Honoring the fallen and seeking forgiveness
I walked along that long black wall, crying in the rain.
For all those men who’ve touched our lives, we’ll never see again.
I was walking toward the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C., a few years ago when I spotted it. I knew I would make my pilgrimage to the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial one day. I just didn’t know it would be today. But, to my surprise, there it was—The Wall, the black granite monument inscribed with the names of the 58,178 American men and women who died in the Vietnam War.
I am one of those who stood against this war, one of my generation who refused to serve, one who believed the war was wrong. In my youthful impertinence, I rebuked the politicians and generals who led us down this slippery slope. If LBJ or Tricky Dick wanted a war, I thought, let them go over there and mud wrestle with Uncle Ho one-on-one, winner take all. To paraphrase Muhammad Ali, ain’t no Viet Cong ever called me honkie. But the truth is, I also scorned the men and women who served in Vietnam. And while I make no apology for my stance for peace, on this spring day I knew it was time to atone for my lack of respect and unloving behavior toward our servicemen and servicewomen who had done the best they could do in a difficult situation.
The first name I searched for on The Wall was that of Kenneth Kirkes, my classmate and football teammate at Tullahoma (Tennessee) High School in the early ’60s. Kenneth Lee Kirkes, Marine Corps, Second Lieutenant, born on October 8, 1944. His tour of duty began on December 11, 1967. He was killed by hostile small arms fire on February 9, 1968.
Kenneth and I, along with a few of our friends, had been involved in the Ketchup Corpse Caper that folks still talk about in our little hometown of Tullahoma, Tennessee. As a teenage prank, one of our group got in the trunk of a ’53 Chevy and draped his arm over the rear bumper. The rest of us poured ketchup on the protruding arm, and we proceeded to local service stations where we asked to borrow a shovel. We got the reaction we expected from the service station attendants; what we didn’t anticipate was the long arm of the law. City, county, and state law enforcement officials responded in force, and though most everyone else thought the whole thing was hilarious, we were charged with impersonating a corpse. At our trial we received a severe tongue-lashing and a veiled threat of being shipped to the state reform school for boys.
When I found Kenneth’s name on The Wall, I traced it with my fingers. I remembered our times together, and the fact that he was his parents’ only son. In deep remorse, I kneeled, shut my eyes, and brought him into my consciousness. As tears of regret and sorrow streamed down my face, I admitted my transgressions and pleaded for his forgiveness.
Next I found the name of Dale Reich, my college classmate and football teammate at the University of the South at Sewanee, Tennessee. I still remember Dale’s rousing rendition of the Rolling Stones “Get Off of My Cloud” as we celebrated winning the last game of our final football season at Sewanee, a season in which we suffered only one loss. Dale was not large physically, but pound-for-pound he was arguably the toughest guy on the team.
I found Dale’s name on panel 65W: Merrill Dale Reich Jr., Army, First Lieutenant, born on July 8, 1944. His Vietnam tour began on May 15, 1968, and ended when he was killed by hostile small arms fire on May 27, 1968. Twelve days after his arrival in Vietnam, Dale was dead.
I brought Dale into my mind’s eye and asked him too to forgive me. And then I expanded my prayer for forgiveness to all of the men and women whose names were on that wall and to all of those who had served in the Vietnam War. My load had lightened, but the most challenging step was still to come. Now it was time to forgive myself.
Saturday, May 13th, 2000No Comments »
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