THE TIME: MEMORIAL DAY, 1989
THE PLACE: VIET-NAM MEMORIAL PARK, DAYTON OHIO THE EVENT: WIDOWS AND MOTHERS
Since its construction in 1986, I've returned every year to this place for reasons still not fully understood, yet undeniable. I sense an ambivalence of both longing yet satisfaction while in the presence of these polished granite stones with their carefully etched names. I've met none of these honored dead yet I know them well.
Although today is the federal holiday, tomorrow will bring the formal ceremony so the area is being manicured by a small but industrious crew. Many are Viet vets. Their clothes give hint to their past. Pins and patches of former combat units dot their
apparel. Beards and mustaches flourish. An occasional limp fails to go unnoticed.
A car parks close by and three women emerge and enter onto this scene of quiet busyness. Two are elderly grandmother types with their white hair done up in tight curls and wearing long matronly dresses. The other is younger, somewhere in her
thirties with long hair and a stylish short dress. They circle the walk till they find that name, carved in stone, for whom they visit. The two grandmothers move close to the stone, white lacey handkerchiefs held to their faces, while the younger woman stays her ground and slowly loses the fight to hold back the sorrow that seeps from under her dark glasses.
Time passes; the workers continue with their tasks. The younger woman starts to slowly escort the matrons away towards the car. Their white haired heads are bowed
and silent prayers fall from their lips. As they are about to leave, a large bearded figure clad all in black approaches them. He is one of the workers. In muted tones he asks the young woman something. She nods slowly and walks back with him to the name in
stone. He reverently steps over the polished rock and extracts a small American flag
that stands there. He brushes the soil from the tiny wooden staff and carefully folds the fabric around it. He steps in front ofher and solemnly presents it. She takes the flag with shaking hand, her head drops forward and her shoulders sag. The bearded one
steps towards her; his large arms go round her. As he holds her close, a single wrenching sob escapes her as a flood of memories washes from her eyes.
Time passes. The bearded one holds her out at arms length. She stands, straightens her shoulders and raises her head. She nods at him and returns to the white haired ladies. Linking her arms to theirs, they again start to leave.
As they exit they pass under a canopy of bright, new American flags hanging limply on their tall white staffs. As they pass, the languishing breeze suddenly quickens. The center flag, on its loftily staff, stiffens and snaps to attention on the wind. The lower flags, following the que, strain taunt on their staffs as in smart salute to the trio below them.
As their car faded from sight, the flags remained at rigid attention as in tribute to the pure and quiet bravery they had just witnessed. And so did I.

Ed Gallagher

The author is a former US Army helicopter pilot with over 200 combat missions in Viet Nam and Cambodia.

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