Vietnam Wall by-the-sea... Memorial Day Weekend, 2010

The original Vietnam War Memorial in Washington D.C. is a massive angular wall of polished black granite that is subtly submerged in a whispering of the dead slope. It expands and contracts with the intensity of American casualties over a period of at least fifteen years. Its lowest points are at the beginning (early 60s) and end (1975) of the war when casualties were, if you will, at their minimum. Its highest point is in the middle years (Ia Drang, Dakto, Tet) when the blood tide of dead and wounded was full and brimming. Aside from the torrent of everything else that it contains and gives off the black wall is a powerful work of stark abstract art. And now there is a scaled-down yet perfect replica of the Wall in Wildwood By-The-Sea, New Jersey.

I am delighted to report that the unveiling and dedication of the Vietnam Memorial replica went off without a hitch. It was a first class event and presentation. Every aspect and element of the day was of the highest calibre. Respect, remembrance, solemnity, grief, comradeship...All of these and more could be found on Ocean avenue that day and I felt privileged and lucky to be there.

At a little before noon I approached the memorial site via bicycle. After parking adjacent to one of my favorite late night drunken eateries-Mr. Dee’s-I took my trusty Swiss Army bike (“Cape Rider”) down off the Yakima rack and pedaled back into history. Going against the wind on Burk avenue one Vietnam Wall by-the-sea... Memorial Day Weekend, 2010 by Joe Van Blunk of the first things that I saw was a huge American flag billowing majestically in the ocean breeze. The enormous flag hung from the top of a crane that had to be jutting at least several hundred feet into the overcast late spring sky. At the end of the block just under the giant undulating flag I locked my bike to a parking meter. From there I waded into a crowd of at least 2,ooo souls who had come to this place in order to grieve, remember, forgive, regret, vent, sigh, weep and yes...celebrate.

After taking some pictures and shaking some hands I began to move to (or was drawn to) where I thought the heart of the matter wasthe reserved seating area directly in front of the guest speakers platform. Behind and somewhat above the platform was the Wall at just about the center of its shrouded length. All along and in front of the Wall was a variety of flag-bearing color guard from every branch of the services. Most of them were dressed in some kind of crisp uniform. Their assignment and honor was to pull the black plastic shroud off the Wall at the high point of the day. There was a simmering tension and expectation around all of this. I felt a genuine and precise sense of theatrics and drama. The kind that moves and connects people but does not manipulate them-a rare experience indeed in present day American public life.

The reserved seating area was set-up to accommodate a handful of very special people. Unlike the speakers platform this area had, as far as I could discern, no seats for hot-air masters or opportunists of any kind. The seats in this area seemed to be filled by some of those who lost everything at a very young age. The seats in this area seemed to be filled by those who paid (and will continue to pay until the end of their lives) the ultimate bottom line price when the real bill came in.

Barbara G. Moran and Barbara Steere are two such people. They are Mother and Daughter respectively. What they lost and sacrificed respectively was their thirty-two year old Husband and Father-Master Sgt. Bernard J. Moran. On December 12, 1971 Moran was in a helicopter that was shot down. That would be less than two weeks before Christmas and the first of many more that he might have celebrated with his immediate family and otherwise. The crushing loss, in other words, does not end on December 12, 1971. It reverberates until all who loved him are gone...And this is just one tragic Wall story in 58,000.

It seems that one of the true keys to understanding any historical event is to have taken a part in it or to have been otherwise directly effected by it. You have to be close to it in one way or another. Mountains of books and eons of research might bring you to the staging area of the true horror/action but you will never know the peak. Ernest Hemingway wrote that not being in combat was “A Way You’ll Never Be.” And not having one of your loved ones killed in combat seems to be just about the same thing. You can’t know it. You can’t feel it. But those killed in combat and the loved ones left behind are almost one in the same in that those left behind are Shadow Casualties. Do the death math and the numbers expand and multiply ad infinitum. If the Shadow Casualty math were applied to the Wall (original or replica) it would probably ring the earth several million times over. And the tide of pain and sorrow would rise and fall accordingly. Such is the deep penetrating grief of war. 58,000 American souls, many just out of high school or drop-outs thereof. They had no other priorities than serving their country and getting back home to their families and friends with the basic hope of living out the full arc of their lives which was so violently denied them...Rest in Peace.

Author’s Note: In spite of my theory about books and research I would like to suggest a small sampling of the American Vietnam War canon: A Rumor of War by Philip Caputo. Born On The Fourth Of July by Ron Kovic. Fields Of Fire by James Webb. The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien. Dispatches by Michael Herr. These books cannot be rated in a best of order for they are all excellent due to their authors singular talents and experiences in the Vietnam Conflict. There are many other masterpieces-minor and major-concerning this time and place but they are too numerous to list. Reading any one of them may help the reader and/or student of history to understand the Wall memorial a bit more than he or she had previously.