Download PDF of this full issue: v27n1.pdf (9.8 MB)

Reflections at The Moving Wall

By John Zutz

I almost died at The Moving Wall when it was in Milwaukee recently. It wasn't my fault. Honest.

I had attended the opening ceremonies and waited till the crowd cleared out to pay my respects. One guy I wanted to say "Hi" to was a childhood friend, "Pappy." I had been surprised when I originally found his name at The Highground Veterans Memorial Park while cruising the list of over 1200 from Wisconsin who died in the war.

Pappy lived a block down the street. I smoked my first cigarette with him. Occasionally his older brother would let us ride in the back of his souped-up Hudson Hornet. We were parted during junior high, when my family moved.

The other guy I wanted to remember, "Flipper," was in my squad in Vietnam. During my tour he was the only enemy-caused casualty in my company. He died what I still think was a senseless death, as if any war-related death makes sense.

There were some nice ladies operating computers near The Moving Wall to help people find their loved ones. Although I knew how the wall worked, I was interested in whether the computers could enhance the experience, so I approached them. After I told them the names, they produced two sheets of computer paper. On the upper right of each sheet I found the panel numbers and line numbers to help find the names on The Wall.

I went to Pappy first because I had never found him on the wall before. After recalling our times together, I read the printout to discover he had been in-country a grand total of nineteen days before he was killed in a non-hostile accident. The printout told me his body had been recovered, and that he got a posthumous promotion (to PFC!).

I had found Flipper's name before, but, as I approached, my mind went over the same things I have thought about in the past. I recalled the times we worked side by side. I remembered the mission he died attempting to perform, hauling a load of cement blocks uphill through the pass from Nha Trang to Ban Me Thout, in a clapped-out five-ton dump truck that couldn't maintain speed on level ground.

As I touched Flipper's name I remembered the fist-sized hole blown by the RPG [rocket propelled grenade] through the dump bed directly behind the driver's seat. I remembered the buck sergeant, our squad leader, who had been sitting on the passenger side, and who came out without a visible scratch. I remembered the memorial service where the chaplain told us all how valiantly Flipper died.

I remembered all the good reasons it shouldn't have happened.

While moving away from The Wall I glanced at the printout detailing his death. Under "casualty information" was the date of death, body recovered, no posthumous promotion, casualty type: hostile, died of wounds.

But on the next line I read, "Cause: Misadventure."

The thought flashed through my mind that misadventure is like bad luck. I could ask for over 58,000 of those printouts, and each one of them could say, "Cause: Misadventure." He was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. It was just that his head tried to occupy the same space as some fast-moving shrapnel.

Almost as quickly I thought of other things that ought to be written in that "cause" space: Stupidity, Blind Adherence to Regulations, any number of other things.

And with the memories of what really happened fresh in my mind, contrasting with the insipid printout, I couldn't decide how to react to the situation. I started chuckling.

The few people remaining, fighting the mosquitoes, were quiet and somber. They started acting nervous, glancing at me out of the corners of their eyes. The more they glanced the funnier the situation seemed. I started laughing. They stared in open-mouthed disbelief.

I tried to explain what I was so seemingly jolly about. "Misadventure," I said loudly, pointing to the printout. Their angry glares convinced me they didn't find it a bit funny. I quickly retreated.

Two of the volunteer "counselors" caught up to me to make sure I was OK. I assured them I had made my peace years ago.

Believe me, if looks could kill I would have died that night at The Moving Wall. Of course, if I had died, the coroner would have had to list the cause of death as "Misadventure." It wasn't my fault, honest.

John Zutz is a former VVAW Regional Coordinator. He lives in Milwaukee and makes great beer. He's a Vietnam Veteran.