For Our Fathers Who Fought by W.A. Pepper

Twenty-five years ago, I celebrated Father’s Day with those who had lost theirs. I was working in Washington, DC, while my family was almost a thousand miles away in the small Delta town of Cleveland, Mississippi. While living in our nation’s capital, my roommate and I would explore the area each weekend: see an Orioles baseball game, go to museums, etc.

On this particular day, we took the Metro from our Georgetown dorm to the Lincoln Memorial. I remember the heat blasting off the concrete as we walked past an old white Chevrolet van that someone repurposed as a political billboard. The back doors of the van displayed the phrase “I am the President of the United States because I shook the hand of God in 1986 in LA” in bright neon green. Even if that was true, the front of the van made the author lose some credibility with its accusation, “George Washington is alive, and he owes me money.”

We continued our trek, walking to the memorials, though we couldn’t get near the Lincoln Memorial because it was under repair. Next, we descended our 16^th President’s stairs to the reflecting pool between all the monuments and arrived at the Korean Memorial. This sculpture of soldiers in a field, weapons at their sides, radios prepped, had “fighting a war that we did not understand and a people we had never met” carved at the end of the walkway. The wall behind the soldiers had sketches of soldiers of all ranks, races and religions, all who fought faithfully for our country. The words near the fountain still ring today: “Freedom is not free.”

A few steps further, we arrived at the Vietnam Memorial. We turned a corner and expected to see a handful of people looking at a list of names. However, what I actually saw shook me to my core.

Hundreds of flowers adorned the memorial’s base, though a large number of visitors had trampled most of them. Families set aside the entire day to celebrate their departed loved ones. Propped against walls were commemorative plaques for more than soldiers: these were men and women, families, who were loved and loved back through their sacrifice.

Framed pictures of soldiers, both in and out of uniform, rested against this wall. Sealed letters, laid down, as if they were ready to be opened with the morning paper, were inscribed with familiar terms of affection such as Lil Bro, Dearest Daddy, Grandaddy, Papaw, Mamaw. Unopened and opened beers, probably the favorite of the soldier, decorated the base of the monument. One woman had left a letter with a picture strewn out on the ground. In it, she said she was “still faithful” to her husband, a soldier missing in action for over 31 years.

What really got to me that day was the number of children present. I overheard a kid ask, “Which war was this? World War One or Two?” Then another child asked a question that haunted so many there. “Mama, did we win?”

Did we win?

How do you answer that child’s question when his grandfather is now a name on a wall?

I reached up and had to rub my hand across one name, someone who died before I was a twinkle in my daddy’s eye, because this name is one of the reasons I am here. 

My father’s first Tour of Duty was in the fall of 1965 as a 101^st Airborne lieutenant. Career-focused officers were thrilled when a revolution started in the Dominican Republic. Several were excited about the chance to go babysit that “rock,” as they called it, and have a good time.

When my father’s XO asked, “If you could go anywhere other than Ft. Campbell, would you?”, my father said yes.

Then, the weekend before deployment, my father got injured on leave. His status shifted to a reservist position. During what would have been his deployment, every officer in my father’s unit was killed, including his roommate, Larry Evans.

And it was Larry who took my father’s place in that deployment.

As I took my hand away from the wall and looked around at those who had lost so much, I realized that I was so thankful for my father, but I also felt guilt. I was here, and Larry was a name on a wall. So many have lost their lives along the way, and, unfortunately, so many will continue to do so.

Since this experience, I’ve lost my own father. However, every Father’s Day, I still think back to this particular day and remember wishing how nice it would be for all those families to have their loved ones back... even if just for Father’s Day.