Читать книгу Twentieth Century Limited Book Two ~ Age of Reckoning - Jan David Blais - Страница 9

I HAVE DREADED COMING TO THIS PART. Can’t add a thing – I won’t even try. Together thirty-seven years, every day more precious than the last. I stare at the papers but see nothing. I guess Paul’s star rising makes me a bit envious. I know it’s mean-spirited, but I can’t help thinking – what did I accomplish? Sure, a few giants have stood on these puny shoulders, and I figured out some things and wrote them down, but it’s not the same. Never have I seen my name in lights. Then again, I never wanted to see my name in lights, so what’s the problem? I was reflected in my Akiko’s eyes – isn’t that enough?

Suddenly it is ten-thirty, and I have accomplished exactly nothing. The hell with this, I say. The sun is high and the day is warm so I start walking up Fifth Avenue. I bid the lions good day. Seeing them always makes me feel good, and before long I am at Central Park, where I commence to wander. Late afternoon, as I turn the key to my place I hear the phone ringing. Jonathan is back. He just landed and is going straight to bed. He’ll be in first thing tomorrow. I hope that will make for a better day.

* * * * * * *

THE SUMMER WAS UNBELIEVABLY HECTIC, chasing stories and churning out Dispatches, plus feeding Ed Feldman material for 60 Minutes. I couldn’t believe how much background they wanted for thirteen on-air minutes. The first segment would be a war retrospective. The second explained how the Wall came to be. I was third. As always, Andy Rooney would close.

I sent Ed my old scrapbook plus an envelope of photos and some bylined stories including the JFK interview. Another set of Berkeley – protest scenes, Gus and Akiko. I gave him Gus’ name and phone number, also Benny, Father Ronan, Catherine, but after some soul-searching, not Pat. I dug out pictures of Basic and Fire Base Tango, a couple on patrol Nathan had taken and included his number also. Zama and Letterman, my rehab, swimming, lifting weights, visiting with my Dad. And of course, Diane and the children, a number of these. They said they might want to interview Diane, which made me more than a little nervous. My Gazette clips were in good order, from the Korean shopkeeper to Paris. Ed said he was set with CBS film of me.

In late August I met with Plavin and his team, going over their questions, offering anecdotes and color, helping them flesh out the story. I sensed a certain kinship but that didn’t keep them from asking tough questions. Plavin was skeptical about my leaving the draft haven, which gave me a sense of his possible take on the story, though that could shift and anyway they wouldn’t share it with me. We set a date to meet in early October for in-studio taping, next day at the monument. They didn’t want to follow me around at the dedication which was fine by me – I had my own story to write and didn’t need the extra baggage.

OUR FIRST FULL SUMMER IN PARIS gave me the chance to enjoy the long light evenings with the children. We had discovered a jewel right in our own backyard, the Arènes de Lutèce, a first century AD Roman amphitheater hidden behind a high wood fence on Rue Monge – actually only part of it, the rest demolished by Baron Haussmann. After several times watching the men at pétanque, one day they invited Paulie to make a toss. He stepped up and rolled his boule toward another near the jack, the target, smacking it dead on and knocking it out of play. Great hilarity all around. “Le jeune Américain, pas si mal.”

The next day I went out and bought a pétanque set. Paul picked up the game immediately and was soon beating his brother and me. Emma preferred drawing a hopscotch course in the sand, where the gladiators used to square off, I told her. Little girls wandered over and she never lacked for a game. On a hunch I took Paul to the Musée de Cluny and let him explore its cellar, the thermes where the Gauls and the Romans used to relax. On the way home he asked a bunch of questions. Why did the Romans come here, how tall were they, what happened to them. He had taken a unit of ancient history but only now did it register that people from long ago might have walked the same roads he did. “Did they speak French?”

“Nobody spoke French in those days. It was invented later,” I said, exhausting my expertise on that subject.

“Well then, Latin, I suppose.”

“You suppose correctly. In fact Lutèce, you know, the arena, that’s a frenchified name for Lutetia. That’s what the Romans called Paris.”

“Lu-te-tia. Well, whaddya know.”

We went to the video store and rented Spartacus, Cleopatra, and a documentary about the Romans. The diorama at le musée Carnavalet fascinated him, a depiction of the city in Roman times, and the artifacts, especially the pirogue, a long, narrow canoe hollowed from a single tree trunk. “Look! It says Parisii! That’s why it’s called Paris!” I loved seeing light bulbs go off in his head. Maybe, I thought, maybe he’s finally into something. I could see it all – history to geography, geography to architecture, geometry, art. Never much of a museumgoer, thanks to Paulie I was becoming one. I smiled, thinking Lucie would approve.

