The following article originally appeared in the July/August 1998 issue. In honor of Memorial Day, Road King is running it again as a salute to our veterans. Enjoy!
For the second time in less than two days, I stand before the The Wall. It's Memorial Day, May 25, and I'm holding a wreath with a ribbon that says "Road King Magazine In Honor of All Trucking Veterans" that I will present here.
About 36 hours ago, early on Sunday, May 24, I had come here with several new friends from Volvo Heavy Trucks' Dublin, Va., plant to experience this place at night. Arriving around midnight, we spent more than an hour reading names and examining mementos left by unknown visitors.
People say The Wall sometimes weeps at night; scientists hold that the smooth stone cools and moisture condenses on it. The stone felt dry as I watched a man squatting on one knee before The Wall wipe his hand across his face repeatedly until another man knelt and patted his shoulder. Tears do flow at The Wall.
Now, it's just after noon as Park Service rangers lead me and about 20 other wreath layers to our positions on either wing of the V-shaped wall. Mark Peterson, one of my hosts from Dublin, is on the east side with a wreath from UAW Local 2069; I'm on the west.
As we march down, I'm concentrating on not tripping when I hear a young voice right beside me ask a parent, "Is this real?" I don't hear the answer, but it's a question that goes to the heart of all the controversies raised by the Vietnam War.
Vietnam Still Divides, Unites
I originally had some concerns about being here. Vietnam, and the draft, missed me. I came in at 115 in the first Selective Service lottery, held while I was in college. By the time I graduated, the war was winding down and my number never came up. I had had problems with the war — though not with the warriors, as some did — but would have gone if called.
So I was worried that I'd be taking the place of someone who deserved the honor, maybe needed it, far more than I. "Not at all," Peterson assured me. "I've taken several people who didn't serve in the military or in Vietnam. It's an experience." It is indeed.
Peterson served in the Army from 1981-85. "I'm here for the men and women who have never come home and also for the protection of our future veterans, to tell the government it should never leave our people behind again," he says. His wife, Dee, says her father was a veteran and her uncle was a medic who died of an infection contracted in Vietnam. "We are trying to get his name on The Wall, too," she says.
Salutes, Then Goodbyes
The Memorial Day service lasts about 90 minutes. Career military heavyweights alternate with veterans at the podium. Some angrily denounce the mistakes of the past; others speak of finding comfort here. Crisp uniforms mingle with combat fatigues and biker leathers. U.S. and service flags flutter beside black-and-white POW-MIA banners that proclaim, "You are not forgotten," and "Bring 'em Home or Send Us Back." Above us, helicopters clatter on unknown missions.
The service includes the addition of five names to The Wall — not MIAs, but vets whose deaths have been deemed war-related although they occurred off the battlefield. Along The Wall are dozens of documents identifying other vets whose families believe they, too, deserve to be listed here.
We lay our wreaths as bagpipes play "Amazing Grace" and a bugler plays "Taps" to end the event. Many of the 500 or so there linger, hug, slap backs, swap addresses and business cards. No one is in a hurry to leave; they all have a lot of goodbyes to say.
