Why go to the Wall?

A Visit to The Wall
By Charlie Harootunian

The Power of a Name
By: Valerie

I never really imagined that a name could have so much meaning. Walking along the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial I was faced with thousands of names belonging to thousands of people who had each given their lives for our country. I stood there, surrounded by spectators, all quiet in respect and honor, but the personal meaning didn’t reach any deeper than the engraved letters on the wall. To me they were just labels, not the true souls that they represented. I had never known the soldiers who had lost their lives; I hadn’t even been alive to experience the war.

I slowly made my way deeper into the list, passing flowers and small gifts left in remembrance. I saw a wreath left by Boy Scout Troop #471, and a letter left by a little girl for her "grampa." For some reason it surprised me that people would come to the memorial to pay their respects to their loved ones. Wasn’t this just a place for tourists to come take pictures of a very historical monument? Besides, they were, after all, just names.

Soon I began to become tired of the repetitive carvings in stone. Row after row, it became harder and harder for me to imagine that each identity listed had a true character and personality. I began to walk on the less crowded side of the path that was farther away from the wall. After snapping a few pictures with my disposable camera, I thought I had experienced the essence of the memorial.

Then I saw something that made my heart fall silent and my feet freeze in their place. There, standing in front of Section 34 on the right half of the wall, was a woman. Her royal blue outfit and white gloves highlighted her dark chocolate skin, making her stand out from the crowd as it rushed past her. It was as if she were in a completely different world, surrounded by nothing except her thoughts. I watched as she reached her gentle hand up and lightly touched the wall in front of her. Slowly, she traced her fingers over the name "Frederick Holeburg."* She stroked it with such softness and purity, it was as if she had never felt anything more precious in her life. Closing her eyes, she took a breath, and I could see her imagine him standing there in front of her. She didn’t move, as if afraid to lose her husband all over again Her breathing became so deep and relaxed, she seemed to be in a state of complete solitude. I tried not to make any noise, even though I knew she wouldn’t notice. I didn’t want to disturb what seemed to be such a placid and tranquil moment.

By looking at the way she held her hand against the stone, I felt I could see back into the many years they spent in each other’s arms. I could see her smiling at him and touching his face; not just his name. I saw them taking long walks and falling more in love with each other every minute they were together. I could see him holding her hand as long as he could as he had to leave to go and fight in the war. I could see her sitting at home, barely being able to sit still, as she waited to hear news of him. I could see her crying when she found out he had died.

Then, as if she had suddenly awoken from her dream, a tear quickly ran down her cheek. She opened her eyes and looked at the name of the one who had meant more than anything else in the world to her. She began to cry as she leaned her head against the wall. "I love you," she said. "I will always love you."

With that she stood up and wiped her eyes. She pressed her lips against her hand, making sure that her kiss would be felt, and then she touched her husband’s name one last time. Slowly her arm retreated down to her side, and after standing in peace for a minute, she reached into her purse and pulled something out. She placed it on the ground, glanced at the wall once more, and slowly turned and walked away.

I moved closer towards Fred Holeburg’s name. Beneath me I saw a white rose with a maroon red bow tied around it. Next to it lay a white card with calligraphy writing. I leaned over to read what had been written;

"In honor of the best husband, chef, and friend I have ever met: I love you, Fred."

I smiled as a tear rolled down the side of my face. I never guessed that a complete stranger could have such an effect on me without even knowing. In those twenty minutes I learned more about life and about myself than I could have ever aspired to learn in months. I learned what it means to truly love someone. I discovered that some people are cherished so much in life and death that the sight of their name can cause great emotion in those they have touched.

Fred Holeburg had made an impact that went deeper than the engraved letters of his name. Fred Holeburg affected the fate of his country; Fred Holeburg affected the soul of his wife; and unintentionally, Fred Holeburg affected my heart. To me he was no longer just a name on the side of the wall. Even though I had never met him, I knew he was a hero, and that he deserved so much more recognition than he received, as did the other thousands of names that stood in front of me. Looking around, I no longer saw thousands of words; I saw thousands of brothers, grandparents, husbands and sons. I saw inspiring people who each had been adored by their loved ones. Only then did I realize the essence of the Vietnam Memorial. It is not a name that needs to be remembered, it is a person.

