Most people enjoy celebrating their birthdays. I'm not one of them. I don't like being the center of attention. I don't like birthday cake. And I don't like how my birthday reminds me of my dad's absence. He died in Vietnam four months before my first birthday.
This year, in addition to feeling my usual pre-birthday dread, I was both looking forward to -- and terrified of -- making my first trip to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. This Veterans Day weekend was to mark the 20th anniversary of the Wall. All 58,229 names inscribed on the Wall were to be read, an event that has taken place only two times before. My dad's name was scheduled for 8:46 a.m. on Sunday, Nov. 10, which happens to be my 34th birthday. I wondered if my dad had planned it that way, so I signed up to read his name and the names of 29 others on Panel 21 West.
I was hoping that, in addition to finding my dad's name on my list, I would find the names of the 10 other men from his unit who were killed in an ambush on July 8, 1969. My father was their platoon sergeant. When he tried to pull back to safety one of those men who had been hit, he was shot. Because my father initially survived, but died in a hospital the following morning, he was, by the chronological placement of names on the Wall, separated from his men.
I have long been haunted by not knowing who those 10 other men were. Recently, with the help of several Vietnam veterans, I was able to compile a list of their names.
I knew that one of the men, Tom Hurlbut, had been a good friend of my friend Dave Nesbitt, who had been a member of my dad's company. Through the wonders of the Internet, Dave was contacted by June Erickson, a friend of another man in the platoon, Tony Neville. Tony had lived in suburban Washington. June and another one of Tony's friends, Archie, lived in the area. June and Arch signed up to read names. And so, weeks before I was scheduled to read, I was in e-mail contact with two of Tony's friends. One would be reading names before me, one after.
My alarm went off at 5 on the morning of Nov. 10. It wasn't until I was out of the shower that I remembered it was my birthday. My mom and I were going to meet June at our hotel around sunrise, and all I was thinking about was the availability of coffee once we got near the Wall. I wasn't sure I would be able to read 30 names if I wasn't sufficiently caffeinated.
June brought me an arrangement of yellow roses when she met us at the hotel. I was stunned that she had remembered it was my birthday, and that she brought me such a lovely gift.
We arrived at the Mall around 7 that morning. The air was still, damp and thick with the smell of wet grass. A thin layer of clouds covered the sky. The trees held on to most of their orange and yellow leaves, the rest carpeting the grass. And as June, my mom and I turned a corner on the path, we saw that Archie was there with his wife, waiting for us, smiling.
Archie wished me a happy birthday, and asked me to lead our group down the walkway to the Wall. As we walked down the east side of the Wall, I noted the items left there. Most were solemn: photos, flowers, white crosses. Then I saw, still in the packaging, a Big Mouth Billy Bass. I laughed.
When we reached Panel 21 West, my dad's name didn't jump out at me. Tony Neville's did.
I wasn't aware that Tony and my dad had been friends. My dad rarely mentioned names in his letters to my mom. June told me that Tony mentioned men only by their positions, not by names. In one of Tony's letters to June, he mentioned his platoon sergeant -- my dad. June gave me the impression that Tony felt my dad had been looking out for him.
We registered to read, and then waited. June was next in line.
"Vernon Daryle Artis."
I began to listen.
"Thomas Brooks Jr."
I asked June if she was OK. She nodded.
"Russell Berton Carson."
I wondered how my mom continued to live her life despite her sorrow, finishing college and raising me alone.
It was June's turn.
"William Roger Garner. Henry David Hunter. Thomas Willard Hurlbut." I was struck by chills. "James Holden Manning." The sun broke through the clouds and shone through the trees. "John David Martin." I felt the sun's warmth. "My friend, Anthony Andrew Neville." June got through it. "William Edward Sisley." June walked away from the microphone.
I moved forward. I read the first two names. I told myself to breathe.
"My father, James Cornelius Doloughty."
I felt my face turn red. I read the next 27 names. I left the stage and joined my mom while Archie read his names.
I thought about how difficult this must have been for Archie, who experienced the horrors of Vietnam firsthand. After Arch read, he told me my dad would have been proud of me. I nearly broke down, and I would have if I hadn't been so overjoyed about being there with him.
Though I'm saddened by the fact that I didn't have the chance to get to know my dad or his men personally, I'm comforted by having the chance to spend time with those who cared about them, and still do.
This past summer, my dad's friend and medic, James "Doc" Feliciano, sent me a book about Vietnam. Doc wrote inside of it, in part: "We must forget the horror, and remember the friendships." I know how difficult that can be.
My mom and I went to breakfast with June and her family, where I was able to consume several cups of much-needed coffee. The waitresses surprised me with a slice of chocolate birthday cake. I was surprised to find that I enjoyed it. But what I enjoyed most wasn't the cake. It was celebrating with friends.
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