spent decades on the streets.

So, they name the names of the dozens of men and women who came to event after event as participants before eventually being stable enough to return as volunteers.

W. David Blackhoop, a 50-year-old full-blood Hunkpapa Sioux, is one of them.

The North Dakota native returned from the Vietnam War, unwilling to reveal his veteran status to a country he perceived as hating him for his role in the fighting. He struggled with traumatic memories: A dream or a smell could set him off with a violent flashback of a firefight or ambush. He turned to alcohol, and eventually ended up sleeping in MacArthur Park in Los Angeles.

But a Stand Down held in Long Beach in 1991 changed him, helped him make the decision to give up alcohol, to become closer to his family.

Blackhoop wanted the change. Others, suspicious of the Department of Veterans Affairs and organized attempts at help, need more convincing.

“There are some who have been living in the brush for 30 years, sleeping in canals and riverbeds,” said Blackhoop, who works as a dispatcher for a bus service in Los Angeles. “Some think it’s a round-up or a sting. They’re afraid.”

For many of the veterans who come, the days are almost like a reunion. They share hugs, handshakes, promises made at other Stand Downs. They are with men--only eight of the participants were women--who have been through the same situations they have.

Despite their hard times and sometimes unwelcome return from the service, they tend to be unwavering patriots, men who still identify with their service branch long after they’ve separated.

“I’ve been honored to share a tent with a sergeant major who was at Guadalcanal,” said Rich Ellis, as he spoke during an open-mike period. “There’s a lot of honor in this place.”

They shared it in a closing ceremony, punctuated by salutes and a “circle of honor,” as participants and volunteers clasped hands raised above their heads while a patriotic country song buzzed over the loudspeaker.

The Ventura County event was planned for veterans from Ventura, Los Angeles, Santa Barbara and San Luis Obispo counties.

When they departed, they scattered to their respective buses, carrying garbage bags filled with new underwear, socks and toiletries, bound for home--wherever it might be.

Some made promises not to be back. Others couldn’t.

“I’ll probably sleep in a shelter tonight. It’s up for grabs day-to-day,” said Doug, 43, of San Luis Obispo, who wouldn’t give his last name. “It depends on how I’m thriving next time if I’ll return. But, it’s always nice to come back.”