I then quickly began frantically reading the names on the wall, trying not to miss one of the remarkable soldiers that undoubtedly deserved so much more than just a glance. I wanted to understand and learn about each man who had lost his life, but then I became aware of the amazing magnitude of the memorial.

As it was time to leave, I thought of the countless soldiers’ names that I did not even have time to read, let alone get to know. Even though I couldn’t get to know each soldier in the war, my eyes had been opened to a new world of perspective.

I walked away from the wall, the names growing smaller with every step I took. Finally they were no longer visible, and I said goodbye to the names I had read, and the heroes I had respected.

* The name "Fred Holeburg" is fictional.

Valerie is thirteen years old. She visited The Wall while on a class visit to Washington D.C. She is an 8th grade student at The Castilleja School in Palo Alto, California. This story was sent to us by her teacher, Nancy Ware.

The Wall

Bean Simple

PROLOGUE: Many times have I heard my brothers speak of wanting to go to the wall, and I have also heard many tell of their dread and fear, fear that it will be more than they can deal with, fear that they will cry and perhaps be thought of as less of a man and somehow less than worthy to have survived when so many good men did not. I have known them to fight with themselves over whether or not to go, whether or not to risk everything on this trip. I cannot answer for you all but I tell you now, there is no shame in the tears, there is no embarassment in the sorrow nor will anyone think you less than a man if this powerful and deeply moving piece of stone effects you and brings you to tears. Know that many many have gone there before you and cried their tears, yours will not be the first nor the last.
    I offer here a narrative of my first trip to the wall. I offer it as proof that there is courage and resolution in each of us that will be found when standing before that great stone wall and as proof that no one goes to the wall by themselves even though they may indeed be all alone. To my brothers on both sides of that long dark wall I wish peace and happiness and healing from the time that you are  first drawn to the wall until the time when you pass through it and join our brothers on the other side. I salute you and your courage and your honor. Those that have gone before us have given us a task and duty and we shall not let them down....they are our brothers and we shall never forget.

  