In August Diane and I left the children with Mme. Colbert for the better part of a week and drove to the Normandy coast, staying at a hotel carved out of the rock of le Mont St. Michel. Then we drove to the American Cemetery on the bluff overlooking Omaha Beach. I was overwhelmed by the serenity of the place, and its size – row upon row upon row of crosses in the cropped green fields. The scene struck me as incongruous, even sacrilegious – a clean, tidy remembrance of what is gruesome and bloody and chaotic. Although, I thought, it is right to comfort those who remain, to fashion a memory we can bear. And in its vastness, at least, it is faithful to the disturbing truth. I didn’t mention this to Diane, who, I was pleased, seemed to be enjoying the trip.

SHORTLY AFTER OUR RETURN, one day Diane greeted me with a big hug. “Guess what! Daddy’s quit Chase! He’s going to start his own Savings and Loan!”

“That’s amazing! I always thought he was a lifer.”

“You don’t know him like I do. I’m not at all surprised.”

“Tell me more.”

“He and a couple of others, it’s all set up, they have the approvals, the charter and everything. Syosset Federal Savings & Loan Association – sounds good, don’t you think?”

“Here he goes, from one of the world’s biggest banks to one of the smallest. Quite a turnabout. I give him credit.”

“He told me a while back he was thinking of something like this. All the changes in the business, he says it’s a great chance to get on the ground floor.”

“He’ll have to put up a fair amount of equity.”

Diane smiled. “Mother said he negotiated a tremendous severance.”

“How many years has he been with them?”

“Nearly forty. He joined them right out of business school.”

“Well, give him my best. I look forward to talking with him about it.”

The more I thought about it, I wasn’t so surprised. Peter Archer had a nose for money and a talent for making it. He certainly didn’t need any more – they were very well off, having multiplied their inherited wealth many times over. It had to be the challenge. Some guys buy Ferraris, he buys a bank. Personally, I didn’t care what Peter Archer did for a living, but I had detected some static between us as I grew more critical of deregulation, the banking industry, the primacy of money. This might be good, I thought, a different side of him – competitive, risk-taking. In effect he’s becoming a small businessman. Maybe he’ll be more sympathetic to my views... or the opposite.

I often sought the counsel of my friend Fawaz Hamoody, the Gazette’s Middle East specialist. It had been a trying time for the paper and its correspondents in that part of the world. The Iran-Iraq war surged back and forth, and in eighty-one when it appeared Iran was gaining the upper hand, the supposedly neutral U.S. lightened its sanctions against Iraq and through Presidential Envoy Donald Rumsfeld offered assistance to Saddam Hussein. We couldn’t permit Khomeini to gain control of Iraq’s oil.

“A classic example of the least bad alternative, nevertheless blatant hypocrisy,” Fawaz told me. “To think Saddam has any intention of reforming is a pure pipe dream. Your country must be more intelligent than that. At the end of the day, when you deal with dictators... ” he ran his finger across his throat. “Trust me, I know.”

For some time the PLO had been warring inside Lebanon against Lebanese Christians and staging raids into Israel. In June Israel invaded Lebanon to disperse the PLO and clear the way for a friendly Christian-led Beirut government. Two months later the IDF was still there, prompting a U.N. censure. A multinational peacekeeping force with a contingent of U.S. Marines would supervise withdrawal of Israeli forces and departure of the PLO. Still the bloodletting continued. In September Muslim extremists murdered Lebanon’s President-elect and in reprisal Christian militias invaded two Palestinian refugee camps and slaughtered more than a thousand. Reagan increased the Marine presence to 1,800.

THE DAY BEFORE THE 60 MINUTES TAPING I checked into the Hay-Adams. As it was a comfortable afternoon, I decided to see the Wall for myself. Nothing prepared me for its stark simplicity. It was not as tall than I expected, then I recalled the height varied along its length. I must have come in at one of the shorter sections. A shiny black sculpture, reflective granite from India, cut and polished in Vermont, the names etched in Tennessee, 58,159 in all. On a table near the entrance under a plastic cover were several copies of a directory you could search by last name. Top... Albert Rivers, Sgt., Manchester, N.H. The rookie, the blond kid – I’ll never forget him – Herbert Owsley, Pvt., Valparaiso, Indiana. Stoner, I’m sure he bought it... but no, he’s not in there. Nor Bobby Jenks, my old nemesis. Other guys, the faces like yesterday but the names... I don’t remember the names.

