Monument

A war memorial dedication in 1969.

May 1969

It’s 5 a.m., Melanie Johnson gives up any hope of meaningful sleep and eases her pregnant body out of bed. The recurring nightmare and the restless kicking of her unborn son have combined to make yet another sleepless night. She sits on the edge of the bed in her childhood bedroom, not fully accepting that she is here instead of the small, tidy apartment that she shared with her husband, Dwayne, for such a short time. She glances over at the nightstand, hoping the letter is not there. But it is. She closes her eyes.

“Please, God, make the letter go away. Make this part of the nightmare.”
But of course, it’s not. The letter from the United States Department of Defense is terse and unemotional.
“We regret to inform you that your husband, Corporal Dwayne Johnson, was killed in action in the Republic of Viet Nam on December 24, 1968, when the HU-1 helicopter in which he served as a rear gunner was struck by enemy fire and exploded upon contact with the ground.”

Dwayne and Melanie were high school sweethearts. After high school, they married, and Dwayne went to work in the mill, but they both knew he would enlist in the Army. Every generation of Johnson men since the Civil War served when the call came. As Melanie pulls on Dwayne’s old football jersey, the only thing that fits now over her extended belly, she feels her son kick, letting her know that he is ready to be born in a few days. What will she tell her son the first time he comes home from kindergarten, asking why he doesn’t have a daddy like all the other kids? As she descends the stairs to the kitchen, she is not sure she can handle going to the cemetery today for the ceremony honoring the men and women of Springfield Center who, along with more than 16,500 American servicemen and women, died in Vietnam in 1968.

Bruce Babcock sighs with satisfaction as he ends his phone call with Congressman Avery Langston. Thanks to his hefty contributions to Langston’s reelection campaign, Langston has assured him that Babcock Manufacturing would continue to receive lucrative government contracts for the metal castings used in combat vehicles.
“Damn,” he thinks. War is good for business.”

In his role as a senior member of the House Budget Committee, Langston has been able to pull strings to ensure that Babcock’s sons, Bruce Jr. and Steven, receive cushy stateside assignments to fulfill their military obligations. In the back of his mind, Bruce is vaguely worried about his youngest child, Jessica. After completing her nursing degree, defying his orders, Jessica joined the Army and quickly volunteered for combat duty in Vietnam after completing Officers Training School. His thoughts are interrupted by his secretary, who steps into his office to remind him about the ceremony at the cemetery this afternoon. He hates to take time away from work, but he must at least appear to care. Many of his mill workers have lost sons and daughters in the war. Reluctantly, he prepares to leave the office for the afternoon. As he steps away from his desk, the phone rings. It’s his wife. She’s hysterical. Between her sobs, he hears something about a special delivery letter from the Department of Defense.

Art Scalpellino stands back and surveys the plantings around the monument. He is grateful that his brother-in-law, Vinnie, agreed to bring his landscaping crew from the city to prepare the ground in time for the ceremony this afternoon. Art, whose last name in Italian means stonecutter, is a third-generation stone carver. For this special assignment, he created a simple base under two fluted columns supporting a rectangular marble slab. On the slab, he created a large open ledger listing the names of the men and women from Springfield Center who died in Vietnam in chronological order of their passing. Art knows that this monument is his crowning achievement. He views it with immense pride and heartbreaking despair. The name, lovingly carved in the top left corner of the ledger is his son Arturo Jr., the first soldier from Springfield Center to die in the war. It is May 1969. The war is not over. The right side of the ledger is blank. He knows that more names will be added.

Jack Andrews deftly wheels his chair out into the corridor from his classroom. Students, in their rush to leave the building to enjoy the freedom of a truncated school day, greet him with affection and respect due to his status as a favorite teacher. In the safety of the school, Jack feels almost normal, unlike out in public, where he is the recipient of blank stares, horrified looks because of his missing legs, and impatient remarks from people who feel inconvenienced by his wheelchair. On his way to his car, he mentally reviews his remarks for the ceremony. He has always been reticent to talk about his combat experience, but outspoken about his opposition to a war, fought mainly for the wrong reasons.

Father Peter Donovan struggles daily now with his faith. He finds it increasingly difficult to counsel his parishioners to trust in God’s infinite love, to follow a path of righteousness, and to seek their reward in heaven. What can he say to both comfort and inspire grieving families and spouses at the ceremony today? Who will comfort him? Who will show him how to trust in God’s merciful love after receiving the news that his lifelong unrequited love, a fellow seminarian, had died in Vietnam while administering last rites to his fallen comrades? Hadn’t he followed God’s will in every way? Confronting his demons, he entered the priesthood, resisting all temptation and remaining pure to this day. He sought assignments helping the poor, the homeless, and the downtrodden. In Viet Nam, he risked his life, again and again, bringing communion to his fellow soldiers in the darkest outposts of the war, learning the language, comforting Vietnamese children whose parents were killed and their homes destroyed. Throughout his tour of duty, he never feared for his life, knowing that God’s protective shield would keep him safe. Now, instead of coming home in a coffin to a hero’s burial, he was quietly sent to Springfield Center to minister to the needs of a small, aging flock. Why did God spare him? He prays for an answer. God, what do you want from me? He prays for renewed faith to help him make sense of his life.

Of course, it rains. A small group of tortured souls gathers around the monument for the brief ceremony. Melanie Johnson traces the letters of Dwayne’s name on the ledger, speaking quietly to her unborn son. Bruce Babcock forces any memory of his daughter from his mind, an unfortunate casualty of war. Art Scalpellino holds back his tears and stands at attention while the names of his son and all the fallen heroes are read. He feels pride that his son chose to willingly make the ultimate sacrifice for the great country adopted long ago by his grandfather. Jack Andrews discards his prepared remarks and talks directly to the young people in the small crowd.
“War is never a solution. Go out and link arms with other young people around the world. Understand your differences and seek strength from your similarities. Make war a distant memory.”

Father Donovan, realizing at last that all he has left is his faith, asks God to bless the souls of the departed soldiers. Turning to the assembled families and other mourners, he says,
“Grieve not, rather find strength in that which remains behind.”