Pain and Penance

CW: Themes of PTSD

Pain and Penance

While attending a convention in Washington, D.C., my wife and I planned a day to mingle with the other tourists. After all, there are dozens of impressive statues to visit—former presidents, venerable statesmen, and military heroes with somber faces—many in full uniform atop charging horses. However, there is one D.C. monument I didn’t want to see; the Vietnam Memorial, often called the Wall.

Three years earlier, I had struggled for months to finish a book about my time in war. When I began, I was sure I could work through the bad dreams, conquer the ugly memories—be strong. But each page forced me to face the anguish I thought I’d left behind. It was like reliving the suffering. The pain was too much. I couldn’t finish. That part of my life was dead to me.

“I’m going to amend our plans a little,” my wife said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

My wife prepared our outings as if we were landing on Omaha Beach. Her travel plans were always detailed. Nothing was left to chance. I immediately became suspicious.

And since I had not been to D.C. before, I was disoriented. After a series of turns we ended up in a parking lot that looked like all the others. Then, almost out of sight, she pointed to the Wall and said I needed to confront my demons. Her goal was well-meaning but misguided. I ended up with an unwanted immersive shock therapy session.

The reality consumed me. Minutes later, wrapped in a fog, I found myself standing fifty meters away from the Wall, I was staring at my emotional epicenter. As a Vietnam veteran, I am still furious with long-simmering rage directed at merciless politicians. And, truth be told, I am terrified that I’ll find familiar names on the Wall.

Wisely, my wife drifts away and allows me to be alone in my secretive grief. I am not certain I can get any closer to the massive coal-colored stone panels. I procrastinate. I’ll do anything to prolong what will soon become the inevitable. Trying to appear busy, I casually scan two bound directories resting under protective glass. Much thicker than phonebooks, they list the names of those American souls who are forever etched in the near-by cold, black memorial.

Reverently, I turn five or six pages at a time. I am not really reading names; I’m just postponing my visit. Out of deep respect, I search for the one name I know for certain is here: Marty Hammond, my childhood friend who lived in a small green house just down the block from me. We grew up in a sprawling suburb on a short street where we, along with the other neighborhood kids, played baseball throughout the spring and well into the summer.

Behind me are two street-smart vendors offering memorabilia from, allegedly, their time in Vietnam. What do we call that time? The war? Conflict? Peace action? What the hell was it? I can hear them hawking their memory-makers to big-eyed tourists wearing cut-offs and carrying fancy cameras—all eager to take snap shots and get back on their air-conditioned buses.

“You have questions about the Wall?” A booming voice calls out. “Ask me. I’m here to help.”

One vendor is an older, white-bearded hippy-type wearing dirty, disheveled clothing. He is short and squat with a round ruddy nose. If ever he marched in a uniform, it had to be many decades ago. The other is a taller and younger Black man wearing a camouflage coat and a green beret dotted with shiny pins, presumably samples of his wares. They are talking loud and fast, attempting to convince people they have answers to all things connected to the Wall. A time-honored hustling hoax: Get them close enough to ask a question, and you can make a sale.

I glance at my watch, but I can’t move. The wind picks up, rustling fallen leaves. The silver-gray clouds floating overhead are moving quickly, heading east, partially blocking the warm sunlight. Large misshapen blotches of shadow and light splay over the ground all around me. My heart is beating so fast I think it’ll explode. I know I must do something. I feel trapped between my self-inflicted torture and an overpowering curiosity. A relentless barrage of fragmented memories—faces, names, sounds, songs, scents—assault my subconscious as I stand here drowning in my indecision.

Consumed with simmering disgust, I wonder why this monument to honor the thousands who gave the last full measure of devotion to their nation is not erected above ground like the dozens of others scattered throughout the city. I wonder why they chose stark black granite for this creation and not the pure white marble used elsewhere. Of the endless possibilities in design, I wonder why this one is arranged to resemble the letter V. Doesn’t V stand for victory?

There was no victory in our nation’s twenty-year war—or was it a conflict? A peace-action? What the hell was it? The iconic photograph of the last Huey helicopter hovering above the Pittman Apartments in Saigon as the enemy raced into the city is forever etched in my mind. Like a frightened dog being driven away from a bone, we were forced out, whimpering. There was no victory.

Slowly, reluctantly, I begin to walk towards the long narrow path that parallels the Wall. I stroll among strangers. Small groups, individuals, men, women, and children. A selfish few walk their dogs tethered with fancy leashes as if they’re out on a picnic. I overhear snippets of conversation, not full meaningful sentences, but random words that become gibberish. I can’t focus on anything. I’m distracted. It’s as if I’m watching scenes from a vintage black and white movie—but through a gray mist. Like a noose, my secret hate-filled world is shrinking all around me.

Straight ahead, I see two long, black, narrow triangular walls. A cement path slopes gradually downward to the lowest point. Where the two panels join, it is three-meters tall—the second triangle gradually slopes upward to the opposite end of the Wall.

Where I’m standing, the polished stone emerges from the ground; one hundred-fifty meters away, the stone disappears back into the ground. I imagine a somber priest sprinkling holy water and intoning, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

Etched perfectly into these black granite panels are more than 58,000 names. So many names one cannot possibly read them. I am sad that I cannot take the time to look at each one. They deserve to be read, to be recognized, to be respected. When alive and in uniform, many of our nation’s citizens called them ugly names, spat on them—and an ungrateful nation all but disowned them. There were no parades for those who returned. No cheers greeted them. Many languished in hellish misery before taking their final breath of life. But in death, they are at long last, and rightly, honored.