I shook my head. Find a name and somebody’s dead. Don’t find him, he’s alive, maybe. If I found my name, what would that tell about me? Scanning the Bs I found twelve Bernards but no Paul. So. I have lived to fight another day. I began walking... seventy-one, seventy, sixty-nine...February sixteenth... there it is. Omer S. Arsenault, Cpl., Providence, R.I. I reached in and passed my fingers over the letters, closing my eyes, feeling the lines and swirls. Standing back, I saw his name in the reflection of my face. Together again, the two friends. My head bowed, I stood there a long time. Nôtre Père qui es en cieux, que ton nom soit sanctifié... I raised my head and leaned in again, kissing the stone which bore the name of my first friend. Au revoir, chèr ami... au revoir.

I made my way along the length of the wall, rising and falling with the gentle mounds. At the end I went around the corner and came back. How could Stoner have made it back? No way in hell, not the way he was going. I left the Wall, hailed a cab and spent several hours in my own company getting drunk. That’s okay, I told myself. Good meal, good sleep. I’ll be ready for Mr. Stan Plavin.

On waking I looked out the window. It was pouring. I wondered if they’d postpone the outdoor shoot. After I showered and was getting dressed, they specified a dark blue suit, striped shirt and patterned tie, the phone rang. It was Roy Carlson. “Are we a go?” I asked.

“A little wet’s not going to keep us down. I’ll be in front in an hour. Silver Mercedes, Virginia plates.”

“TV news must pay well.”

“The bank lets me drive it. Same with the house, the kids, the dog.”

“Tell me about it. See you in an hour.”

After a slow trip across town I found myself in a conference room in the studios of WDVM-TV, Channel 9. Plavin was already there, leafing through my Vietnam photos. Ed Feldman was studying a script outline. After greetings all around and armed with my third cup of coffee, my day was ready to begin. I seated myself in the interview chair across from Plavin and the makeup people appeared, brushing my hair, powdering my forehead and nose, straightening my jacket and tie, hooking up a mike.

Plavin began with a bridge from the history of the Wall that would appear just before my segment, then the camera drew back and I could see myself in a monitor. “We want to tell our viewers why we’re profiling Paul Bernard this week before the dedication of the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial. For one thing, Paul served with distinction in Vietnam where he was awarded the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart, then recovered from disabling wounds. These days people know his work for the New York Gazette, he is currently a correspondent in their Paris Bureau and an occasional television commentator. Last year, Paul’s incisive report on the oil industry earned him a Pulitzer Prize. Paul, welcome to 60 Minutes.”

The interview went on a good half hour. I remember thinking they’ll really have to chop it. A few surprises, nothing major. We stopped briefly at a coffee shop for a sandwich. A familiar person was seated at a table near ours. On our way out, Plavin walked past and exchanged greetings. “Walter, I’d like you to meet Paul Bernard. We’re using him in a 60 Minutes segment on the Vietnam Memorial.”

Walter Cronkite reached up and shook my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Paul. I’ve seen your work. Very good, indeed.”

“I’ve been an admirer of yours a long time.”

“That kind of comment never gets old.”

Plavin took me by the shoulder. “Gotta go.”

“When does the program air?” Cronkite asked.

“Second Sunday in November,” Plavin replied, “a week before the dedication.”

“I’ll look for it. Keep up the good work, Paul.”

Plavin, Carlson and I drove out to the Wall, the camera crew following in a van. The rain had let up, the day was overcast and cool. Our breaths stood out in the chilly air and I was glad of the liner in my topcoat. We covered pretty much the same ground as we had in the prep work, then it was over. We said our adieus, I headed for the airport.

EVERYONE WANTED TO KNOW HOW IT WENT. Didier asked for a blow-by-blow and I fielded calls from Tom O’Connor and Fred. One problem, the show wouldn’t air in Europe until the next Tuesday, so I’d be the last to see it. I’d have no way of defending myself against my friends or anyone else. Then out of the blue Tom invited me to a special screening in New York. “Diane too. No is not an option.”

