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Reflections on the Wall

By Richard Fleming

This issue of The Veteran marks Memorial Day, a time to remember the sacrifices made by the men and women of our armed forces. It is a time to reflect.

I visited the Vietnam Veterans Memorial (The Wall) several years after it was dedicated in 1985. I had left Nam in 1969, and in the years that followed, America tore itself apart over Vietnam. I had not visited earlier because I was still trying to put the war behind me and had not yet learned that it would never leave me.

It was a rainy spring morning when I arrived. I came early because I didn't want a lot of people around me. Other veterans had warned me of the powerful emotions the memorial could unleash, and I wasn't sure how I would react. I was afraid of "losing it."

I had seen photographs of The Wall and read about it, but nothing prepared me for the sheer scale of the monument. It stretched for more than 500 feet. More than 58,000 names were carved into the polished granite.

Maya Lin, then a 22-year-old architecture student, designed the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Lin's design is abstract and restrained. A long line of 70 black granite slabs is sunk into the earth, as if in mourning. The Wall bears only the names of those killed or missing in action, ordered by the date of their death. All of the fallen are honored equally; there are no military ranks shown. On that cold spring morning, it was a somber, quiet space.

As I walked along the path, my reflection followed me across the names carved into the polished stone. I felt a deep sadness, touched with a twinge of guilt. Hundreds of Recon Marines were lost during the war. How had I survived?

I passed small remembrances left by other pilgrims before me—wilted flowers, faded photographs of young men, a well-loved teddy bear, left perhaps by a grieving mother in memory of her little boy. Everything was getting wet, but there was nothing I could do.

I continued walking toward the center of the V-shaped memorial, the point where the two walls met, the place Lin said "marked a wound." As I approached 1968, the bloodiest year of the war, the individual granite panels rose before me like a cresting wave. At that point, The Wall is more than ten feet tall, but even ten feet wasn't enough to hold 17,000 names, and they spilled over onto adjacent slabs.

The first name I recognized on The Wall was that of an officer. I had gone out with him on only one patrol, and that was his last. He fell from a jungle penetrator while being extracted under fire. I had been picked up on the previous pass. His death could just as easily have been my own.

I continued reading and recognized the German last name of another man from my company. He died on his bunk when a sniper's bullet struck him in the throat. I remember the frantic calls for a medic—but it was too late. There were no safe havens in Nam.

So many names, each with its own story.

I searched without success for my friend "Chief," our team's point man. Chief, who taught me how to survive in the bush, but never made it out himself. If I could have remembered his real name, I might have found him on The Wall, but I couldn't remember it. In Nam, we rarely used our real names. We made up new ones for each other. We called our Navy medic "Doc." "Moose" was named for his huge size. For some reason, I was called "Rick," a name I had never used before or since.

More than ten years had passed since Chief and I ran patrols together. Even if I had found him, what difference would it make now? It was enough for me to know that his sacrifice was honored, and enough to know that I will never forget him.

And yet, for all of its 58,000 names, the Vietnam Veterans Memorial is still incomplete. The Wall shows only the names of men killed or missing in action, not the names of those who died after the war had officially ended. The government wanted "closure." They decreed that the memorial would honor only those who died before the Vietnam peace treaty was signed. Once the "dogs of war" have been set free, however, closure is impossible.

A few years ago, I learned that one of my other teammates, "Terrible Tom," had died of lymphoma. His doctors at the VA linked his cancer and other illnesses directly to Agent Orange exposure.

I remembered moving with Tom through a defoliated area near the Laotian border. The jungle, usually filled with sound, was silent. Even the insects had been killed off. The trees were stripped bare, and their leaves crunched under our boots. The desiccated bushes shattered like glass if you so much as brushed against them. I remember Tom filling his canteen from a nearby stream. Why not? We had been told that Agent Orange dissipated quickly and, in any case, was harmless to humans.

Both of these statements were blatant lies. The government was well aware that dioxin (the active ingredient in Agent Orange) was one of the most toxic substances ever studied, and they also knew it would remain lethal for decades. More than 300,000 veterans have since died from diseases directly linked to dioxin exposure. The chemical companies made a fortune producing the hellish stuff, and Vietnam veterans are still dying from it.

For years, Vietnam veterans struggled with psychological problems due to their wartime experience. It was not until 1980 that the problems caused by PTSD were finally acknowledged. This recognition, driven in large part by Vietnam advocacy groups, finally allowed veterans—including the nurses who suffered under the stress of daily exposure to grievous injury and death—to receive treatment and compensation. It was too late for the nearly 8,000 veterans who committed suicide before the dangers of PTSD were finally acknowledged.

Neither Tom, nor any of the other casualties of Agent Orange, nor any of the victims of PTSD will ever have their names honored on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial—at least not in its current form.

In my opinion, we need a new wall. The existing memorial should be expanded to honor all of the casualties of the Vietnam War. I am not proposing that we change Lin's original memorial in any way, but the memorial as a whole needs to be expanded to honor all of the men and women who died as a result of the conflict. If the new Wall were to be built facing the old, each Wall would reflect the names on the other, and the true scale of the war would become immediately apparent.

Memorial Day is a time for remembrance, a time to honor the dead, but we must also reflect on the importance of serving the living. It breaks my heart to see the long lines of men and women shuffling into our local VA hospital. They are living with combat-related disabilities every day of their lives. None of this suffering is honored on The Wall or any other military memorial. Politicians glibly talk about "supporting our troops," but threaten time and time again to cut support. Where is the outrage?

We have been denying the true costs of war for far too long, and in denial, we make the same mistakes over and over again. The Agent Orange cover-up was quickly followed by the deadly "burn pits" of the Middle East wars. The VA records that tens of thousands of veterans now suffer from serious illnesses caused by their exposure to these deadly fumes. These troops deserve our care and support while they live, and our respect and honor when they pass.

Memorial Day has become a celebration of military power rather than a day of remembrance. Perhaps there really is nothing to say to the families whose lives were devastated by the loss of a loved one, but we should do everything in our power to ensure that ill-conceived wars destroy no more families. We have been denying the true costs of war for far too long, and in denial, we make the same mistakes over and over again.

If Memorial Day is truly a time for reflection, let us reflect on the sacrifices made by all.

The rain was ending, and I could see people moving toward me. It was time for me to go.

I looked at my reflection in The Wall, popped the tab, took a long drink, and poured the rest on sacred ground.

Rest in peace, brothers…

Richard Fleming served as a recon scout with 1st Force Recon Co. from 1968-1969. He wrote about his experiences in "Chasing Charlie - A Force Recon Marine in Vietnam."