MonumentA Story by Phil HubbardA scene from 1969. The residents of a small mid-western town gather for the unveiling of a monument honoring the men and women of their town who died serving in Viet Nam.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. 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 had served when the call came.
As Melanie pulled on Dwayne’s old football jersey, the only thing that
fit now over her extended belly, she felt her son kick, letting her know that
he was ready to be born in a few days.
What would she tell her son the first time he came home from
kindergarten asking why he didn’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 Viet Nam 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. 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
stone-cutter, 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 woman from Springfield Center who died in Viet
Nam in chronological date order of their passing. Art knows that this monument is his crowning
achievement. He views it with immense
pride and heart-breaking 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 left 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
out of the building to enjoy the freedom of a truncated school day greet him
with the affection and respect due to 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, largely fought 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 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 Viet Nam 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, he remained 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 deepest darkest outposts of the war, learning the language, comforting
Vietnamese children whose parents had been 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 prayed
for an answer. God, what do you want
from me? He prayed for renewed faith to
help him make sense of his life. Of course, it rained.
A small group of tortured souls gathered around the monument for the
brief ceremony. Melanie Johnson traced
the letters of Dwayne’s name on the ledger, speaking quietly to her unborn son. Bruce Babcock forced any memory of his
daughter from his mind, an unfortunate casualty of war. Art Scalpellino held
back his tears and stood at attention while the name of his son and all the
fallen heroes was read. He felt pride
that his son had chosen to willingly make the ultimate sacrifice for the great
country adopted long ago by his grandfather.
Jack Andrews discarded his prepared remarks and talked directly to the
young people in the small crowd. © 2019 Phil HubbardFeatured Review
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StatsAuthorPhil HubbardNYAboutI'm a retired college administrator and plan to write about both personal and professional experiences. See all my poems, short stories and novels at hubbard85.com. more..Writing
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