Rescue

carry away with them. The park ranger was in his early twenties, wearing green uniform pants, a brown uniform shirt, and a Smokey the Bear hat in yellow straw. The ranger answered another person’s question, politely and pleasantly but just slightly bored.
    I moved to the eastern end of the Wall, where the names I might recognize would be, almost having to kneel in order to read some of them. I reached out and touched the first names of the officers, the last names of the troopers, which is how I retained the ones I knew. I caught myself doing that touching, then felt self-conscious until I noticed most everyone else doing the same thing, at a different block, some on their knees, some standing but stooping, others up on tiptoe, depending on how tall they were and how high or low the name they were looking for happened to be. The names were hard, because they were real people to me, however long gone. But the hardest part wasn’t the roll call in stone. It was the things left at the base of the Wall.
    Small flags, like the ones at the cluster, just many more of them. Mostly American, here and there a Canadian maple leaf.
    White carnations, identically wrapped but at distant panels, making me think that somebody nearby was turning a buck hucking them.
    Elaborate, freestanding wreaths, with sashes and bows, names gilded onto the sashes. Other wreaths were more homemade, of twisted branches and wildflowers and some lace to bind the twigs, small tear-sized dark spots on the lace, names of soldiers or hometowns on cards tied loosely by bakery string.
    A paper and wire violet with a yellow explanatory tag, like the ones men and women in American Legion hats will sell at the entrances to supermarkets on Memorial Day.
    Unit patches. Americal, Big Red One, 173rd Airborne. Some baseball caps. First and Third Marines, 82nd Airborne, Seabees Can Do.
    A baseball glove, the Andy Carey third baseman’s model from back in the fifties, some unreadable autographs & blue ink.
    Two packs of Camels, a torn page from a spiral notebook reading, “Owed you these, J. T.“
    A Special Forces green beret, old and faded and torn.
    Album covers from the sixties. Richie Havens, the Doors, Joan Baez.
    Triptych of photos showing Cobra helicopters, flying in formation over a rice paddy.
    In laminate, a news article describing the supposed final judgment in the Agent Orange litigation, and how little each veteran in the class action was ever likely to receive.
    The distinctive pie-plate of a World War I expeditionary force helmet, in chalk on it “From Gramps to Susan. RIP.“
    A piece of needlework, a message stitched from the one who made it to the memory of the one it was made for.
    Notes penned for the world to see, some literary and others barely literate, all in shaky hands. “Jim, Because of you, I’m alive today, Leroy.“ “Honey, I’ve never forgotten, Ellen.“ “We’re retired in Fort Myers , now, but we stopped by because this might be the last time Dad can drive it.“ A few notes were sealed in envelopes with just a name written on the back, no address necessary.
    Then I found the panel from the Tet Offensive, and I started recognizing more and more names due to the heavy street fighting around Saigon. Finally, I came to PFC Duquette’s place in the stone, “Frenchy,“ as the other troopers had called him. Only that wasn’t his real first name. It was “Edward.“
    I reached out, my fingertip feeling soft against the polished granite. I found myself tracing the letters to the left of Duquette. “On my way, Eddie. On my way.“
    I stood away from the Wall for a few minutes, swallowing hard. The people moved by, still so slowly, so quietly. No laughter, and no crying you could hear. The only noises were the shuffling of shoes and the tapping of canes and the ticking wheelchairs and baby strollers, people at opposite ends of the Spectrum, coming for the same purpose. To visit and remember.
    I moved back to the center of the Wall, the mementos at its base the thickest, which made sense because the panels there were the highest, containing the most names. The sunlight was at an angle to the slabs, which made the black turn to copper and gold, reflections of trees and sky and passing mourners. A reflection in a mirror, perhaps the truest memorial of all. A memorial to what was wrong with our being in Vietnam. What was wrong with the United States then, too. The people who didn’t understand, and who didn’t welcome us