After the initial euphoria Diane had slid back into her usual funk. This time it was comparing her mean and poor existence to my glamorous life. The baby farmer against the big shot. I had given up trying to reason with her. She had a great job, made good money, I did more than my share with the kids, we had all the help we could stand – what more could I do? As if this wasn’t bad enough, an ominous element had recently surfaced. She was tired of Paris, she said, she missed her parents, her sister, her friends. Her job back there was more challenging, she’d gotten as much out of this one as there was to get. She was hoping 60 Minutes would give my star the boost to redirect its course for New York. I thought this special trip would pick her up, but it might as easily feed her fantasy about returning.

“I’m going to stay a few days and see my parents.”

“I’m sure they’ll change your ticket.”

On the way to my big day, November 7, we passed through U.S. election day. I was gratified to see the voters hand the Republicans a resounding mid-term defeat, the Democrats picking up twenty-seven House seats for a commanding majority. Their new slogan must have hit a chord – “It’s not fair, it’s Republican.” With the economy laboring, the President’s popularity continued to sink. His chances for re-election appeared to be dimming.

At 5:30 pm on the big night Diane and I arrived at an elegant restaurant in the theater district and were shown upstairs to a private room. A large round dinner table stood in the center, a large-screen TV at the side, some football game running on mute. A number of comfortable chairs were arrayed in a semi-circle before the TV. Fresh off the Concorde we had checked into the Plaza about noon for a rest and a shower. I want to say, whatever Diane’s problems were, looking good wasn’t one of them. Tom told me just for the hell of it he was making the evening a formal affair, and Diane was wearing one of my favorites, a lovely black silk sheath cut low and tight which she looked great in. Golden hair pulled back in a twist completed the portrait. On entering the room we were greeted warmly and when Alan Mauro began to applaud others picked it up. Somebody said, “Speech!”

I laughed. “Let’s see how it comes out. You know what these people can do to a story.”

Why they’d play it anything but straight I didn’t know, but I was feeling tentative, in fact damn nervous. I’d rather watch this alone, then I could take appropriate action, depending. Call my friends, jump out a window – a wide range of options.

Tom O’Connor was there with Connie, Frank Astell and his spouse whom I had never met, Alan the bachelor, Fred and Marylou, our former West Village neighbors, Sid and Ruth Greenwald, Harlan Kenny sans spouse. At quarter to seven a technician adjusted the TV and handed the channel changer to Tom. Tom made an announcement to take a seat. The waiters buzzed about, refreshing drinks, offering more shrimp, scallops in bacon, quiche, stuffed mushrooms.

At precisely seven the familiar ticking watch, then the screen filled with the face of Mike Wallace. “Good evening, I’m Mike Wallace. Tonight, 60 Minutes welcomes you to a special edition on the new Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial in the nation’s capital which will be dedicated next Saturday, Veterans’ Day. With all the controversy surrounding its design, we want to give our viewers a chance to understand how this memorial came about and what it means for the millions of servicemen and their families affected by the war in Vietnam.

“In the first segment of our program Harry Reasoner will trace the course of the war from the first advisors in 1959 through America’s pullout in 1975. In the second segment Bill Plante explains the how and why of the memorial. Our final segment will feature a Vietnam Vet, a journalist colleague who recovered from disabling wounds, and show his reaction to seeing the Wall for the first time. All after this brief commercial message.”

We looked around at each other, a little hum in the room. In a moment Reasoner’s broad, friendly face appeared on the screen and he began touching on highlights of the war. I wasn’t in the mood for a replay so I got up and strolled around, helping myself to a canapé, brought Diane another glass of wine. Reasoner wrapped up with the famous shot of the helicopter hovering above the building next to our Saigon embassy, then more commercials.

Next, Bill Plante delved into the history of the Wall. I figured people would be surprised to learn the monument was a completely private project, no taxpayer funds at all. Next an interview with the winner of the design competition, Maya Lin, the twenty-year-old Yale student whose youth and inexperience blew away the architectural world. Then, in a startling turn, the hate-filled faces of the Wall’s opponents who called the design a black scar, a gash, and called Ms Lin a gook, asserting that our veterans would be shamed an Asian was chosen. I was pleased to hear Plante remind viewers about the sorry paranoia against Americans of Japanese origin not so long ago.

Plante displayed some renderings, but it was left to my segment to show the reality of the Wall. Plavin began with an aerial shot of the Mall, then the “V” of the Wall came into view. Then a set of pastoral views, gradually focusing in on a hand moving across the names. The camera pulled back from the hand... my hand! There we were, Stan Plavin and I, in our raincoats.