    The powerful emotional pulling that began some days ago had intensified since last night’s sleepless hours. It’s knowing that today I leave for the wall. I have never gone before but it’s been calling me for long weeks, sometimes quietly, sometimes loud and demandingly, always insistently. Now that I irrevocably leave on this journey it pulled on me even harder, like iron to a magnet.  
    I pass through rolling farmland in the pre dawn light seeing windows lit and imagining the people there are rising, cooking a big farm breakfast and getting ready for their busy day. It’s a pleasant cool morning and the wind blows refreshing on my weary face. I fumble open my thermos and half-spill/half-pour some coffee in my mug and settle back watching the country roll past my window. Approaching a small farmhouse I have a powerful vision just for a moment: dress uniform CWO4 and Army Captain standing at the door to the farmhouse saying they wanted to see Mister or Missus something, the name was blurred in the vision, and then they said only "We are sorry but we have bad news ma’am..." then it fades.
    I drive through a small town and passing a vacant store I envision a young man and his dad saying something about "when you get home, we’ll get this place fixed up and going for you and Mary Ann.." then it vanished.
    I’m into the mountains later, patches of fog stream past my windows, the other traffic looks like ghost-cars, "Flying Dutchmen" of the highway. I feel chilled and disconnected yet the pull is there still, stronger as I grow nearer to the wall. I sense that if I were to stop in the middle of the densest fog bank up here in the High passes of West Virginia, I could be spun around and around and STILL easily point the direction to the wall, I bet I wouldnt be two minutes of arc off either.
    There’s lots of ghosts in them mountains, lots of ghosts. West Virginia’s sons had suffered out of proportion to many other larger states and hardly more than a mere few miles seperated my strange visions, a crying farmer, a hardware store closed with a sign in the door closed due to death in the family, a table with an empty place setting and no one in the chair before it, a half finished hot rod sitting on blocks, parts all around never, ever to be assembled, a listless dog who wont stop going to the door and howling as if he knew something was amiss...on and on and on...
    Down into sunnier valleys and I hook up with the PA Turnpike and roll east. Always the physical and emotional pull is there, always the spirits are there too: a young girl asking when is Daddy coming home? a mother staring vacantly at a telegram in her shaking hand, a father pounding bleeding fists against a barn door, a wife receiving a folded flag as the sound of a rifle salute echoes across a small rural burying ground.
    Passing an exit ramp I once again had a flash of a vision...a young girl’s phone rings and she picks it up and answers, I hear the voice on the other end tell her that Eddie isnt coming home, he was killed last week near Pleiku, and as quickly as it came it was gone.
    The long lines of traffic pass going west, a vision of a truck driver sitting in his cabover crying and  reading the last letter he ever received from his brother before he was shot during Tet, an old country preacher saying the words as a coffin is lowered.." and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever..." and a mother cries.
    I stopped to get gas and clear my head, went to the men’s room and rubbed my head and neck with cold water. Someone turned on one of those electric blow dryers and left while it was still running the sound reminded me of something and then in my mind I saw a start-cart with a young  Air Force mechanic hooking in to the side of  an F105 to spool it up, and then that vision too dispersed and was gone leaving only a faint after image in my mind.
    Hoping that coffee would help I ordered a cup, waited while the waitress brought it, rang it up and took my fiver to make change. As we passed the bill between us I was stung by another vision, this same waitress stood in front of a military desk somewhere asking the officer behind the desk a question she had asked a hundred times before..."Is there any news about Jerry, Captain, I mean he COULD be alive...couldnt he........somewhere over there?" and the Captain sadly shakes his head. This was the most powerful vision so far and on an impulse I mentioned that I was on my way to Washington to see the Vietnam Memorial. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears, she said nothing for a moment then handed me my change and quietly said "Tell my pilot I still love him when you get there." then she turned and was gone.
    I went through valleys and farmland where Lee had manuevered his troops and Meade had chased him passing not very far from the Gettyburg exit. Lots of ghosts there too. Many years ago a great many men had striven and fought here and forever burned the name of THAT little town into the memory of America. Here Stonewall Jackson had outmanuevered two Federal Armies sent to stop him and had sent precious food supplies south, frustrating all attempts to catch him or fight him to a standstill. If one listens close on a darkened night locals say you can hear phantom cavalry riders on patrol passing in the darkness. Here I feel another ghostly vision, a ragged soldier, beaten and nearly broken lying in a tiny cell dying and thinking of his young pregnant wife and wondering what will she do?
    I began to cry.
    Mile rolled after mile under my van, vision after vision assaulted my senses, nasty little snippets every one of them, each one leaving my heart beating fast, the metallic taste of fear and rage on my tongue. A number of times I had pulled to the side of the road and sat there in tears, tears of anquish and tears of rage. But STILL the wall pulled me, it would not be denied though I longed to turn around and leave this place.
    I cannot tell you how I came to know it but somehow I DID know it, these ghosts, now awakened, would not go back to wherever they came from even if I had turned around right then and went straight back to my home and family. I also knew in my heart that I would NOT do that, I had to go to the wall, it had called for me.
    I drove straight to the State Park where I had reserved a site. I had been in a driving rainstorm that had brewed up over the top of me ever since I passed through the outer belt of Washington DC on my way south to the Prince William Park campgrounds. There were few sites occupied so I drove into one and climbed in back for another night of spastic awakenings and useless attempts to sleep. I must have slept some because at some point I woke and the sun was rising on a grey and overcast morning. On this day, I told myself, I go to the wall.
