Weeping At The Wall

1 Weeping at The Wall By Daniel C. Elliott US Army Artillery, Vietnam, 11/67 through 1/69 (To protect the privacy of those who grieve, the names mentioned are changed from actual ones)

It’s cold and I have been sitting in the weather for many hours on a blustery day in Memorial Park in Washington DC. Men and women are lining up for hours to read a page of names—names etched in polished black granite on what has come to be known as “The Wall.” This wall records the names of 58,256 soldiers who paid the ultimate price in the Vietnam War. They read the names in measured tones, some with passion, some with sadness, some softly, some with a bark the belies a past as a drill instructor or a military officer. “Ramon R. Phillips, Timothy M Michaelson, C.P. Jimmy Jamison, . . .and the names drone on. A tall man dressed in the uniform of an Army 3star general strides to the podium and begin reading his list of names. My throat tightens as he does. It has been 35 years since my all expense paid 15 months trip to the Republic South Vietnam, courtesy of the United States Government. I was blessed to come home safe and sound. I was blessed—spared the difficulties one views so realistically presented in Hollywood’s oft-replayed visage the Vietnam experience. I was never shot at, and never had occasion to shoot. Suddenly the general’s voice hesitates and waivers as he stutters out the next name. “T T T Tommy Franks, my son.” After a short pause he continues but still in his least general-like voice. “Jerry Rasmussen, M M M Michael Hope, Hector S S S Sanchez, squad leaders in my platoon who died at my side trying to pull me to safety.” Apparently at the end of his list, the general slowly turns toward the ramp leading from the stage and walks away, his shoulders visibly heaving and his hand over his face. Why am I sobbing like a baby at this point? I didn’t witness the slaughter of my friends and comrades by soldiers of an enemy philosophy. I had no occasion to feel responsible for others to have died under my leadership. Surly weeping now must be reserved for those who suffered in that way during the carnage of battle or who lost loved ones. So why do I now weep? Who am I to have the privilege of weeping over these 58,000 plus names lovingly engraved in this beautiful black V-shaped depression in the grassy knolls of Washington DC’s Memorial park? Do I weep because of anger? My greatest anger from this war was not at the enemy soldiers who were simply doing their job, as I was mine, No, I weep for them too. My anger arose upon my years after returning—anger at some mindless fellow citizens who harassed returning soldiers, who demonstrated, who destroyed and pillaged our own hometowns pretending that they were somehow personally offended or injured by the fact that we soldiers were fighting a war in this far-off Asian land. I was deeply hurt that they could take personal gain from the sacrificial service given by so many in the military and

Daniel C. Elliott, Ed.D. November 7, 2002 on the 20th anniversary of the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial, Reading of the Names.

2 then turn it in to an opportunity for themselves to make political profit. It feels ironic to me, as I stand here gazing at this wall 35 years later, that so many of those protestors became the elected political leaders of the last three decades, -----one even becoming our most shameful of presidents, for eight years—while these 58 thousand plus remain merely as memories and as names on a wall half buried in the ground. Why do I stand at this wall and weep? I cannot find a single name of anyone that I knew during my military days. But then, most of us rarely knew one another’s first name. As far as I know, all those I counted as close friends, made it home alive. So why am I weeping at this, my eighth pilgrimage to this place of names and silent tears? As I listen to the names read—read from the days of death that took place years before my tour, tears continue rolling down my face. “Raymond M. Jimenez, Jorge Jesus’ Santigo, Timothy L. Johnson, Alexander Hamilton Jones”. . . . names that meant nothing to me then, suddenly mean so much to me now. They did as I did—they served. But they did not get to do as I did, they did not get to survive. They did not get to return home and raise families. They did not get to return home and continue interrupted educations. They did not get to return home and go into the family business or become teachers and leaders and doctors, and lawyers, and. . . Human beings. Their young lives abruptly ended with the explosion of an incoming enemy projectile, or a secreted Claymore mine, or a heinous covered pit of poison-tipped bamboo spikes. By the millions we came to Vietnam answering our Nation’s call to protect freedom and democracy—a million men in any given year. It is a wonder that there aren’t more names on this wall of honor! So why are tears streaming down my face. It is cold, here, about 30 degrees with the wind. I’m shivering uncontrollably yet I sit riveted in my chair listening to names that went before me to this terrible place and could not return. “Allen R. Acton. Phillip J. Miller. Jedeiah Ramon Williamson. . .” With each name my throat chokes. “William Elliott. . . .” “ELLIOTT!!, that’s my name,” I think. That could have been me! Then, survivor-guilt thinking takes over my mind once again and the tears expand into barely controllable sobs. I cough, I slobber, yet the people sitting or standing nearby do not look at me, they avert their eyes to the wall or to the ground, or to the sky, or in impassioned gazes at the persons solemnly reading the names. For hours and hours they read the names, one after the other. They read until midnight and then start the next morning. People line up to read a page of names. Every so often a reader adds the phrase, “and my father ______ or “and my fiancé’” or and, my husband_____. As she read her list one lady said “James Johnson, my husband, and Timothy A. Allen, his close friend who died in my husbands arms.” My sobs increase and I don’t understand why but I just let them go. Each tear was the only thing I have, now, to give, to these who have given their all so that the rest of us can be who we are today. Why do I cry? I cry because these, who sacrificed all, will be remembered. I will remember them though my tears. Even though I knew none of them, my tears and sobs

Daniel C. Elliott, Ed.D. November 7, 2002 on the 20th anniversary of the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial, Reading of the Names.

3 are my salute for their giving of themselves. Why do I cry? I cry in order to remember that “war is Hell” and it is a hellish thing to send men and women into a war and then tie their hands as was done to these heroes of Vietnam. It was a terrible shame to send them to be cannon fodder so that those seeking to make political names for themselves can do political maneuverings. I cry so that others will remember that if we ever send men and women into battle again, we must all support them! We must sustain them in every possible way! If we have to go to war then we should go without limit and with a will to win by the fastest means possible. 1959 through 1975—for sixteen years we sent as many millions of soldiers into harm’s way only to pull them back every time they were at the point of victory because we had no political will to do what we sent them to do. Once the decision is made to go to war, then our warriors are ones we must honor and not defame. So I cry to honor them because they were sent out to be warriors by a body politic that had not enough honor in itself to honor the ones it sent to war. I weep for these 58,000 plus names. I weep for a nation that lost its way in the 1960s and can barely find itself in the 21st century. I weep because I see it starting to happen all over again. Politicians talking for and against war! Again we see self-absorbed over privileged brainwashed minions waiving placards and breaking windows in the name of what they call “peace.” I weep because we seem not to have learned our lessons from the sacrificial deaths listed on this beautiful and terrible wall! Freedom is just a fancy word to many but to those who risked everything and to those who lost their beloved warriors—who have only these names on a mirror-finished black granite wall left to them— freedom is the crown. Freedom is the warriors’ crown but it is we who get to wear it. They earned it for us all to wear. Let us use our freedoms well and honorably. Speak your mind but do not abuse the servant warriors who protect the very freedoms that permit you to speak as you do. Why do I weep at this wall? I weep for you!

Daniel C. Elliott, Ed.D. November 7, 2002 on the 20th anniversary of the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial, Reading of the Names.