Havana File

Washington, D.C.—Memorial DayH e inhaled a warm, wet breeze that swept up from the Tidal Basin in a northerly direction across West Potomac Park carrying the attar of dying cherry blossoms. It was pleasant here just a few hours after dawn and before the high tide of exhaust fumes crested over the National Mall. He paused on his route, squinting toward the east where rays from a rising sun caused the recently renovated Washington Monument to sparkle and shimmer. The big blond dog at his side pawed at something buried under a carpet of fading pink petals and then lifted his leg to mark the spot as previously explored terrain. To his left front along the curb of Henry Bacon Drive, a short radial that connects the Lincoln Memorial with Constitution Avenue, he saw crowds beginning to form as he knew they would in larger and larger numbers throughout the day. There were some early rising bikers wearing leather vests festooned with military pins and patches, straddling Harleys spiked with so many American flags they looked more like porcupines than motorcycles. Some pop-up tents were being erected to accommodate various veterans’ groups that had pledged to gather on this day for ceremonies at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Unit banners and the ever-present black POW-MIA flag moved sluggishly in the early morning air. He offered his dog a Milk Bone from the pocket of his jeans and squatted, watching little clusters of early arrivals, most in one form or another of ancient camouflage or olive-drab jungle uniforms. They hugged, postured, and popped high-fives. Many of them, he knew, were strangers to each other, but gatherings like this always goosed them beyond human territorial imperatives. Just having been in Vietnam at one point or another was enough to make them act like prodigal sons returning to the family fold. And it was enough to make him decide that this, likely his last visit to the black chevron-shaped memorial nearby, would be quick, just a murmur with the spirits of a few really close friends that he’d long ago determined were somehow present behind the sterile names etched in various places along the 250-foot length of ebony stone. He’d always felt such moments were best savored or suffered in private. Crowds of somber veterans, searching for succor or surcease from the survivor guilt that drove them here to stand teary-eyed touching the wall bothered him. At gatherings for special occasions like Memorial Day the place took on the trappings of a noisy Irish wake and the little mementos visitors often left somehow seemed to trivialize the experience. He tarried for a while near a wrought-iron fence that was designed to keep visitors to this patch of green south of Foggy Bottom moving in an orderly fashion past memorials that marked American sacrifice in modern military conflicts from World War I to Vietnam. Somewhere in here and fairly soon, he thought as he secured the dog’s leash to a stanchion, they would have to find space for a memorial to those killed in Iraq and Afghanistan. He rose, wincing at the stiffness in a right knee that still housed a dime-sized hunk of shrapnel from an enemy landmine, and motioned for his dog to stay. The big animal settled into his sphinx posture and worried the treat between his paws. Bear would be fine during the short spell his human companion needed to commune with buddies who had gambled and lost during the Greater Southeast Asia War Games. The memorial was deserted when he arrived at the cobblestone walkway fronting the wall except for a night-shift Park Service Ranger who gave him a quick eyeball followed by a weary nod and then turned to check the growing crowds near the Lincoln Memorial. As he turned right to begin his visit, he felt the strange power of the place. As it had on every other occasion when he visited, the wall seemed to exude an eerie miasma, an aura that wrapped him like an invisible cloak settling heavily on his shoulders and squeezing at his chest. His heart thumped a little more strongly as he began to walk along the ascending panels, and there was a catch in his throat as he breathed in the fragrant air. His destination on this visit was ahead of him, at the intersection where the two arms of the memorial joined at an obtuse angle. The 10-foot-tall sections in that area listed the dead from 1968-69, the bloodiest years of the long war. It was midway up on one of those panels that he found the man he’d come to see. “Won’t be visiting much anymore, Emmet.” He whispered, focusing on images of a ruddy little beer-barrel Marine who stumbled, fumbled, and laughed through the tough times calling himself a “combat tourist,” just visiting Vietnam on a little cultural exchange. “I sold the condo in Arlington. We’re moving to Texas—a little town called Lockhart just south of Austin.” He reached up and touched the cold surface of the stone, letting his fingertips glide lightly over the etched letters in the name