    Strangely, the visions and voices that had haunted my journey had grown more quiet, not silent but fainter, as if coming from some greater distance across a universe of time. I ate a breakfast of instant coffee and some donuts I had brought. My mind was clear though I was very tired from lack of sleep. The campground was empty and a faint scent of wood smoke wafted in the air from fire rings now grown cold. Somewhere I thought I heard a whisper of alarm and a brief smell of cooking food passed across my mind,  followed quickly by a bright flash of light then men rushing and running around seeking cover and safety.
    Shoving back at the intruding memories, memories that werent really mine, I sort of planned in my mind what I was going to do when I got to the wall; whose names would I seek, what would I do when I found them? The guys I remembered from my unit, the lost ones who had gone down in flames or were smashed in crushing impact with the hard and unforgiving earth or my cousins: one shot at Dak To another in villes around  Con Thien. I worried how I would handle it, seeing their names, touching the engraved line on that imposing black stone face.
    I grew restless and more than a little pissed off at myself.
    I found myself actually speaking the words as I said "Get a grip! This is an honor YOU owe THEM."
    And just as quickly came an inner voice, stirred to awakening and compelling me to listen, deep in my mind I felt that singular voice speaking again "...there is an honor and a duty that they wish to pass to you but be at peace now...it’s not time, soon...soon....be patient.." a cryptic and nagging concept which I could not or would not  understand, I knew not which. I still felt the pull of the wall though strong and steady. I could still point directly at it in a dark room like a laser to a target but the urgency was less somehow than it had been. I busied myself and threw up a tent and camping gear, paid for my site at the ranger stand/grocery store and drove back out of the campgrounds. I idled along driving north up the state roads gawking like a tourist and burning time. I passed the front gate of the Marine Corps facility at Quantico and almost got rammed in the rear end staring at the magnificent monument of the flag raising at Iwo Jima soft yet urgent voices told me to find their brothers and make peace for them. I drove up the road and stopped for a Coke. Standing outside drinking it I realized I was growing annoyed at myself for stalling around, I had come here to see the wall and I had made no serious effort to go there yet. I struggled with anger and dread at the same time.
    Calm and quiet I heard that same voice again telling me "...its not time yet....soon.."
    Irritable and confused I saddled up and and set back on my slow and winding journey north. The day slipped past and darkness found me on the outskirts of Alexandria Virginia. I remember passing a number of old Civil War Monuments often with standing 12 pounder smoothbores standing as silent sentries, grim in design, dignified with purpose, and corroded to a green patina by time. Once long ago these same bronze Napoleon cannons had sprayed shell and shot into ranked bodies of determined and brave men. I wondered how many had died under their ruefull gaze.
    Now came the voice again, insistent and nagging "...come to us...it is time...we are waiting for you...come now..."
    It was long past midnight as I drove the emptied streets of our Nation's Capitol, streets teeming in the daylight hours with tourists and school groups, workers and politicians, now inhabited by a few scattered souls walking alone on some destination of their own their heads ducked down under turned up collars keeping the cold wind from stinging their faces. I found a parking spot in front of a big magnificent building on 17th avenue and with a huge sigh I got out and walked toward the waiting wall. All that I feared was there, all that I dreaded was there, but the souls of my lost brothers were there as well. Would I break down in hysterical crying, would I shame myself or worse yet would I go up to the black surface and feel nothing at all, that frightened me the most of all and then I suddenly realized WHO had called me to the wall, it was not the wall itself but the souls of the men behind it that had sent for me, had pulled me hundreds of miles across mountain and valley to this place at this time.
    Bowing my head in shame at my own reluctance I trudged on, to all appearances just another spook out walking by himself in the dark. I found myself walking up the sidewalk bordering the reflecting pool, ahead the Lincoln Memorial its lights casting beautiful reflections in the rippled waters, its grave stone walls housing the seated figure of a man who had agonized over losses suffered by armed men in his own time, many many times the number of our losses in vietnam. I recalled how the books I had read had portrayed Lincoln as a man haunted by the horrendous losses of Antietam, Cold Harbor, Gettysburg, and hundreds of other smaller battles. It was said that at the end of Lincoln’s war to look into his eyes was to see an endless row of headstones set in line after line after line. They say he nearly went mad from the strain of holding the nation to its purpose and feeling the pang in his heart as the men fell, good men, brave men, men of serious purpose and courageous effort. Im sure if stone could weep you would see tears on the statue’s cheeks.
    I wondered if maybe I was going mad, all these little newsreels in my head and soul, the intensive drawing power of a piece of black marble now standing but a few hundred yards from me. Again I shove back forcefully at the dark emotions that swirl around me like flood waters threatening to come to take me away downstream to some awful final reckoning. Angry again at myself I turned and abruptly sat on a park bench beside the pool and for many minutes I sat having only the company of my own doubts and the distant sense of someone moving in the dark around me. I sat sullen and pulled into myself for a long black time.
    Feeling that I must go now if I were not to lose whatever courage that had brought me this far I stood, turned and walked up a slight hill among the dark and somber trees toward the wall.


