| Private Mann watched as the airplane carrying the rest of his troop lifted from the runway and headed for Honolulu. It carried his buddies with whom he had spent the last eighteen-months surviving in the hot stifling humidity of the Vietnam Jungles. If there had been just one more seat available he would be on his way with them for their Rest and Recuperation. Now he could only look forward to tomorrow when he would be number one in line to leave this place. It was hard to wait even one more day. Feeling very alone he turned and slowly moved toward the air-conditioned terminal. The seething muggy air refused to absorb the sweat that dripped from the end of his nose and chin. His shirt was stained with perspiration. Large blotches of wet fabric encircled each armpit. His shirt stuck to his skin between his shoulder blades and down the small of his back. In the crowded terminal he was alone within himself. He felt the chill of the air-conditioning as he strolled aimlessly from window to window of the various terminal gift shops. Starring vacantly into one shop near the main entrance he shuddered as his eyes caught sight of a grotesque stuffed king cobra, its hood spread in defense against the attack of a mongoose. Why would anyone consider buying such a repulsive thing? Then, he saw on a shelf just above the cobra a lovely bronze statue about ten inches tall. The graceful arch of free-form curves not only pleased his eye, but represented, to him, the freedom that he cherished. He suddenly remembered that he wanted to take something home from Vietnam that represented its beauty. There was beauty in Vietnam in sharp contrast to the ugliness of the death and dying of war. Private Mann entered the shop, reached out his hand, and lifted the heavy object of beauty. He felt its weight and ran his hand over the gentle curves. He slowly rotated the object admiring its arches. He turned it over hoping to see some indication of a price on the bottom of the statue. But, there was only the felt base and a small tag that said made in Vietnam. He also notice a fine piece of hair sticking from under the felt. Death was the farthest thing from his mind as he tugged lightly on the hair. It was for only a split second of eternity that he saw the bronze form disintegrate into thousands of pieces of shrapnel. He did not feel the pieces enter his body, nor did he hear the explosion that radiated out from the spot where his hand cradled the statue. All of Private Mann's body could not be found. What was left of it, and the pieces of those around him, was mixed with the glass and rubble of the gift shop, the ceiling panels, lobby chairs, and the sawdust stuffing of the cobra and mongoose. Private Mann was now and forever a part of the ugliness, the gruesome repulsive ugliness of death far from home. He is home now. His spirit is alive in the memory of all of us. We can reach out our hands and feel his presence as we touch his name. Just one name among over fifty-eight thousand engraved in the black stone of the memorial that pays tribute to the young and the beautiful for which there was no escape. |
| No Escape |
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