The Wall

     One of the things Kay and I enjoy doing is to roam the countryside looking for festivals, antique stores, historic sites and just about anything that grabs our attention. Usually we go on these outings on Sunday afternoon but today is Friday and Kay found out that the Traveling Vietnam Veterans Memorial would be in Lincolnton this afternoon, so we went.
     Lincolnton is about an hour and a half away and as I drove I wondered what my reaction would be to something that represents such a big part of my life. Being a Vietnam veteran I had long wanted to see the memorial but at the same time I have wondered if I was deserving of the Honor. True, I did serve two tours in the Vietnam war in the late 1960's and if you have read my previous stories about those times you would understand my doubts - I was there, I was willing and I came home when so many didn't and I wonder why.
      Over the years I have seen many war memorials in every town and city I have ever passed thru, memorials for the American Revolution, Spanish American War, The War of 1812, Civil War, WW1, WW2, Korea and others. These memorials represented events before or shortly after my birth and my only personal relationship to them was the fact that my father, uncles and ancestors were involved in them and I was proud of them for it but I don't think I ever really understood what that meant.
     Upon arrival, I saw a scaled down replica of the real memorial in Washington, D.C., it was accurately assembled across the outfield of the local baseball field. There were American flags attached to the chain-link fence in the background and there were smaller American flags at various points at the base of the memorial - these were placed there by people who knew someone whose name was  engraved on the wall. There were vehicles from many Georgia counties and several from out of state, there were buses from senior centers and churches, cars, pickup trucks and motorcycles filled the parking lot. Most of the people were in their seventies like me, others were older.  They walked with canes and sat in wheelchairs, they were bent over with age and stood tall with pride, they had grey hair, they were bald, they were overweight and thin but they came to this special place to honor the memory of someone special to them from long ago.
     There were volunteers to help you find the one name, out of the more than 58,000 names engraved on the wall, that meant something special to you, maybe he was a loved one or maybe a good friend. I didn't know of anyone who was killed in the war except for my second cousins' husband but I didn't know him and have forgotten his name so I just wandered around. We looked at the exhibits and pictures of young men who never grew old and will never be forgotten.
     My thoughts went back to the 1960's, it was a turbulent time and the Vietnam War was unpopular to say the least, I remember hearing the stories of soldiers returning home and being spit on or called baby killers. It didn't happen to me but it did happen.
     There were several times that my outfit was told we would be going into combat only to stand down at the last minute, we were scared but we put up a front for each other because we were still just kids who didn't want their buddies thinking bad of them. Years later I would wonder what it was like to be in combat not knowing if the next bullet whizzing overhead might have my name on it. I developed a deep respect for the men who were "in country", I remembered watching tracer rounds cross the night skies from afar, those men in the darkness were probably scared but like me they didn't show it for fear their buddies might think bad of them, so they did their job and scratched another day off their short timers calendar in the morning.
     So here I was walking beside a black granite wall with over 58,000 names engraved on it, the names of Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen and Marines, men and women many no more than teenagers who never had a chance to grow up, others were older but not by much, all were gone way too soon. War is an old mans game, young men are the pawns. I was over whelmed with sadness for these strangers, I tried to hold back tears as I gazed upon row after row of names of young men that I could proudly call my brothers and wondered why me and not them, why did I get to grow up, raise a family and grow old - why ?
     As I walked around Kay was beside me, she held my hand or touched my shoulder and for a while as I drove away she sat quietly. We have been on many day trips around the state, usually I drive and ask Kay to pick a direction, she has picked well. Today was different, I knew beforehand where we were going, I wasn't sure I wanted to go and once I got there I was filled with sadness for what the memorial meant and joy for what it meant to men and women of my generation especially those of us who were there.
     Thank you Kay for taking me on a journey to the past, thank you for loving me.