Subj: To The Wall  Part 2
Date: Tuesday, February 3, 2004 7:11:20 AM
From: Beansimple
To: ButterflyAngelAH

My first sight of the wall stopped me in my tracks as if I had run up against some invisible barricade. I dont remember why but I had pictured the wall to be dull and non-reflective, its surface devouring all light like a black hole brought to earth and set in the ground.
    I was wrong. It lay stetched before my eyes in a deep gash cut into the green of the grassy concourse. Lights from its base shined upon the lines of names, too distant to read, but shining, yes shining, in the night air. From somewhere inside came a deep and shaky sigh and I felt a wellspring of sorrow pour up out of my soul more immediate and more moving than anything I had ever felt before. I remained standing there my knees threatening to dump me on the ground but I was locked on the vision of the wall like a bird staring into the eyes of the snake which is about to devour it, I could not have looked away if I had wanted to.
    Still staring and transfixed I sagged backward looking for something to hold me erect and silently prayed that God would give me the strength not to fail here at the end of my journey. I found a tree, a huge old rough barked maple and I gratefully slumped to the ground at its base, my head in my hands but my eyes staring straight across the dark shadows of the intervening trees to the wall my body wracked with sobs, dry sobbing with no tears.
    There on that massive series of black panels were the names of more than 57,000 men dead and missing-presumed dead and there behind it lay the souls of the men themselves. So many young and bright lives, so many talents and songs and words that the world would never hear or experience, all lost and gone and yonder stood the great black monolithic marker of that loss.
    Then came the tears. Quinine bitter tears that I had denied for years, tears of outrage and tears that drained from the darkest marrow of my lonely core. I cried so hard that my head and heart phyically hurt. It was like as if I had opened the floodgates and the waters now freed were not going to ever stop pouring out.
    A tearing pain crossed my chest, a roar grew in my ears, somewhere in all that horrible symphony of sounds were voices screaming in painful chorus as their deaths took them, somewhere in there was the sound of planes and choppers and cockpit warning buzzers, explosions and gunfire, somewhere in there was the shout "....corpsman....corpsman!" the calls growing fainter each outcry softer and more hopeless than the last one and through it all I could not close my eyes or inner ear to all that now washed around me. I cursed the darkness and at the same time blessed the darkness for hiding my shameful display and unstoppable tears. I doubted my resolve now ever more strongly that here, a few hundred steps from my destination, I would fold and slink away with my tail tucked bewteen my legs and my honor and dignity gone forever. I fought there in the dark a giant battle one I knew I was losing and then I heard another voice, a real human voice not the ghostly voices I had heard up to now from behind me and to the side. Startled and a little angry that this other person had caught me in such a state I turned toward the sound futilely wiping away the the hot tears that would not cease, ready to flee into the surrounding shadows rather than face some other person here in this place at this time. As my eyes adapted from staring at the lit stone of the wall I could make out another figure sitting against a tree near where I sat, the shadowed figure of another man and he too wept. I could hear his breath ragged and rapid as he also heaved and shook to the grief that streamed from his tortured soul. I was not alone. I was not the only broken one here this night.  Something told me not to say anything or interrupt this grim vigil. I turned back to the wall before me, the image of it wavery and distorted by my teary eyes. In my soul I argued with myself that I would or would not go to the wall, and again it called me, this time calming and this time forgiving, this time soothing and full of purpose and promise "....come to us, it is time now, we have waited for you and we want to speak to you....we mean you no harm....we want you to understand us......come it is time."
    I remember hearing my own voice say out loud "God...it’s just too hard...it’s too much to ask...I cannot..."
    Again I dropped my head in shame knowing that something necessary, something vital was going to pass away from me because I had not the courage to finally face that which I feared would rob me of my soul and my sanity and yet again came the voice from the men beyond the wall urging me to come to them...I ignored it sitting in shame and defeat anchored to my tree as surely as if I were chained.