Again I traced its polished stone. In a voice-over, Plavin told the viewers we were at Year 1969 on the Wall, the year I arrived, the year my best friend died. After some dialog they cut to a series of still photos, Plavin narrating, me commenting. Providence – Omer and me with King, a LaSalle scene, a couple from Holy Cross. The soundtrack’s Gregorian chant I thought a bit much. At this point Plavin introduced footage of Sproul Plaza, University Ave, anti-war banners, tear gas, students being dragged away. A brief interview with Gus going on about what an earnest character I was, leftists and I like oil and water even though some were my friends, like him. Good old Gus. Then it was back to the studio, Plavin and I talking. I looked around the room... avid attention. I slid down in my chair trying to make myself small, letting the words flow over me.

“Paul,” Plavin began, “let’s explore how you happened to be in Vietnam. In sixty-eight you were a grad student at the University of California, Berkeley, safely protected by a student deferment. Correct?”

“I was well along in my program, like everyone watching the course of the war, the protests. A number of my friends opposed the war.” Again I glanced around the room. Was I coming across okay? Diane reached over and squeezed my hand.

“How did you feel about the war? How did the protests affect you?”

“I supported our being in Vietnam but I had no problem with different views. I had a big problem with people bad-mouthing our country, building up our enemies, saying they could do no wrong, we could do no right. And it got worse, people knocking our country. Finally I felt I had to take a stand.”

“And you enlisted.”

“Right.”

“You could have picked military intelligence or clerical work but you chose combat infantryman. Why was that?”

“A lot of people told me, go the safe route, but I figured if I’m going to be in the Army, I want to be in the real Army.”

“You were raised with traditional American values. Son of immigrants, Canadian and Irish, hardworking, God-fearing folk. Religion and patriotism were a big part of your life.”

An immigrant, I chortled... my mother will be turning over in her grave. Julien, of course, him it fit. “A big part. Members of my family had served honorably. My cousin Maurice flew in the Battle of Britain, he lost his life in North Africa. I took his name at Confirmation. Others fought in France and Italy and Korea. I was taught Communism was evil and Communists meant to take over the world, us included, and we needed to stand up to them. That’s why Berkeley was so galling to me, people calling themselves Communists, Maoists, trying to tear us down. I mean, if the United States is so bad, figure out a way to make it better. If you don’t like it, leave. Go live in one of your utopias.”

“By then you had developed your critical powers.”

“I’d made a start. If you mean did I realize our country wasn’t perfect, that’s true. It has a long list of flaws, but that’s something you work at. And I trusted our leaders, our government, to level with us, to do the right thing.”

“So there you are in Berkeley, eight months later you’re in Vietnam. Your friends couldn’t believe what you’d done.”

I laughed. “It blew their minds. Insane! Fascist! I heard it all. I explained, no, this is a rational decision. A few people understood, most didn’t. My anti-war friends – I told them they had a lot to do with my enlisting.”

“How’d they react to that?”

“They didn’t want to hear it.”

“Did you have those conversations with Gus Flynn?

“Everything but the name-calling. We’ve never pulled any punches, Gus and I.”

“Tell us about Vietnam.”

I smiled. “The best of times, the worst of times. I was in a camp in the Central Highlands. From time to time we were attacked but otherwise it was pretty decent. The field is what really got to you. Two, three-day missions, choppered out to the boonies. Take this ville, blow that depot, engage the enemy. You never knew one minute to the next whether you’d be dead or alive. Terrible heat, rains, mud, insects, snakes, booby traps, sniper fire...”

“You said the best of times. What was good about it?”

“The guys, pulling together. Sure, we had our issues, they’re well documented, but in the field you forgot all that. I felt I was there to do an important job – that made the difference.”

“Then even that changed.”

I nodded. “We’d flush the VC and take a hill, or secure a ville – whatever was asked of us we did. Then a couple days later, sometimes the same day, comes the order to pack up and leave. The first few times this happens you shrug – okay, it’s dumb but that’s the way it goes. But when it happens over and over you begin to wonder, what the hell is going on? This is not a game, guys – people are getting killed here. Finally you ask yourself, what is the point of it all? And finding no good answer, you think, maybe the people who sent us here really don’t know what they’re doing. That’s demoralizing.”

“You found yourself questioning the leadership?”