At first glance, there doesn’t appear to be any logical order to the tens of thousands of names. The names are not even listed alphabetically. Soldiers are listed along with Marines, Sailors, Coast Guardsmen, and Airmen—they all seem to be thrown in at different locations; it’s all so random, this tragic collection of names, the fallen who died half a world away.

But after you learn the heart-shattering system devised to mark their memory, it becomes painfully clear. These thousands of names are carefully positioned according to the date they died—or became missing. Side by side, they stood, fought, and fell together, and now they are forever listed next to one another in polished stone the color of a moonless midnight.

Young and old, men and women. They represented every age between fifteen and sixty-three. They had black, brown, white, and yellow faces and proudly wore uniforms from all branches of service. They went to war as draftees and volunteers; they came from big cities and small towns. All fifty states and US territories are represented.

These were America’s sons and daughters who sacrificed their lives—farmers and ghetto kids, athletes and nerds, high school dropouts and college graduates. Tragically and randomly their lifeless young bodies were strewn across the ugly battle fields far from home. And now, all that remains—their names and their memories—are spread across this granite V-shaped memorial for all to see, for all to honor. So many names.

A small group of people walk a few meters behind me. I cannot see their faces or understand their conversation, but they are talking, laughing, and seem to be enjoying their informal outing. I check myself. I am so tempted to turn around and shout, “How dare you? How dare you come to this place and disrespect these fallen warriors?” I stop abruptly to let them pass.

I turn to the wall and randomly reach out to touch a name with my cold hand, softly, respectfully as if sending—or receiving—a message, a silent message in a code only a few understand. I turn my head to look at the name as my trembling fingers trace the letters spelling Sgt. Timothy E. Sullivan, USA.

My wife, who has been following behind me, quickly asks “Did you know him?”

The familiar voice forces me back to the present. “I know all of them, every last one of them.” My response comes out instantly, unrehearsed, unscripted, and uncontrollably. These are the first words I have spoken in over an hour.

So many names. A vast sea of letters etched perfectly in carefully measured rows on shiny stone panels filled with stars, symbols, crosses, numbers, and directional designators—58,272 names. A staggering sum that defies description—or comprehension. And for what? Who can answer that question? No one has an answer. Not those elected to the highest offices in the land sitting comfortably in nearby plush government buildings. Not even the street vendors atop the knoll, despite their blustery confidence and claim to the contrary.

A young family slowly passes me; two small boys walking with their parents. One child shouts, “Who are these people, Daddy?”

That’s what children do, they express their harmless curiosity—usually in a loud impulsive voice. His father asks him to use his quiet voice. He quickly reminds his son that they are in a special place. The voices trail off and I can’t hear the rest of their conversation—but I approve.

I keep walking. I want to stop at each panel. I want to read each name, so many names. Consumed with guilt, I search frantically for names that I might recognize. The task is overwhelming. No, it’s impossible. I keep seeing names that sound familiar, but I don’t know, I’ll never know, if any name on the wall was a man I served with decades ago. We all used nicknames back then: AJ, Sully, Country, Smiley, Doc, Hollywood. We were so young, so innocent, and so trusting. Naively, we carried the curse of youth. We wore our courage like armor. We just knew we were on the right side of history, as the politicians kept reminding us.

On the ground next to the Wall, I see a miniature silver vase with three red roses and a small American flag carefully placed inside. I crouch down to see a card attached to the vase. In a beautiful cursive expression, Pfc. Richard B. Phillips received a happy birthday wish. He would have been fifty-four years old today.

Twenty meters ahead of me, I notice an elderly man and a small boy, perhaps seven, or eight. The boy is wearing dark glasses. He is walking with the aid of a white cane while holding the old man’s hand. Abruptly, they stop walking and the boy places his delicate palm on the Wall. He turns and says something to the old man. I wonder why this grandfather and his grandson are here. The little boy who sees by touching, but feels with his heart—and the grandfather, who thinks with his mind but understands with his compassion. What, I wonder, is their connection to this special place?

Soon, the blind boy with youthful wisdom walks past me. I see his innocent, angelic face. He seems to be puzzled hearing the various conversations and comments about the names on the Wall. And so am I.

On balance, I have a sense of tranquility after visiting the Wall. This visit didn’t bring closure for me—if that is what my wife had hoped for. But it did make me realize that my story should be finished and shared. And because of this emotional experience, I realize that I’ve been given a second chance to write that story I started so long ago.

Like so many other veterans, my deep sense of moral injury—the betrayal, anger and alienation— remains and probably will until I die. And for the most part, controlled. Where is it written that I should take pleasure from what I did, what I saw? What I lost? What so many others lost?

As I approach the top of the knoll, I turn to take one last look at the Wall with so many names. I offer one final tearful, soundless apology. Full of guilt, I wonder why I can leave, and they cannot. What quirk of divine intervention caused us to be in two camps—one etched in stone, the other standing among the living? Like all others who were fortunate to return, I live with that gut wrenching question each day: Why?

Quietly, I walk to the car, but I now carry the precious gift of optimism. I heard the voice of hope from a father who told his son to be respectful. I observed hope in the face of a young blind boy. And I read a birthday wish from a loved one who has not been forgotten throughout these many painful years.

These small but significant signs tell me we must do better. We must replace our collective hurt with renewed hope for an improved nation. The tens of thousands of precious memories from these fallen warriors command us to do no less.

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