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.
Ed's Collection
Light Horse Home