    My neighbor at the nearby tree suddenly rose. I could see from the lights of the monument that he was a tall man wearing a camo coat and a misshapen boonie hat perched on his head. He wiped at his face and straightened up his clothes, dusted the seat of his pants and faced the dreaded wall. I watched him transform before my eyes as he came to rigid attention arms by his sides and chin tucked and forward...staring straight ahead for an eternal distance at some far away point that only he could see. After a moment he stepped off smartly striding straight for the wall, straight for the names; the ghosts, the memories, and all the other sundry pieces that made this short walk a trial straight from hell.
    I looked away shamed and weak, defeated and ready to leave as he passed over the last hill between the trees and the wall.
    Then around me I felt strange movement as if many many bodies were walking past me unseen on that darkened tree-lined rift in the ground on which I hid my shame and cowardice. Many bodies passing me in the night and all going towards the wall. Visions flashed brightly and perfectly focused in my mind’s eye...a young army grunt with a pack too overloaded and a towel draped over his neck, a Marine in Dress Blues marching ahead as if he were on parade all squared away rifle at port-arms, a Navy Pilot in Dress Whites his wings catching glints from the lights of the wall, army medics, paratroopers tank crewmen, door gunners, artillerymen, radio operators, seabees, marines, airforce pilots, all impossibly young and all smiling.
    Smiling?
    Thoroughly startled and spooked by this eerie parade I rose to my feet looking across to the wall and the transparent images that faded as they moved into the stronger light. I sensed no menace from these apparitions, I sensed no pain, I felt sorrow yes, but a restrained sorrow and an intangible sense of pride and honor from these ghosts who seemed to come from somewhere behind me in the past, through the here and now and on into the forever of the flat stone panels before me. I stood in absolute awe and wonder and somewhere in that time I stopped feeling sorry for myself and put away the guilty inner voice branding me a coward and weakling.
    My neighbor had now arrived at the wall I could see and he knelt before a panel near the center of the awful black wall and placed something there at the base of the wall, paused a moment then stood and delivered a crisp and sharp salute to the face of the wall. He turned then and walked away into the dark having passed his personal trial by emotion, I had not yet passed my own but instead of feeling guilt and shame I was proud of him. I had not a clue who he was or what was his connection to the wall but I was proud of him.
    From behind me now I heard the sound of someone approaching me. I looked and it was another shadowy man coming up from the sidewalk beside the reflecting pool toward the wall, moving unhurried and deliberate. I waited for him.
    He came up beside me. He wore a BDU camo coat with the stripes of a marine buck sergeant and a dark colored ball cap and as he drew near he spoke to me yet never seemed to open his mouth.
    "It’s your turn now...are you ready?" he said calmly and softly.
    "I dont know...Im afraid," I told him.
    "I know...... we all are when first we come to this place...but there is nothing here that will hurt you...there’s answers here and a chance to say goodbye to your companions...theres dignity here and honor and pride and losses so grievous as to be incomprehensible........but there is nothing here that will harm you....COME!...lets go together," he offered "...there are words that you must say to them....and words they must say to you too....I’ll be right behind you and you will never be alone when you are here....come."
    I knew then that somehow I could make that short walk to the wall with my newfound friend but first I stood up, dusted off my clothes and snapped to attention, standing tall and straight. I didnt know where the strength or focus came from maybe from the man next to me, maybe from some deep place inside me, I didnt know, it didnt matter. Beside me the marine sergeant, his face in shadowed light also stood straight proud at attention. Taking one final deep breath I stepped off and  together we strode directly and purposefully straight at the wall’s imposing black "V". The sarge stayed one pace behind me all the way just like he promised and I found myself suddenly before the wall, its deceptively high peak above my head by many feet, the names readable now, a chilling rush seemed to pass right through me and I turned uncertain and afraid again but the sarge was there by my side and I asked silently for help to complete what I had to do.
    The voice of the sergeant whispered in my heart again "....you have never lacked the courage to do this...it is inside you....it always has been...."
