Conference turris::womannotes-v3

231.0. "A Last Visit..." by SUPER::REGNELL (Smile!--Payback is a MOTHER!) Wed Jul 04 1990 17:46

	The Moving Wall

	---

	In 1970, in May, we stood on the green in front of Thompson
	Hall and read the names of the dead. 

	"Mark Smith, July 3, 1969...my fault"

	"Gerald LaRoche, July 3, 1969...my fault"

	Each reader took a stand before the podium and read
	aloud from the book of dead from Vietnam.	

	We read them all day, and all that night, and all the next day
	and night. And on the third day we finished.

	I was a 'keeper of the book' so I stood or sat and
	listened the whole time. When we were done, Nils and
	John wrapped me in an old blanket and, supporting me between
	the two of them, walked me to my dorm.

	At the door of Fairchild, they handed me off to Celia.
	
	I remember her asking, "Has she eaten since Tuesday?"

	I slept through the answer. And the next day.

	----

	Eric is outside. He and Nick are playing some variation
	of cops and robbers suitably updated to the 23rd century.

	It involves a lot of hooting and hollering and laser
	noises. And a growing tally of the dead.

	---

	When I was little, Daddy would not talk to us about being
	in the war. When asked he would mumble something about the
	dead and dying and send us off to wash our hands or
	some other irrelevant task.

	Not to be put off, we searched the attic until we found
	his war diary. Sitting in the cobwebs and dust with an
	old flashlight, we read his entries.

	"Today John was killed manning the outer perimeter. I
	should have relieved him sooner."

	"Today we lost three boys. Where the hell is Patton?"

	"We lost four more. We are propping their rifles
	against the walls. Perhaps they will think there is
	someone behind them."

	We never found the glorious stories we were looking
	for. We did find his medals, and abandoned the diary
	for them. There were four purple hearts and two
	silver stars. We figured we could divide them up.

	And when we were older and Daddy was drunker, he would
	talk about Gene Roux, who was a handsome daredevil on his
	Indian motorcycle, but took a turn in Tucson, Arizona,
	too fast one night and spent the rest of his years
	strapped to a wheelchair; or about Nathan Wilkins
	who was so afraid of dying that he killed himself.

	And when we were grown and Daddy was in his dotage, 
	he would murmur through his alcoholic haze that anyone 
	could die...anyone at all...so why not him instead of 
	all those boys. He seemed to expect someone to have an
	answer for him, and when we didn't he would rage and 
	cry until the booze finally let him escape into 
	oblivion.

	---

	Eric is building a fortress on the mountain. He has
	assured me that if we were to be attacked by invaders
	from space that we can hold them off from his fort.

	He needs help, he says, digging out the floor so it
	will be level.

	"It needs to be level, Mom."

	"Oh, why is that?"

	"So that when you shoot you get good aim...to
	kill the aliens."

	"Right."

	"You gonna help me? I have another shovel."

	"Nope."

	"Aw...you're no fun. Can I invite sombody over?"

	---

	Tonight I watched the eleven o'clock news. There was
	a story I wanted to see about a great white shark that
	was caught in Buzzards Bay.

	It turned out to be a basking shark, but they kept the
	headline anyway. So much for truth in advertising.

	I stayed tuned for the weather.  I figured I might as well
	know if I was going to get wet tomorrow. (It's not that
	I trust this guy's forecast, I do the opposite of whatever
	he says and stay dry about 80% of the time.)

	Out of boredom, I even listened to the sports. The Bruins
	have traded for a real 'bruiser' for the team. "He won't
	be afraid to mix it up," says the sportscaster. Wonderful.

	At the very bottom of the newscast, in the last 30 seconds
	before Johnny Carson comes oiling his way into my bedroom,
	they tell us about the Moving Wall.

	The Moving Wall: that miniature version of the Vietnam
	War Memorial in Washington that travels from State to State
	so those who cannot go to the United States Capitol can
	search for the names of their dead; and finding them,
	pray or cry or whatever it is they need to do.

	---

	"Mom?"

	"Yes, Eric?"

	"Can I invite Jason over?"

	"To do what?"

	"We're gonna play space wars."

	"Of course you can....Eric?"

	"Yeah?"

	"War is not a neat thing, you know. People get
	killed in wars."

	"We just play it, Mom...nobody gets hurt. We wouldn't
	ever really have to go to a real war. We're just kids."

	He is gone to dial his friend up before I can think of
	an appropriate answer.

	---

	Maybe it is just because I am 40 these days, that
	I am sensitive about children's war games.

	That and because the Moving Wall will be in Manchester
	next week and I can go find Jimmy Dalton's name on it.

    Thank you.

    In Reader's (s') Digest, recently, can't quote exactly...
    
    	The old man walked along the VN Memorial, tears on his face.  "One of
    	yours, sir?" asked the young people.
    
    	"Not one of them," he replied.  "All of them."
    
    We saw the moving wall last week, and we found the Ronnie's name. 
    Tears are on my face now as I remember, and I agree.  "All of them."
    
    aq
    

    	' The old man walked along the VN Memorial, tears on his face.  "One of
    	  yours, sir?" asked the young people.
    	  "Not one of them," he replied.  "All of them." '
    
    all of us too
    we who chose
    we who refused
    we who did not have to choose
    
    I was lucky, so was he, the boy I loved then came home
    but his name and mine are there too
    in some way