Someone once told my dad the Vietnam Conflict was a waste of taxpayers’ money.
His eyes bore a hole through the man’s forehead, “It wasn’t a conflict, it was a fuckin’ war.”

The List

Although it was over twenty-five years ago, I remember we met on a soggy Saturday morning at the local Perkins. The waitress greeted us with the over-sized, glossy, plastic menus offering all day breakfast options and brought out our “never-ending” pot of barely tolerable coffee.  

“Cream or sugar?” We both shook our heads “no,” thinking maybe a prayer would serve the coffee better. And without waiting for a response, packets of artificial sweetener, sugar and a small pitcher of cream were delivered by the waitress on a mission.    

Our small chat began with family; my girls, Mom, Granny’s garden and how Grandpap crabbed and moaned because the red squirrels were in his attic again.  Dad danced around the real point to the breakfast date and conversation. And, well, my father doesn’t dance.

My casual attitude took him back a little, but he hung in our conversation. I was going to visit history—he lived it.

An over-nourished waitress brought out our breakfast combo specials. Dad reached for the salt and the chit chat quieted as we concentrated on food.

A few bites into his meal, he awkwardly pushed his plate away. “Can I ask a favor?”

“Of course,” I said, still eating. Not even syrup coated the dry bites of pancake. Maybe I should have ordered the omelet after all.

The conversation started with a memory he had about how an old Vietnamese woman near their base camp washed all “the number one GI clothes” in the urinal with her feet (I loved his attempt at a Vietnamese accent, it sounded awful). This little old woman took pity on the young soldiers so far from home and cared for them. Dad said she stood about four feet but ran the camp laundry service as though she stood seven. He recalled her salt and pepper hair, mostly salt, and remembered a filter-less cigarette dangled from her lip, ashes always on the edge of falling, as she worked. For young men so far from home, she filled the role of a little old Grandma for many sent to fight. Dad gave her his canned peaches; she gave him clean tighty whities.

I saw the look on his face change as he recalled this memory; in all my twenty-four years, he’d rarely reflected on his years of tour. Although I’m the oldest child, my dad shared his experiences with my brothers more often than with me. Females in our family were protected, cherished, fragile little packages, sheltered if possible from the ugliness of the world.

He quickly moved on to the real reason he’d asked about my trip. He dug into his flannel shirt pocket and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper. I took it from his hand and studied the list of twenty-some names. I strained to hear his hushed voice.

The first name on the list, while common, was nowhere to be found. The same went for GIs 2, 3, and 4. The fifth name on the list was identified as being on panel 46E, line 48. I ambled my way to the site and my eyes scanned the etched letters on the hard-black granite. My fingers traced the curve of each indented letter: R-I-C-H-A-R-D-W-A-Y-N-E-O-R-S-U-N-D. Granite panel 46E, line 48, had a name, and a family who mourned him, maybe even a wife and kids. And Dad knew him.

A gray-haired gentleman stood facing the black granite wall. He wore faded jeans and a black leather sleeveless vest with the American flag and eagle carrying the message “Never Forget.” One hand rested against the hard rock while the other held his hat over his heart. His head bowed slightly, his forehead touched the cold wall. 

Feeling intrusive, I turned and studied the stone wall before me. A shadow appeared over the names, and I stood shoulder to shoulder with the veteran. “Need some help there young lady?”

“No, I’ll figure it out.”    

I’d finally found a name. Oh shit, what was I supposed to do now? Dad and I hadn’t discussed the whole “what if” scenario. Unsure for the moment, I placed a small check mark by the name and continued my task of going down the remaining names on the list. There were a couple more misses, but the checkmarks quickly made the paper look like a failed quiz.

I folded the list of names again, this time carefully placing it in the zippered side pocket of my purse. I walked a short distance south of where I stood at the memorial with my downward gaze concentrating on each footstep. The rest of the afternoon I spent staring into the Reflecting Pool. Sitting cross-legged I turned to my right again; the Washington Monument stood tall, the Vietnam Memorial loomed in front of me. The still water captured my attention. The pool, deep and dark beckoned me to search its depth.

Mesmerized, I leaned forward, the images of the billowy clouds above me framed the image on the water’s surface. With all of this, I grew more and more embarrassed by the reflection glaring back at me. My self-absorbed immature response to the veteran tasted callous and insensitive.

Was he there to say hello to an old friend? Or goodbye? I didn’t even bother asking if he needed help. Maybe he knew Richard Wayne Orsund. Maybe he knew my dad. Maybe his name had been on Dad’s list sans a checkmark…dammit, I should’ve thanked him for his service. 

The picture was faded, but I could make out a look on his face I wasn’t familiar with. A look of uncertainty. Perhaps uncertain he wanted his picture taken, uncertain of why he was there, uncertain of where he belonged, uncertain he would ever see the green and white stucco home he left again, uncertain why he stood next to a tree that bore a fruit he was allergic to—just uncertain.

Even though he rarely discussed his decision to enlist with us kids, he told me he remembered waking up on the floor once after he’d called his mother, my Granny Mike, a bitch. In his defense, Granny could peel wallpaper with a look when provoked.

In fact, when I was little I thought “don’t poke the bear” referred to Gran. Dad decided the Marine Corp life must be better than daily doses of Granny or college. I often compared Granny Mike to a drill sergeant in my mind after I heard his story.

Staring into the deep water of the Reflecting Pool, I began to think of questions I never asked Dad. 

This time there wasn’t any small talk as we both swirled our hideous coffee. Eventually I broke the silence by asking if he would like his list back.

His steel-grey eyes fixed on mine. He nodded. I took it from the zippered pocket of my purse and slid it across the sticky, syrupy table top. His hand brushed mine as the precious information exchanged hands. He slid the folded piece of paper into his shirt pocket.

There were no words.           

Just a very solemn nod of his head said he knew his hopes had been dashed—there was a reason to give the list back. I found at least one name. He feared this, although I hadn’t understood the depth of emotion until it was written on his face. Years prior, Dad placed his life in the hands of another Marine and asked that person to do the same.

Some men returned. Some did not. There was no rhyme or reason to it, just a fact of life. Dad returned. War does not discriminate who it kills… or why. And now, twenty-six years after being honorably discharged a veteran, he had an answer to a question that plagued him.

We never spoke of the list again. But I now had a very different appreciation of my Dad, the son and brother, uncle, husband, and the Vietnam Veteran.

Through all my years in medicine, I would meet male patients my father’s age and gently inquire as to whether they were Vets. Almost instantly, a profound sadness would veil their faces and heaviness would enter the room. Something about coming home weighed on the shoulders of every survivor, something that hardened the heart and thickened the skin. I prayed for all the men who did not receive a check mark, the ones like my dad.

It’s been twenty-five years since my first visit out of many to the Vietnam War Memorial, “The Wall.”  Each time I visit I think of Dad’s list. To this day, I don’t know where that piece of paper is but I still remember each of the check marks. Oh sure, the names have escaped me, but their selfless sacrifice and willingness to serve our country hasn’t. I pray they did not suffer, but in my mind, I know better.