“Understand, the grunt is at the bottom of the heap. They don’t give you the big picture, they don’t give you any picture at all. Fine, that’s the way it is. But if what you’re doing on the ground makes no sense, not just a few times but day after day, you ask what is the larger strategy? Is there any strategy? From there it’s a short step to thinking maybe the political leadership has got it wrong. You see, the way we were trained, you never admit you can’t do the job. Can do, gung ho – that’s what it’s all about, and that’s the way it has to be. If you start thinking negative, it’s all over. But when failure stares you in the face day after day after day, you look around for somebody to blame.”

“Tell us about your injury.”

I glanced around the room again... everybody at full alert.

“We were ordered to take a hill. This was a really big deal, Operation Jackhammer. We had our own name for it but we’ll let that go. A bunch of companies, air support, the whole nine yards, the most miserable conditions imaginable. And an enemy that wasn’t about to roll over. At one point we took out a machine gun nest and I saw a buddy of mine go down. I ran back to help him. That’s when I stepped on the grenade – I learned later that’s what it was. Not even a mine, if you can believe it, just a dumb grenade. People said no way that could happen. I’ve got the proof,” I patted my leg, “right here.”

“You were in a coma eleven days, lost a leg, had shrapnel wounds over sixty percent of your body, fragments. They didn’t get them all, either.”

“I have a nice collection including one up here.” I pointed to my head. “By the way, the guy who went down, it wasn’t my friend after all. I mean, I was overjoyed he was alive but it goes to show how stupid the whole thing was.”

“A long time and a tough rehab, but you’ve bounced back.”

“I have a wonderful family, wife, three fine kids, the good fortune to be working with great people on the Gazette. I’ve even done some work for CBS.”

Diane patted my hand again.

“And we hope to see much more from you.”

“As far as the injury is concerned, of course I’m sorry it happened, but if God’s plan has me go through life with one less leg than most people, so be it.”

“Are you still a religious person?”

“If you mean do I still go to church, yes. And I’m raising my kids Catholic. When they get older they’ll figure it out themselves.”

“Does it bother you some leaders of the American Catholic Church were pro-war?”

“Don’t forget a lot of Catholics opposed the war, some of them with a particular finality. There were even immolations, and as the war went on, people started taking the principles of just war into account more. Even the bishops.”

“Are you a pacifist now?”

“No,” I laughed, “I wouldn’t have the guts.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It takes an unusual person to be that strong for peace. I’m the kind who sees the other side, in fact the other side forces itself in on me. Christ told Peter to put away his sword, but he also showed righteous anger – that’s what I mean.”

Plavin leaned forward in his chair. “Paul, at this point I have to ask you what is probably the toughest question of all. As you look back, what is your opinion of our effort in Vietnam? Knowing what you know now, would you enlist again?”

I had thought a lot about how I answered Don Hewitt. This time I was better prepared. “I made my decision based on what I knew at the time. I’m proud I went, but I’m angry at being misled. I should have been more critical of what they were telling us. When it comes to sending men to war, every citizen has a duty to be critical of his government. Take nothing for granted. Ask who is for it? And why? What do they stand to gain? Our leaders said Vietnam was vital to our national security, but that was far from clear and they knew it. In fact, the administration hid vital information from the Congress, from the public. Covering up your incompetence is no justification for secrecy.”

“You’re referring to the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution, the events leading up to it?”

“Among other things. A monumental abuse of the people’s trust that we should never forgive. They said there were no alternatives, but that wasn’t true either. Along the way there were plenty. Those people’s aspirations, I’m talking about the Vietnamese, their aspirations were largely nationalistic and our leaders knew that too. In fact, after the French defeat, Ho Chi Minh approached us to work with him, but he was a Communist and so, an untouchable. Untouchable, despite our history of allying with Communists when it serves our purposes – look at Stalin, for God’s sake. Might it have worked in Vietnam? Might it have been better than the path we took? We’ll never know, we didn’t give it a try.”

“You’re not saying the protesters had it right, are you?”

I could see Tom O’Connor stiffen in his chair. “No. Most of what they said was garbage. But some of it had a basis in fact. Problem is, they presented themselves so anti-American they turned off people who could have been listening.”

“Aren’t you giving rationality too much credit? After all, it’s what happened in the streets that forced LBJ and Nixon to back down, not ideas.”

“The streets, yes, but a sea change in public opinion as well. The war was going poorly. Congress was having a change of heart, and the media did us the great service of showing what the war was really like. Finally the people at the top got the message.”

“We’ll go back out to the Wall in a minute, but first let me ask, with all the controversy over the design, does it trouble you that it is so radical, so untraditional?”

