M E M O R I A L
I remember huddling close to the earth, in a damp, green hell, in Rotten VietNam, struggling to get my spine underneath my belly button, thinking thoughts that should have had lethal force directed at the nameless, faceless rear-echelon heroes who thought nothing of volunteering me and my buddies for yet another face-to-face encounter with the Grim Reaper. While they were sipping cold beer back in the comfort and safety of the Division Base Camp, or MAC-V HQ, or the Pentagon, wherever these geniuses were, we were drinking water stinking of Iodine, eating c-rats out of cans while hunkered down along a trail leading nowhere, in a country going nowhere.
Death waited patiently in the underbrush, released in sudden bursts of furious anger, like a nest of hornets knocked down by careless children, minutes of intensity so desperate as to defy description, followed by a quiet so loud you could hear it. In seconds, friends became memories, once close but now achingly distant, never again to laugh, or cry, or share a smoke. The new guys wouldn't understand why there was distance and resentment at their arrival; only after they too had experienced the shock and loss would they, too, assume the thousand-yard stare when fresh meat entered the line. In the end, all anyone wanted was to survive, to get back to "the world", and leave behind the spectre of friends and comrades who would never leave, never grow another minute older.
We left our youth there, in a land of mud and leeches, jungle so thick it would dull a new machete in minutes; a land of rice paddies and water buffaloes, where 58,209 men died trying to "defend" democracy in a country that had no more use for our version than they had for the French. Left behind were another 1,800 men "missing" in that land, never to be found again. The sad end to a saga lasting over 14 years, costing so many lives and so much prestige and honor. The world turned during that time, turning its back on that dirty little war and the soldiers who fought and died there.
We are left today with a black marble monument that fittingly descends into the ground as you proceed along the walkway, the list of names etched into the cold, dark surface growing with each step. The sense of hopelessness and loss grows as well, forcefully brought home by the small, personal monuments left by mourners, and the groups of visitors who gather at points along the way, reaching out to touch the marble where a loved one, a brother, a father, a son, yet live, immortalized in the polished black marble. Some visitors do rubbings, some stand and gaze out across the Mall, at eye level, some gather and reminisce, remembering lives cut short more than 35 years ago.
Here and there, grizzled veterans gather, drawn by memories and loyalties deeper than even they can comprehend. Late into the night, these guardians walk their post, chasing out demons still active after so long a time, gathering at trash-can fires on cold nights, sharing smokes and camaraderie in search of solace and understanding in a world that never cared in the first place . Their conversation is peppered with strange place names that were written in blood and boredom, waystations on the journey that brought them to this memorial to those who were lost in the same strange places, so long ago. Lost, but not forgotten by their comrades, who gather here still.
