I’ve only known one person who was killed in our country’s
wars. He was a high-school classmate. He and I were not close friends, but he
served honorably and had a great future ahead. His name is now among the 57,939
carved into the black granite monument known as the Vietnam Memorial.
Another classmate died recently from duty in that war, this
one from the delayed effects of Agent Orange. They say that everyone in the
country, during the time the chemical was used, was exposed. I don’t imagine
that the names of its victims will be carved on The Wall, not even the American
ones.
Those who forgive, or even support, the warmongers may not
understand the long-term effects of battle. I’ve learned recently that experts still
consider the earth at such places as Belleau Wood (1918) and Normandy (1944) toxic.
Well known, but unverified, anecdotes claim that as late as the 1960s trees in some
areas of France retained enough mustard gas residue to injure farmers or
construction workers who were clearing them. I’ve read about secluded and
undisturbed valleys that still retain pockets of deadly gas.
In America, 50 years later, Vietnam veterans still bear the
stereotype of sociopathic ne’er-do-wells, the one tragedy avoided by those with
their names on The Wall.
They don’t mention these things when they whoop it up about
invading some country or other.
Those I know who have worn the uniform don’t seem to get as agitated
over such things as wearing a flag-decal on their lapel. Just in the last couple
of days, I’ve also seen some posts by some who are exercised over regulations limiting
the size of flags and the height of flagpoles. How silly. It reminds me of a comment
of a close friend, fellow vet, and Iraqi invasion participant. He’s quite high up
in the military now, and he once made a very pertinent observation.
“The American Flag is not an advertising gimmick.”
Love of country and all its people is a wonderful emotion.
Patriotism represents a more slippery term. It has been called, with some
justification, “the last refuge of a scoundrel,” (Samuel Johnson) and “often an
arbitrary veneration of real estate above principles” (George Jean Nathan).
Used in earnest and with propriety, it brings out the best in us. Used for
immoral purposes, it creates monuments bearing the names of war’s victims.
In my day, some of those victims didn’t ask for the chance
to add their names to such monuments. During the Vietnam War era, they tell us
that one-third of veterans entered the military through the draft. By contrast,
WWII saw a draft rate of 66 percent. These figures can be a bit misleading.
They don’t take into account the number of those who enlisted simply to avoid being
drafted into the infantry. Trust me on that one.
No matter. The fact remains that many of the names on The Wall
are those of individuals drafted into the service. They include some who fought
alongside Hal Moore in the Ia Drang Valley, a few who had only a few weeks left
“in-country,” the term that held so many different meanings for those of us who
served in that sad war.
In a couple of weeks, I’ll go to the annual Flag Day
celebration in Little Rock on the grounds of the MacArthur Museum of Arkansas
Military History. There will be music, free ice cream, and a flag
for each person there. At some point, the band will play The Armed Forces Medley. When it reaches Anchors Aweigh, I’ll stand and wave my flag. Last year, there weren’t
any young shipmates standing. Of those of us who did, more than a few required
a little extra effort in making it erect. We did it though. If for no other reason,
we had to in honor of those shipmates with their names on the wall.
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