“It’s a powerful statement. In my view the simplicity only reinforces its power.”

The scene shifted. Now we were again at the Wall. I watched myself stopping at the Directory to thumb through the pages. They had asked me not to let on that I had seen the Wall already – our visit was supposed to look spontaneous. They repeated the scene of my hand from the start of the program, then my reaction at finding Omer. I tried to replicate my feelings... not hard to do. Except for the initial shock everything was genuine. My injury was on display as Plavin and I walked along in the raw air, my limp quite pronounced. At one point he commented on it.

“Cool damp days, you notice it,” I said, gesturing at the Wall. “I’m one of the lucky ones.”

We walked along, stopping from time to time for a question and a few comments. At one point in my year, 1969, I again ran the back of my hand along the smooth, glossy surface. The genius of the stone – it asks to be caressed. I could hear the breeze in the trees, a bird chirping nearby. “So tranquil,” I mused, “over there we would have given anything for a little peace and quiet. The war robbed us of that – except these guys.”

I paused and looked at the Wall. “You asked about the design. To me it’s significant that the Wall follows the earth – it’s part of the earth, really, as we are and will be. Ms Lin got it right. When people get over the initial shock I think this will become one of our most revered public monuments.”

Now we were back in the studio. “Paul,” Plavin said, “before we finish is there anything else you’d like to say?”

I took a deep breath. “Criticism aside, I value what I did there more than I can say. I honor the guys I served with, the names on that Wall, the others.” I looked directly at Plavin. “Mr. Plavin, I’d like to think the memory of those guys will never be cheapened by another needless war, but I am not hopeful. That’s a big reason why I’m in this business, to report the facts and when the time comes, as I fear it will, to speak out. Last time I wasn’t ready. Believe me, I won’t make that mistake again.”

Plavin leaned over and shook my hand. “Paul Bernard of the New York Gazette. It’s been a privilege having you on 60 Minutes. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of you.”

He turned to the camera. “Next Saturday, Veterans’ Day, the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial will be dedicated. I urge every American to visit this amazing memorial. It will help you, help all of us to appreciate the price of freedom, how much of ourselves we left in that distant land. Stan Plavin reporting. Good night.”

After a commercial break Andy Rooney appeared, but everyone was crowding around, slapping my shoulder, shaking my hand. Diane stood close, her arm entwined with mine. O’Connor was euphoric. “My God, you were good! We need to figure out a follow-up.”

“This is going to sell a ton of papers,” Alan said, “you better believe it.”

Harlan Kenny nodded. “Good job, Paul. You did our team proud.”

After a fine dinner, at least I think it was fine – I was so excited I don’t remember – we celebrated a while, then went our separate ways. Diane and I took a cab to the Plaza, ordered a wake-up call and a taxi for Kennedy then fell into each other’s arms, loving each other in a way I thought we had forgotten. Three days in Paris on must-do stories, then it was back to Washington for the dedication. O’Connor laughed when I whined about my schedule. “You love it,” he said. “Don’t tell me you don’t.”

I TOURED THE MEMORIAL AGAIN before checking into the hotel. Each time I saw some different aspect which made me appreciate it more. I meditated on it as a wound in the earth, snaking down the Mall. I meditated on the men death couldn’t defeat, rising with this black stone. I meditated on the bitter fight over the design, the attacks on the young woman who brought it into being, the fact this memorial to a divisive time was itself born in controversy. The fight over the Wall wasn’t polite, it wasn’t honorable, but for this raucous, hard place we live where everybody speaks his mind and nobody’s better than anybody else, perhaps it was inevitable.

The day dawned cool and overcast, the sun poking in and out of the clouds. The media were out in force, some at the Wall, others filming the parade, estimated at 15,000. Wheelchairs, crutches, guys hopping along on one leg, no arms, fatigue jackets, bandannas and beards, a lot of beards. Some of them still on active duty. A contingent of nurses beaming and waving. A vet slumping dejectedly in a bamboo cage on wheels, MIAS BELONG IN AMERICA on its side. Vets cutting out of the line to hug people on the sidewalks. Reunions, spontaneity. What the parade lacked in orderliness it made up with the joy of being alive and appreciated. I couldn’t help think how far we were from the spit and polish of the Fort Dix drill field. We’ve had the before and the during, I thought. Finally, we have the after.

By special invitation General Westmoreland headed the parade. When I heard this I was startled, but on second thought, decided it was okay. Today is for healing, after all.

