VISITORS
Once again I'm inexorably drawn to this place; the Dayton Vietnam Memorial. I'm
always slightly awed by the sight of it. Its relative smallness is expanded by its simple elegance, the stark solemnity of the brooding gray stones is softened by the various hues of flora that grow in abundance under maturing saplings. The noises of a busy city seem distant and filtered. The surrounding trees capture the wind and releases it only as a mur~ur. Even the birds and insects mute their energetic chatter as if aware of hallowed ground.
I sit off to the side of this place and watch. A silent witness to the ebb and flow of emotions from the visitors who gather about the sacred stones. Heirs to sadness and pride.
The oldest are parents. The ones who have not joined their children in that better place, remain to walk with measured gait as they approach the name that was their greatest joy. Mother smiles bravely as they stop at that familiar place, but her trembling chin betrays her. She sees again that sweet young child, too soon an awkward youth, that suddenly was so tall and straight in that unaccustomed uniform. Now too grown up to be kissed; he just hugged her and laughed as he said farewell. The face that would never grow older reflects in her falling tears. The old man stands there like a weathered oak, yet wistful melancholy bedims his eyes. Wasn't he the one that taught him honor and duty to country? Wasn't he the one that drove him to the recruiters office and proudly stood as his son took the oath to protect and defend his native land? Wasn't he the one who received the flag that rested on the coffin. He knows he was right in all he did, but he also knows the terrible cost for freedom. They stand there for awhile longer, arm in arm, then he pats her hand and tells her to say good-bye.
The greatest number are we veterans. Our ranks are beginning to thin now but we still come to this alter of our sacrificed youth. The mustaches we wore in adolescent rebellion to military sameness are graying, the field jackets are frayed and the limp more faltering. As some reach that place they came for, they draw themselves up and salute. Others fight hard to hide tears and many just stand and stare. The question of "Why?" haunts their thoughts. "Why him?". "Why then?". "Why not me?". Old memories stir. Echoes ofgunfire and explosions, the smell of hot metal and blood, aging muscles tighten to the strain of combat again. Yet, our greatest act of bravery was to endure the apathy, animosity and outright distrust aimed at us by the very people who had sent us to war. Through it all, we've kept our faith in country and its sacred honor. Sacrifice without victory sombers our pride but the fierce love for our bloodied brothers shall not be denied or forgotten.
A smaller group are the children. These are the ones with nothing more than obscure memories. Their fathers may never have seen them, yet they are flesh and blood reflections of those names in stone. "Would he have liked me?" they wonder. "Am I really like him, as Mom says?". "Would I have been happier ifl grew up around him?". All this stone can not fill their emptiness. Even in the womb, there were casualties of war .
On its lofty staff, our flag drifts on a whispered breeze as I stand to go. I feel renewed by all I've seen. It's good to know that courage and valor are still respected, admired and remembered by many of us these days. My worry is that someday it might be forgotten and all will have died in vain.
Off to my side some grade school kids approach. Timidly, they lay flowers on the stones and offer silent prayers to heroes they have never known. My worries fade; and like an old soldiers, so do I.

Ed Gallagher

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


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