A Visit to the Viet Nam Memorial
ANGEL FIRE, NEW MEXICO—
[LOCAL INFORMATION]
It's been over two years since we found ourselves driving
in a high valley in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains north of
Santa Fe, New Mexico. This is a memoir of our visit to the
DAV Viet Nam Memorial near Eagle Nest one winter day.
The morning dawned cold and clear in Angel Fire, and we headed
straight for the white sail we'd caught sight of the evening
before high on a mountainside near Eagle Nest Lake. We wanted
to find out what this beacon was that soared alone above the
valley. We wound up a tiny road to the top of the hill, where
we found an empty parking lot and a low structure. A few hundred
feet away was the sail. "It's a building of some kind,"
I said, but the wind whipped my words away over the mountains.
The edifice in front of us seemed
deserted, but when we neared the door, a woman appeared. "Come
on in," she said. "We're working on the floor in
here, but if you don't mind the mess, you're more than welcome."
We stepped inside, and as our eyes adjusted to the interior
dimness, we made our way around the mop buckets and saw that
we were in a sort of museum.
Large photographs hung on the
walls. They were images of Viet Nam, of soldiers and children
and girls in pretty dresses, of guns and mines and hand grenades.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, I was drawn back into the war that
never really ended, that still sears wounds into the souls
of those who served.
It was never my own conflict.
I wasn't draftable, nor did I have a friend, a father, a brother,
a lover who was. No one close to me perished, and those veterans
I did know spoke little. It was a newspaper story to me, a
catalyst for campus unrest, a political stance. It was distant,
impersonal, somebody else's war.
The photographs in that room changed
all that. In that quiet space, surrounded by images of intensity,
of fatigue-clad youths laughing and staring and dying, I could
no longer distance myself. Viet Nam was no longer thousands
of miles away. It was here in the mountains named for the
blood of Christ. It was now.
The place was a visitors' center
for the sail, and the sail, we learned, was a chapel built
by Victor Westphall. He started working on the project five
days after his son David, a Marine infantry officer, was killed
in Viet Nam in 1968.
After we looked at the pictures,
we turned up our collars and faced the wind again. We followed
a path down a slope to the chapel, which was small and round.
Inside, narrow windows framed views of the mountains, and
a photograph of David Westphall hung on one wall.
We weren't alone. A man was sitting
on one of the stone tiers that form benches facing the center
of the sanctuary. We sat down next to him. As I turned to
look, I saw a tear steal down his cheek. It was matched by
a tear on my own, and when I looked at Mark, his eyes were
glistening, too. And so we sat in silence, listening to the
wind, letting it wail for the fallen, letting it howl for
the pain of those who returned.
I can't tell you what transcendent
spirit lives at Angel Fire, and no one could tell us how the
place got such a haunting name. I can't tell you why being
there evoked not only sorrow and despair, but also healing
and hope. I can't tell you why, as I write these words, tears
again fill my eyes. It's as though the absolute worst and
best of humanity is distilled there, waiting to bestow comfort
and light on those who are willing to embrace the shadow.
Megan
Memorial Day, 1998
LOCAL INFORMATION
Angel
Fire Chamber of Commerce: In addition to information
about lodging, dining, and attractions, Angel Fire's Web
site provides information about the town's annual air show,
kite festival, and 1800s-style "Mountain Man Rendezvous."
