For anyone who has ever stood before The Wall, a flood of memories is a common experience. Like the scent of honeysuckle brings back those carefree childhood days in the springtime, so too The Wall pulls on the soul, but on a deeper, more spiritual level.
It is a name, two names or a few names engraved among many that draw each individual into his distant past, her momentary separation from this moment to once again visit her father, his son, their buddies.
For the Vietnam combat veteran that name was a practical joker, a loud mouth, a guy who would lend you money until next payday. A man who sat in your hole up to your knees in freezing water in a driving rain at midnight trying to get a cigarette lit under your poncho because he left his back at the hooch. Sometimes you didn’t get along but he still knew everything about you and you him. He, from Mississippi. You, from Montana. Then, that night when the skies lit up, you watched him leave. He was right there with you when it happened. What happened? That’s when you realized he was your brother, for in your mind, he had taken your place.
For the Vietnam veteran who saw little combat up close and personal the name called you ‘Skunker’ because you always smelled like jet fuel. You weren’t close because he was an officer and you just a Seaman 1st. But he did agree to take one of your t-shirts on a mission. While you would never see Hanoi, at least you could say your t-shirt did. On the mission after he returned your t-shirt you watched him fly off the deck, perhaps with someone’s coat button or ribbon board in a pocket; but he would never return it. Now you vow to keep that t-shirt forever. Not because it had been to Hanoi but because he had once carried it next to his body-the same body that no one can say where it lies. To you, he’s gone. But is he? You believe you will never know. But now you do after all these years. He’s right in front of you, Skunker.
For the Vietnam era veteran, camaraderie had developed with that name. Being Stateside had been a blast. Bar-hopping, skating the work details, girls, girls, girls! He could hold his liquor but you sure couldn’t. How many times did he cover for your sorry back side? You even went on leave together so he could fix you up with his cousin. That didn’t work out because you’re an idiot when you drink. And he never let you forget it. Then he got orders. Six months TAD. You both had the same MOS so it could have just as easily been you. The War’s almost over anyway. What could happen? Two months later you still haven’t heard from him. But no big deal; he never wrote his mother either. The duty NCO walks into your barracks and tells everyone he’s gone. There is a somber atmosphere but no visible grief. You wonder if you should call his family. But you don’t have the guts. Later, at formation, the 1st Sgt. tells all that he was in an accident but no more. You’ll have to wait for the Wall, a Wall neither you nor anyone else can imagine at that time. And when you confront his name you scold him for not writing; and then you cry.
For the mother, the name is part of her flesh, her soul. She is responsible for the name itself. She watched it grow, develop, mature and then, with an independence that surprised her, rebelled against her wishes. He was a young man but to her he was still the baby she held when he caught pneumonia and almost died. She promised herself then that she would never let that happen again. But she had no control now. He wanted to serve. They argued until she relented. She had to let him go, knowing she would not be there to protect him. And she was right. When she gazes at the name she gave him she is both angry and proud. Then she hears him call out, ‘Mom!’ Then it fades just as it did on his last day.
There, behind the names you may see a cloud of irony. The first name’s son followed him nine years later. Among the last of the names are three who were seen together; not in Vietnam; but on a small insignificant island off the coast of Cambodia. They were there to rescue merchant seamen. But no one rescued them. A conscientious objector rests on the Wall. He refused to carry a weapon; however, he was willing to carry a medical kit. Perhaps he doesn’t know it, or maybe he does; they awarded him a Medal of Honor. There are female names on the Wall, all were there to help. It’s possible they helped you on your way out with that million dollar wound. Their wounds would cost much, much more.
And finally there is a young lady on the Wall, very much alive. She was born in Ohio three years after the first name departed. She brought that Wall out of her imagination and into the physical world that her engraved heroes no longer inhabit. Where did she come up with that idea? that bridge between the two planes of existence? Maybe her parents inspired her of tales from their homeland, a homeland they had to flee from the communist Chinese ten years before her birth; a flight from the same evil our beloved names gave their lives to purge.
Just as our fathers before us, we will grow old and in time join our brothers once again. If the spirit cares little of honor it is not a matter for us to consider. We care for it. Its expression is intangible but as real as the rock upon which they rest. So long as there is a Mankind it will forever be awed by the sacrifice of their ancestors. And for our own reasons, whatever they may be we had to make them a home in the physical world where we may touch them once again until we too, become spirit.
Note:
This anonymous tribute was first published in the March, 2009 issue of Perimeter Report. I regret that I wasn't able to find it in time for Memorial Day posting. But here it is now.
Semper Fi,
Dick Lancaster