    All my previous plans to look for names and study the wall’s structure were forgotten in the immensity of the expanding face of polished marble before me, I stood fascinated seeing something that I had not imagined could be real. Standing at the apex of the memorial the shiny black wall seemed to stretch out for miles in each direction the far ends lost in a swirling fog-like mist.
    "I dont know if I can do this..." I confessed.
    "Go....touch it....the stone is alive you realize...,"whispered my friend.
    It was late October and deep in the cold air of the night but when I laid my hand on the stone for the first time it was warm. It surprised me and I jerked my hand away as if I had been burned.
    "I dont undertand, its cold out here and the stone is warm, how can that be?" I asked my companion.
    "....It’s allright.." whispered the voice," there is nothing here that will hurt you....touch the stone and you can feel the ones who have gone beyond it...they need to feel your touch on their doorway....go on..."
    I laid my sweating palm upon the face of the black stone, warm to the touch where stone had no right to be warm in the cold autumn air and I knew it was as it should be.
    I saw them then,  my friends, my comrades, one at a time just the same as they were when they were taken from me...searing flames, rending noise, screams of terror, pain and dreadful fear on their faces and as each came I seemed to feel them pass from behind me, through me and enter the stone face. As each one went past and through me he softly said " Goodbye....don't forget me." I felt a nagging guilt, some of them I didnt even remember their actual names just nicknames and radio call signs and I turned to ask my friend what it all meant. He stood looking at the stone before us and in my mind I once again heard his reassurance.
    "So long as you remember them, whatever name you recall them by, they are not forgotten...talk to them....open your heart to them...they are a part of you that you have long set aside and ignored...make peace with them....make peace with yourself," he urged.
    I did. I plastered myself against the face of the wall and poured all my grief and loss and pain and heartbreak into that stone and it absorbed it all taking it away, letting it out.
    For a long time I stood my hands pressed on the stone, talking through my memories, saying not a word aloud but talking to them, each one told his story, his passing over and his pain and fear, the grieving at the ones left alone behind them, back in the world. As each finished and settled back into the deeper reflection of the wall he assured me that now they knew no pain and all their injuries had been made whole. I wept again at the enormity of the losses and the horrible time we had shared. They made me to understand that they suffered no longer the wounds that had brought them to this wall.
    When these men I had known had passed I sensed others asking small whispered questions: who won the world series, whats playing on the radio, has my son grown to be a man, has Janet married...many questions, few answers.
    At last I felt that my heart and soul were filled. The sorrow lingered still and the tears still came but the deep hurt and burning loss was tempered now, the edge gone from the cutting blade of remembrance. I knew the men on the other side of the wall had no more pain. I knew they were once again whole and complete and I knew they would forever be there with the other men with whom they had served and with whom they had offered up that final greatest price and paid it. Pride and power flowed out of that stone that dark October night, flowed into my heart and stilled the agony in my soul. I knew that all of my brothers, those living and those dead were giving me a part of their courage. I was one with those who had gone before me and I knew too that when my time came that my soul and essence too would walk shade-like through those same trees where I had hesitated tonight and my soul would go on past the stone panels and rejoin my friends and comrades there, once more whole and healthy, pain only a memory, together for so long as the names on that great black wall are remembered.
    And as if from a great distance the sergeant spoke again "...Are you ready now to go?....are you ready to go on back to the world now?...."
    "Yes," I said in my heart " I am."
    "Then listen one last time tonight to what they are saying...lay your ear to the stone and hear what they say then..," he told me.
    I laid my ear and face to the stone and heard them. I heard their words and demands ringing in my ears " NEVER.....NEVER...LET US BE FORGOTTEN.....LET US LIVE THROUGH YOU AND THE REST OF OUR LIVING BROTHERS.....DO THINGS IN YOUR LIFE FOR THE SAKE OF US THAT WE CANNOT DO....FIND PEACE AND HAPPINESS....FIND LOVE AND PRIDE....MAKE US PROUD MY BROTHER...THEN COME HERE TO THIS HALLOWED PLACE ON OCCASION AND SHARE THESE THINGS WITH US....SMALL THINGS....LITTLE EVERYDAY THINGS....FUNNY THINGS....HAPPY THINGS.....SAD THINGS....FOR IT IS ONLY THROUGH THOSE WHO WERE WITH US AND THOSE WHO LOVED US THAT THESE MEMORIES PASS THROUGH THIS WALL FOR US...WE NEED YOU LITTLE BROTHER AND THOUGH YOU ARENT SURE OF IT YET, YOU NEED US AS WELL...WE ARE HERE MY BROTHER AND WE ARE WAITING FOR YOU TOO..." and with that a host of faces materialized there before me: soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen, smiling and sincere, so close I felt I could reach into the heart of the stone and touched their faces. The vision faded as I stepped away from the wall.