I walked alongside the vets, chatting, making notes as I went. I was particularly struck by the friendly shouts from the sidelines, a continuous barrage. “Thanks, Iowa!” “We love ya, Alabama!” Best of all, again and again, the simple “Welcome home.”

I caught up with Jan Scruggs, the man behind the monument and this salute to Vietnam Veterans. “What a great day,” he said, “much too long in coming. By the way, wasn’t 60 Minutes fantastic? I’m sure it brought a lot of people out today.”

I said I was glad to be part of it though I didn’t know why they glommed onto me.

“You represented us well,” he said. “What I like, you’re not afraid to speak your mind. Hang onto that, whatever you do.”

I was disconcerted how many people called me by name. I was even asked for my autograph! After a few tries and establishing a suitable scrawl, I thought, I can live with this. I ran into some of my VVAW crowd from New York. For some of them the parade was too little, too late. Others were content to float along, basking in the acclaim.

Back in our D.C. office I filed my story and visited with Charlie Stebbins. “I’m still holding a spot for you, though how much longer I can afford you I don’t know.”

For some time after these events, I found myself snappish and short with people who tried to engage me about the program. One particularly persistent colleague, I had to tell him bug off, I just don’t want to talk about it. I don’t know why.

I HAD BEEN TURNING OVER AN IDEA for a follow-on, and after returning to Paris it came to me. I would compare the Wall with the French memorial to their war in Indochina. Trouble is, I discovered, there was no French memorial. The war had been so unpopular, and ending as it did in calamity, the French never built one. Centuries of conflicts have scarred the weary earth of France and spawned plenty of memorials, but none for Indochina. What to do?

Digging deep, I recalled Maya Lin had mentioned a memorial outside Paris, on a hill near the tiny town of Thiepval in Picardie. World War One, but still. She had seen slides of it in an architecture class and responded strongly to them.

A few days later, I boarded a train at the Gare du Nord for Amiens, about 90 minutes away, then hired a taxi for the few remaining miles. The taxi driver told me the original Thiepval had been destroyed in the war, oblitérée totalement, then rebuilt nearby. When we were perhaps a hundred yards from the monument I told the driver to let me out. I walked the rest of the way, across a broad expanse of grass toward the overwhelming construct that rose up in front of me. Horrible! Monstrous!

Two side arches and a center arch framed a void running the entire length of the building. Tunnels. Not even a proper building. Whatever it was, it screamed – War Destroys! 72,000 British and South African names, men who perished in the brutal battles of the Somme, men with no known grave. A tiny cemetery lies at its foot, the British graves marked by flat limestone slabs, “a soldier of the great war, known to God.” For the French, rough concrete crosses and bronze plaques saying simply, “Inconnu.” Normandy, this is not. This is awful... this is real.

Back in the taxi, my composure regained, I told the driver to drive on, to the village of Albert, twenty-five miles away. As we went I listened to his version of Nôtre Dame des Brebières. Ruined by German artillery, the shell of the basilica remained intact, its Virgin and Christ Child atop the steeple but bent over the street at a severe angle. Some said the Virgin was offering her son as a sacrifice to end the slaughter. Others claimed she had caught him, sparing him the fate of the soldiers below in the street. Still others, that crazed by the fighting she meant to destroy herself and her son. A superstition held that when the statue fell the war would end, but the side bringing it down would be the loser. When the British abandoned the town to the Germans they destroyed the tower, statue and all, to deny the enemy an observation post. At the rebuilt church, its steeple and madonna restored, I saw that the stone-trimmed red brick, the three portals of its facade, had indeed inspired the monument. And I wondered how that prediction, or curse, was working its way through history.

On the train, I scribbled my story maniacally, my hand unable to keep up. I finished just as we pulled into the station, closing with a comparison between the First War and our Vietnam. Both born of error and fed by arrogance, I said, producing in 1918 a weary satisfaction, for the Allies, that is, but crowned by the colossal misapprehension that we had fought the war to end all wars. America’s 1975, marked by shame and accusation. And how different, both, from the Second War we remember as in a just cause, though as I have come to appreciate, indelibly marred by its coda.

Not until 1993 would France raise an Indochina War memorial, in Frejus, an old Roman town on the Mediterranean coast a few miles from Nice. Then again, we shouldn’t be too hard on the French. It was not until 1995 that America saw fit to remember Korea, and only in September 2001 did we break ground on a memorial to those who fell in the Second War. Can you believe that? September 2001.