THE WALL
By Twila Paul
I touched and traced the etching that read Marshall Fisher, with my finger on the granite like replica of the Viet Nam Memorial called, THE WALL. A memorial that travels the country to pay tribute to the 58,000 soldiers who never made it home from Viet Nam. It was the war of my generation and Marshalls name laid before me. I did not know Marshall well, but his brother was in my grade school class and his mother cleaned rooms at our motel. Every year it was my mother and father who bought him and his brother their winter coats, boots and gloves. They were poor and from a rough part of town. I remember his mother who had always looked years beyond her age, but she was kind and loyal and a very hard worker. My parents would always say to my brother and me, "You be kind to those boys. You are not better then they are! Life just dealt you a better hand!"
I thought about Marshall as I stood in the parking lot at Faith Bible Curch in Arvada, Colorado, where the replica of The Wall stood. Through a dedicated volunteer, I found his name on Panel 53W , Line 009. He had died under hostile, small arms gun fire in Tay, Ninh, South Vietnam on July 4 th,1968 so very far from his small hometown in East Fultonham, Ohio.
My husband and I had visited the original memorial at night in Washington DC when the work was just completed. There were no lights and a Viet Nam Veteran handed us a flashlight and escorted us. It was a very moving experience to visit the memorial at night by flashlight for the first time. The wall was vast in its darkness and stretched far before us. We could hear sobbing and we touched the petals of the roses that laid in tribute by loved ones. I did not know at this time that Marshall's name laid etched in the black granite wall before us.
It was two years ago when I was visiting my family gravesites that I spied a grave that had an American Flag and a plaque which read, Died in Viet Nam. I moved closer to read the name and it read, Marshall Wayne Fisher. All I could think of was the pain that his mother must have felt at the news of the death of her eldest son. I mourned for her, for Marshall and his brother as I stood in the drizzling rain holding my husbands hand in this little cemetary in White Cottage, Ohio.
When I heard the replica of the WALL was coming, I knew I had to go and find where Marshall's name laid in honor. When I found it and touched it, my eyes filled with tears. I felt emotion. I felt like a mother that was proud of her son. I cried for him and the other 57,999 men and women whose names lay etched in stone.
Sunday evening came and the closing ceremonies were to take place at 7:00pm. I had been awake since 4:00 in the morning and had worked a ten hour day. I was tired but I knew I had to go. I stood as we sang , America The Beautiful, the playing of Taps and the lowering of the flag by the boyscouts. I watched as the Viet Nam Veterans were asked to stand forward to be honored. They were men from my generation with the same graying hair but with pain still etched in their faces. It was the pastor from Faith Bible Church who spoke the words that these Veterans so needed to hear, "Welcome Home ! Welcome Home !" Tears streamed from my eyes. I wanted to hold each and every one of these men standing there in front of their fallen comrads and say , "Thank you for only doing the job that our country had asked you to do!" I cried out, "Welcome Home! I too want to say, "Welcome Home !"