    "......Come, you have much to do now," spoke the sergeant inside me.
    I came to attention and snapped my best salute to the reflective stone before me and my reflected image was clear as a photograph. Beside me the sergeant rendered honors as well.
    I turned as a new crop of tears came warm and softly down my face but I was not ashamed, nor lost, nor full of dread nor fear. I walked back over the grassy shadowed ground a changed man, proud and somber. I had been shown my task and I had taken it upon myself.  The sergeant followed me, as before back into the dark of the trees.
    When I got to "my" tree I stopped and turned to the sergeant.
    "Thank you sergeant, you were a real brother tonight, couldnt have made it without you," I told him in sincere gratitude.
    "Yes you could have," he said without a moments hesitation and he was smiling at me, proud that I had stood the test.
    I stared at his shadowed face more closely then seeking some answer that he seemed to have that I had not yet understood, wondering what kind of man he was and  from where he drew the incredible supply of bravery and comforting words that he had allowed me to share this night. He stood there in the dark looking across the grassy knolls to the wall, a man who looked as if he were peering back through time itself to some distant and shining thing, on his shaded features I thought I saw the gleam of a single tear in the corner of his eye.
    "Come on sarge, lets get out of here, I’ll buy you a coffee or a beer, your choice my treat...brother to brother," I said wanting to know more about him and his experiences.
    "Im sorry," he said softly "I have to stay here for now."
    And he turned to me and said "Just dont forget what they said to you, okay? dont let them be forgotten, live your life in remembrance of those brothers who talked to you tonight...cherish them....dont let them down."
    "O..o...okay sarge," I stammered,"you can count on me."
    He turned then and slowly walked back over to "his" tree and sat down beneath it his gaze never leaving the wall. Below me another pained veteran began his infinite climb up the small grassy hill that bordered the wind rippled waters. He passed me slow, his head down as he sought to hide the tears that he shed. He moved wraith-like in the dark to a nearby park bench and sat heavily, his eyes never leaving the lighted black facade across the short distance.
    I took one last look at the thing that had terrified me for so long, a thing which now held little fear for me. A long black marble wall with tens of thousands of names etched on its surface, a place that would now be forever sacrosanct and honorable to me, a place where I would come again someday and on THAT day I would seek and find individual names. Tonight I had seen and felt the wall for the first time. Tonight the wall had seen and felt me for the first time as well. Tonight I had found courage when I feared it would not be there.
    Silently I asked God to give this new arrival the calm and strength to bear his particular burden, to bring it and leave it at the wall and I thought I heard the sergeant’s voice say that he would be fine, it would be seen to that he shared the same courage that I had shared tonight, that courage borne in sacrifice and gunfire that only those who had experienced it will ever know.
    Satisfied, I turned back around and walked away my mind rested now and my troubled soul at peace for the first time in years and years. As I got to the paved sidewalk I turned and looked back to see if the sergeant was still sitting there under the tree but I could not make out if he was there or not, I saw only a dark mass of shadow there under that tree where I had last seen him.
    As I walked back along the dark sidewalk next to the pool I made myself a promise: that I would return again and I would do as I had been been asked. I would honor these men and their memories for as long as my own memory went on. And when the time came for me to die I knew I would see them again, the ones I had seen here tonight, all my comrades and friends and the sergeant too. In knew walking away WHY he couldnt come with me to get a cup of coffee, I also knew that he would be there when my time was over just like I knew that HE would be the one who would walk with me to the the wall and beyond it.
    Softly and quietly the sergeant spoke again from far far away.. "We’ll be here, waiting...when its time....but not now......"