Vietnam--

As a child born three months after the fall of Saigon I never understood what happened in Southeast Asia in the 1960's and 70's. I thought it was a place my G. I. Joes went for training. I knew nothing of the French occupation, or the fall of Dien Bien Phu, Ia Drang valley and the four day hell that Hal Moore and his men experienced there. The gulf of Tonkin was a footnote in the back of my history book that we almost never got to in school.

As I grew up I heard stories about how bad Vietnam was, but nothing about the men who served and the reasons they went, for a time all I learned was the evil that came from that war, with Agent Orange, friendly fire on civilians and the atrocities American Soldiers committed in Southeast Asia. None of the stories about how men saved their units through sacrifice, defended the people from the encroachment of those who wished to be their slave masters, and men who did their best to live up to the pledge made to leave no man behind.

 

My first understanding came, as it usually does, years after I learned the lesson. Again I was in Washington, D.C. My junior year in high school, crazy how much of my life was defined by that week, I was visiting the memorial with my teacher, a Vietnam vet who, despite being polar opposites when it comes to all things political, is one of the men I respect the most in this world. Well as we walk through the most hallowed ground on the mall, I noticed him pause at the wall. He stood there for a moment then he moved on. Being 16 I did not know if it was he had something in his eye, he was adjusting his backpack, or he walked past the names of his friends who are etched in enteral honor on that black wall. Coach took a few pictures and then we continued on our trip around DC. As a typical 16 year old, after we moved on the thought slipped from my mind and I really paid no more attention to it. But that memory stayed, not in the forefront of my mind but would return 20 years later, but we will get to that...

In 2005 I started my annual trips to DC. I go at least once a year and I always stop by a few spots, and the wall is one. As an adult I see the wall not as a collection of unknown names, but in fact the opposite, each name is someone's son, father, a friend, or a brother, by blood or in arms. Each name represents a family that has paid the ultimate sacrifice upon the alter of freedom. Each name is that of a family that will never again be whole. Some of those family members will be able to think back to shared Christmases, Thanksgiving dinners, and many many other important family events, while family members of many of them would know only know him through pictures and stories told by those who shared a part of his life, a life that would forever be cut short by the ugly face of war.  Each name is a family that would never again enjoy the world without the scar of war.

Each time I visit the wall I walked around and looked at the people, families, vets, and others like myself who knew no one on the wall, I have seen school trips much like the one I was on the first time I ever saw the memorial, Boy Scout troops, but the thing that sticks out the most is when I see strong men break down, the lucky ones were with their families that could help them through the experience at the wall, men who normally nothing phased them had to be helped up that black stone walkway because of the memories that hit them harder than anything man has ever made. Men who served, men who had protected me before I was even born, Men who were never given the respect they earned as patriots, as national heroes.

 

 

I never had any of these experiences at the wall other than standing by helplessly watching strangers, until last summer. I was in DC for work and we went out on the usual day’s exploration of the mall. We had a great day, we toured the Capitol walked about the mall and then we came to the wall, we removed our hats; we stopped acting like the overgrown 12 year old on their first field trip without their parents, like we had been doing at the Smithsonian, and walked into that sacred ground as we walked one of my co-workers started to shake and pause. I looked over at him and I saw the tears running down his face. I had no words.  I just placed my hand on his shoulder and he smiled at me. I told him to take his time, he walked to the wall and placed his hand on it, he stood there for a moment then he turned around, full tears running down his face, he looked at me with a half-smile and said thank you. I looked at him and said welcome home. He smiled and we rejoined our group and continued on our tour.
I have been back to the wall since then and it has a very different feel to me. I don’t know exactly where on the wall we stopped, but now when I visit the wall and I get about halfway down the walk way I am overtaken by a rush of emotions, I have that feeling that I have 58,000+ men looking at me and watching me.  I know that they are in heaven smiling down and they hear me when I pray and say thank you.

I now stop, not just at the wall but anywhere I am, if I see a Vietnam Veteran hat, I pause walk up to him give him my hand and I always say “Welcome home!” I only wish I could have been there forty years ago to say that to him when he was a young man returning home to a country that he has proudly served.
As I think about Vietnam the only thing that stays forever in my mind is that Heroes don't wear numbers on their back, they wear ribbons on their chest.