Vietnam Lesson: Hollowness of Victory
A pale yellow sun warms the small stone blocks that make up the pathway that leads down to the wall.
More than 100,000 people come here each week, but today it is strangely deserted. There is only a businessman in a suit and topcoat. An elderly woman in a wheelchair pushed by a man in a woolen baseball jacket. A man in fatigues with a bushy beard.
Against the wall, as always, are the mementos others have left: a flag, a flower, a rosary.
As the stone path descends into the gentle landscape, the wall seems to rise up as if to engulf you. At the apex, where the two parts of the wall meet in a wide V, it towers 10 feet tall.
And when you look to your left and to your right, you see only the names. Thousands and thousands of names, marching one after another, carved into the stone. The names fill 70 panels and continue for nearly 500 feet. There are 58,175 names.
These are the names of those dead and missing in Vietnam, America’s last great war. And perhaps that is why the Vietnam Veterans Memorial is so deserted this day. Perhaps few wanted to remember America’s last great war as preparations were being made for America’s next one.
The wall is polished black granite, and as you reach out to touch it, you see a dim reflection of yourself.
Thus, you see the names of those who have died and disappeared and, at the same time, you see one who chooses to remember them, however briefly.
About 125 feet away from the wall is a khaki tent flanked by flags. In it you will always find a Vietnam veteran who will talk to you. Outside, on a table where they sell bumper stickers, there is a small sign: “Over 58,000 reasons why we can’t forget.”
But what do we really remember about Vietnam? The numbers? The Vietnam War cost us $150 billion. About 2.7 million Americans served. And along with those Americans killed, about 300,000 were wounded, 75,000 were disabled and 1,300 are still missing.
And what does the act of remembering bring us? What lessons have we learned?
George Bush was in Saudi Arabia for Thanksgiving, and he told the American troops there that a war in the Persian Gulf would not be another Vietnam. “This time,” he promised, “we’re going to win.”
So is that the lesson of Vietnam? That if you win, it makes it OK? That if you win, the price was right?
Is this war in the Persian Gulf not so much because it is necessary but because it is winnable?
The woman in the wheelchair now sits next to a low pedestal that bears a catalogue listing the location of each name on the wall. Those on the wall are listed not alphabetically but by date of death or disappearance. That is so buddies can stay together.
It takes 20 minutes to carve a name by hand on the wall, and the panel margins are wide enough to add new names. The last were added Nov. 11, 1989.
The woman says a name to the man in the woolen baseball jacket. “Lyons,” she says. “Look up the Lyons boy. Can’t remember the first name.”
The man flips through the thin pages of the catalogue and then stops for a very long moment. He turns to her.
“Twenty-six of them,” he says. “They got 26 Lyons here.”
“No,” she says. “So many?”
So many.
We take away different lessons from Vietnam. Some say the lesson is that you must go all out to win, and that by attaining victory you make each death meaningful.
Others say Vietnam taught us that our leaders do not always tell us the full truth in war, and that defeat, no matter how unlikely, is always possible.
Maybe the true lesson of Vietnam is not the bitterness of defeat, but the hollowness of victory. Victory is a sweet thing, and it is better to win than to lose. But the victory of a great nation can be insufficient solace for even one empty seat at a dinner table.
The woman in the wheelchair and the man leave. The businessman is gone. The man in fatigues has walked away.
If you stand at the wall long enough, a volunteer or a National Park Service guide will come up and ask if you need help.
“Is there someone?” they will ask. “Someone special?”
All of them, I always want to say. All of them.