of a man who died walking behind him on a shitty little meaningless patrol along the banks of the Cua Viet River. “You’d like it there, dude. They got ice-cold beer and the best barbecue in the Lone Star State.” The roar of motorcycle engines interrupted him and he turned to see a phalanx of veteran bikers pulling into the parking lot. “I gotta hit the road before it gets crazy around here, Emmet, but I wanted you to know that I’m really sorry I missed that mine. I was walking point and I should have seen it. I’ll never know why I didn’t. I know you’d tell me it wasn’t my fault if you were here, but that’s the point, Emmet. You’re not here and I am. I’m sorry, that’s all. I’m just really sorry—and I wanted to come by and let you know.” Having said the piece he’d come to say, he focused on his image reflected from the polished surface of the wall. There was something about seeing yourself reflected here—as if you were inside that wall with all the others—that gave cold comfort, but he’d long ago learned to take comfort where and when he could get it. He was about to leave when he caught sight of someone standing nearby, staring at the same panel and massaging a well-worn boonie hat in his hands. The man was balding and bearded, wearing faded jeans and a ratty OD jungle jacket with the big black and gold patch of the 1st Cavalry Division on the left shoulder. He nodded. The man nodded back and then fell into formation at his shoulder as he walked toward the end of the wall. “What year?” The man asked without introduction or preamble in a voice that rumbled with the effect of too many cigarettes or too much whiskey or maybe both. “Years,” he corrected. “I went over in 67 and then just kept extending through the middle part of 70.” “Damn,” the stranger said as he strapped the boonie hat back on his head and adjusted the brim into a forward rake. “I guess you were a glutton for punishment.” “I guess,” he confirmed. “I was in it for the long haul and it seemed like the place to be at the time.” “Marine?” “Guilty as charged. First Marine Division for the most part, up on the DMZ and west of there.” “I was Army, 67-68. First Air Cav.” “I noticed the horse blanket on your shoulder. We worked with you guys on Operation Pegasus. You there?” “Most affirm. Clear Route Nine from LZ Stud to Khe Sanh and relieve the Marines.” The stranger chuckled and shook his head. “Not that you guys needed any kind of relievin’ but that’s the word got passed to us doggies.” “Glad you were there. I never saw so many helicopters in one place at one time. Every time we looked up there came another Army Huey while our Marine birds always seemed to be grounded or busy elsewhere. You guys pulled a lot of our wounded out of it on that op.” “That’s the Air Cav for you. Why walk when you can fly. Mind if I ask you a question?” “If I can answer, I’ll try.” “How come the Marines made a tour in Nam thirteen months? I always wondered about that. We had three-sixty-five straight up. How come you jarheads had to do an extra month?” “Never really understood that myself. I heard some loud and long bitching about it but nobody ever really explained it to me. I read somewhere that the Corps wanted to be sure they got a full year in the field out of us so they added an extra thirty days to cover travel and training and stuff like that.” The stranger nodded and chewed on his lip for a moment. “Makes you wonder how many of them dudes on the wall got blown away in that extra month, don’t it?” “I guess.” He stopped at the end of the wall and offered his hand to the stranger who took it in both of his. “I gotta get on the road. Hope you meet up with some of your buddies today.” The stranger squeezed his hand and nodded in the direction of the wall. “I already met up with the ones who count. Welcome home, Marine.” “Thanks,” he said, “and same to you.” The sentiment had always seemed off-putting but he’d learned to deal with it after hearing it so many times from other Vietnam Veterans. He really had no home during the two decades he served as a Marine. Home was where you stowed your seabag. Home was where you dug it in the field. Home was a concept, not a place. He smiled and walked away from the wall. The stranger growled at his back. “Take care. See you at the last firebase.” He waved without turning back toward the wall, hoping Emmet and all the others memorialized there would understand why he couldn’t stay any longer. Squads of Memorial Day observers were descending on the wall by the time he retrieved the dog and made it to his bulk-loaded pick-up. When he had Bear comfortably settled in the backseat of the crew-cab, he fired the engine and powered up his voice-activated GPS. A breathy female greeted him through the speakers in the dashboard. “Hello, Gunner Shake Davis. Where are we going today?” “Select Option Bravo,” he said as he pulled the truck into gear and waited for the device to display the route map he’d pre-programmed. “Let’s go to Texas.”