Sunday Night at the War Memorials
by Linda Abbott
It was a cold brisk night in Washington, DC, when I boarded a bus for an illuminated tour of the nation's war memorials. Walking in the darkness on this sacred ground the night before Veteran’s Day, the tour took on even more significance.
As we pulled up to the World War II Memorial, we knew we were in for something special. I’m sure it’s lovely during the day, but at night it is breathtakingly beautiful. The size, grandeur and emotional impact of those pillars, gold stars and the rush of water from the fountains are overwhelming. We walk quietly around the colonnade, dwarfed by those granite columns, silent tributes to the thousands of young men who died on the beaches of Normandy, in farm fields of Germany, on islands in the Pacific.
We speak of the passing of this great generation, and there is a catch in our throats. The sadness lingers. They were fine young men, decent, courageous and humble.
On the tour a woman tells me of her father, who passed away two years ago. A WWII veteran, he looked back on the war with regret because he only served a few months before the armistice was signed and didn’t feel like he contributed enough. Yet his job was to help transport thousands of wounded soldiers to medical facilities and he did so with compassion, always trying to lift their spirits and give them hope. “He would have so loved to have seen this,” she said wistfully.
At the Vietnam Wall the emotional impact intensified. There is no brilliant lighting or soaring columns, just a somber and lingering darkness and all those names. More than fifty-eight thousand of them, engraved in the black gabbro stone.
Unlike the World War II Memorial where the numbers of war dead are represented by gold stars, here you see the name of every young man whose life got caught up in this terrible conflict … and you wonder where would he would be, would he have had children, what would have become of all those lives that were snuffed out. And although they are gone, they’re still living in the hearts and minds of their loved ones . . . because at the base of the wall are flowers, notes and other mementos left by people who came here to pay tribute. There are the names of eight women here as well.
The wall starts low but rises as you reach the apex, until you suddenly realize it is towering over you. And that is its power. It pulls you in and doesn’t let you go.
Our tour guide tells us about the controversy over this design but tonight those are distant concerns. After being riveted on the names for several minutes I look up, and it is as if there is an invisible thread from where I am standing to the Washington Monument. A luminous half-moon completes the canvas. We realize our time is running out and we need to move on. Even though it is getting very cold, we are reluctant to leave.
Darkness also reigns at the Korean War Memorial, where nineteen sculptures depict solders on patrol in rough terrain in a combat zone. Tiny spotlights in the bushes cast an eerie glow, giving them a ghost-like appearance. Like many people, I have little knowledge of what is known as “the forgotten war,” where more than 54,000 Americans lost their lives in the span of three years. On a wall flanking the sculptures, more than 2,000 photos of the personnel and equipment engaged in this bloody conflict provide a window into the enormity of this war that tragically began and ended at the 38th Parallel. A Pool of Remembrance, strewn with golden leaves, pays tribute to the dead, missing and prisoners of war. Etched into a wall of granite are these words: Freedom is not free.
In a grassy area in the midst of these memorials, several large wreaths lie on the ground and a stage has been set up. Tomorrow there will be dignitaries, solemn ceremonies and people coming to pay their respects in the brilliant light of day. But tonight, it’s just us and these soldiers. We will never forget.