Circles and crosses
Feb. 26th, 2006 01:08 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsSunday morning before dawn, Cain makes a visit to the Vietnam Wall and reflects.
The sun had just begun to rise, outlining the Washington Monument on Cain's right. In front of him, over the small ridge, he could barely hear the traffic on Constitution Avenue, even though he knew it was there. It was an oddly familiar feeling, to know that there was movement going on all around you, but for all you could tell, it was still and silent.
It occurred to him that they probably designed The Wall that way.
He'd walked down before dawn from the hotel, not wanting to wake any of the students or the other chaperones. This was something he'd been meaning to do for a while, but just never taken the time. One of those debts he owed that he'd never managed to start making payment on.
The memories had struck him one day, seeing Nathan standing by the small memorial to Tim and Mick, his fellow Spartans killed in the assault on Youra. The memorial on the school grounds wasn't anything big, just something small and subtle. A reminder to those who it meant something to.
Down the wall to the east, Cain heard the noise of a wheelchair and instinctively tensed up. Turning his head, he let out a small breath, realizing that it wasn't Charles. Just an older man with a long beard wrapped in an oversized olive drab fatigue jacket, useless legs strapped into his old-fashioned wheelchair. At this distance, Cain couldn't hear the words the other veteran was saying, but in the way his body bent when he touched his callused hand to the black stone, he knew enough.
This is where those who never knew came, in the hopes that they would be able to understand. This is where those who lost journeyed, to gain some measure of closure and fulfillment, to know that their loved ones still persisted, in a way.
It was the place that the survivors made a pilgrimage to, to send a message to the departed that they had not lost faith. That they had not forgotten.
Silently, Cain reached out, brushing his large fingers over the flat black panel before him. Names that he barely recalled jumped out at him as he felt the inscribed letters.
Holcolmb. Hollister. Lewis. Mansfield. Norton. Olivier.
Alphabetized by the date of death, with small diamonds by each name confirmed killed in action. A small cross to indicate those missing. A plaque by the west entrance explained that a cross would be marked with a circle to indicate someone who was found alive. And that to this date, no circles were found on The Wall.
Fingers brushing back and forth between two names, Cain felt a mixed sensation of relief and guilt. His name wasn't there, they'd found him and brought him back. No one back home would have known, there were quite a few casualties whose names hadn't made it to the wall.
Reaching into his pocket, Cain withdrew the small paper and crayon he'd taken from the kiosk, meant for visitors to make rubbings of names, something physical to take back with them as a memory. With a pang of sorrow, Cain realized that he needed no such souvenir. These half-remembered names would be with him regardless.
Placing the paper flat against The Wall, he printed in painstakingly slow script:
MARKO, CAIN N.
After his name, he carefully sketched two lines in a cross. Then, after a moment of pause, drew a circle. Reverently, he folded the paper into a small square, tucking it in the crease between two black granite panels.
There would be one on the wall, at least for today.
Walking off to the west towards the Lincoln Memorial, Cain stopped for a second to look at the statue of the three infantrymen that marked the west entrance to the memorial. He looked at each of their faces cast in bronze, looking toward the apex of the wall. In the rays of the sunrise, they looked like every other soldier he'd ever met. Proud, strong, but with that vulnerability that came with the realization of their own mortality when confronted with the horrors of war.
Casually reaching with one large hand, Cain touched the foot of one of the statues, as if to make some connection through that cold metal with the soldiers they represented. He wasn't sure if they were supposed to represent the fallen or the survivors, which made an odd sense to him. For years, he'd never decided which category he belonged in either.
Today, for the first time in over forty years, he was starting to get an idea.
"Semper fi, guys," he whispered, nodding his head before turning away and walking back into the noise of the world.
The sun had just begun to rise, outlining the Washington Monument on Cain's right. In front of him, over the small ridge, he could barely hear the traffic on Constitution Avenue, even though he knew it was there. It was an oddly familiar feeling, to know that there was movement going on all around you, but for all you could tell, it was still and silent.
It occurred to him that they probably designed The Wall that way.
He'd walked down before dawn from the hotel, not wanting to wake any of the students or the other chaperones. This was something he'd been meaning to do for a while, but just never taken the time. One of those debts he owed that he'd never managed to start making payment on.
The memories had struck him one day, seeing Nathan standing by the small memorial to Tim and Mick, his fellow Spartans killed in the assault on Youra. The memorial on the school grounds wasn't anything big, just something small and subtle. A reminder to those who it meant something to.
Down the wall to the east, Cain heard the noise of a wheelchair and instinctively tensed up. Turning his head, he let out a small breath, realizing that it wasn't Charles. Just an older man with a long beard wrapped in an oversized olive drab fatigue jacket, useless legs strapped into his old-fashioned wheelchair. At this distance, Cain couldn't hear the words the other veteran was saying, but in the way his body bent when he touched his callused hand to the black stone, he knew enough.
This is where those who never knew came, in the hopes that they would be able to understand. This is where those who lost journeyed, to gain some measure of closure and fulfillment, to know that their loved ones still persisted, in a way.
It was the place that the survivors made a pilgrimage to, to send a message to the departed that they had not lost faith. That they had not forgotten.
Silently, Cain reached out, brushing his large fingers over the flat black panel before him. Names that he barely recalled jumped out at him as he felt the inscribed letters.
Holcolmb. Hollister. Lewis. Mansfield. Norton. Olivier.
Alphabetized by the date of death, with small diamonds by each name confirmed killed in action. A small cross to indicate those missing. A plaque by the west entrance explained that a cross would be marked with a circle to indicate someone who was found alive. And that to this date, no circles were found on The Wall.
Fingers brushing back and forth between two names, Cain felt a mixed sensation of relief and guilt. His name wasn't there, they'd found him and brought him back. No one back home would have known, there were quite a few casualties whose names hadn't made it to the wall.
Reaching into his pocket, Cain withdrew the small paper and crayon he'd taken from the kiosk, meant for visitors to make rubbings of names, something physical to take back with them as a memory. With a pang of sorrow, Cain realized that he needed no such souvenir. These half-remembered names would be with him regardless.
Placing the paper flat against The Wall, he printed in painstakingly slow script:
MARKO, CAIN N.
After his name, he carefully sketched two lines in a cross. Then, after a moment of pause, drew a circle. Reverently, he folded the paper into a small square, tucking it in the crease between two black granite panels.
There would be one on the wall, at least for today.
Walking off to the west towards the Lincoln Memorial, Cain stopped for a second to look at the statue of the three infantrymen that marked the west entrance to the memorial. He looked at each of their faces cast in bronze, looking toward the apex of the wall. In the rays of the sunrise, they looked like every other soldier he'd ever met. Proud, strong, but with that vulnerability that came with the realization of their own mortality when confronted with the horrors of war.
Casually reaching with one large hand, Cain touched the foot of one of the statues, as if to make some connection through that cold metal with the soldiers they represented. He wasn't sure if they were supposed to represent the fallen or the survivors, which made an odd sense to him. For years, he'd never decided which category he belonged in either.
Today, for the first time in over forty years, he was starting to get an idea.
"Semper fi, guys," he whispered, nodding his head before turning away and walking back into the noise of the world.
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