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Cape May County paused in the midst of its tourist season to honor the 22 county residents who fought and died in another controversial American war: Vietnam.
Several weeks ago, the Michael P. Callahan Memorial Chapter of the Vietnam Veterans of America brought "The Wall That Heals" to Fox Park in Wildwood, N.J. The 250-foot wall is a half-size replica of the permanent memorial in Washington, D.C., and stretches the width of a baseball field.
At the opening ceremonies, Mayor Ernie Troiano’s simple statement expressed the feelings of most citizens: "I can only tell you from the bottom of my heart, thank you. Thank you for raising heroes."
John LeGates, former president of the New Jersey Vietnam Veterans of America State Council, pointed out Vietnam soldiers didn’t receive a parade, a warm welcome or even a thank you when they returned.
A few years later, he continued, a wall was built to memorialize the men and women who died in Vietnam. "A wall became our place to seek closure, to heal and reflect," he said. With the arrival of the wall in Wildwood, he concluded, "We, the Vietnam War veterans, have finally come home."
For the better part of a week, all walks of life paid quiet respects to those who made the ultimate sacrifice more than 40 years ago. The wall was open 24 hours a day with an information center and mini-museum onsite, along with an electronic name indicator to find any name on the memorial, as well as information about the wall.
On an early morning bike ride, I passed the wall. It was deserted except for a solitary man with a cart attached to the back of his bike. My curiosity piqued, I pedaled closer and made him out to be what I call bicycle homeless. These people are fairly frequent in Florida, but I had never seen one in New Jersey. In his cart were neatly placed cartons, suitcases and the rest of his worldly possessions. He was youngish, although his face was well-worn and had the deep, ingrained tan of years in the outdoors. Although worn, his clothes were fairly clean and he maintained a military erectness.
"You seem pretty young for Vietnam," I said, to cover my embarrassment at breaking his reverie.
"Iraq, man," he answered. "Three tours. Got stop-lossed and extended three times. Wife couldn’t take it. No money. Didn’t know about the future. Left with the kids. Couldn’t blame her, really. Been riding all over since I got out. Saw the real wall last year. Big. A lot of guys cry there."
"I’m sorry," I said.
"Me, too," he said. "They had it tough in ‘Nam."
"No. About you," I said. "Your wife and all."
"Yeah. Fortunes of war. Know what, though? Know what?"
"No. What?"
"I been standing here thinking about the memorial they’ll build for Iraq. I can see it in my mind right now. It’s a big dollar sign with all the dead people’s name on it and they light up at night. Cool. And at the top there’s a sign that says: Mission Accomplished."
"Do you think it’ll help heal?" I asked.
"I don’t know," he said. "I can already see it and do I look healed to you? But maybe in 40 years — time is cool, you know? Maybe then."
