Remembering

Frankly, I wasn't all that impressed when it was announced that a memorial for World War II veterans would be built on the Mall in Washington, D.C. As a vet, I had never felt the need for a special monument. The freedoms we enjoy in the United States are memorial enough. And reminders of war—any war—are painful.

Then last May I read about the dedication, with its pomp and ceremony. Yet all I could see from the photos was a boring circle of granite columns flanked by two arches.

I agreed with critics who said the design was funereal and pretentious. And why should it clutter the Mall between icons such as the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial, like some kind of tourist attraction?

But something nagged at my conscience. Didn't I need to see it before making up my mind for good? My son Kit is a history buff. "Come on, Dad," he said, "we should go visit it." All right, I thought. But what do I need a monument for? Why should we live in the past?

So on a sweltering July day the two of us found ourselves standing at the memorial. "It feels like a cathedral," Kit said. It was hushed and serene, with hundreds of people quietly strolling past its columns.

I couldn't help but notice the mementos left behind by loved ones. I saw a framed newspaper article about a "Neil Palmer of Minnesota" and a wreath for "Bernie Silver, in loving memory." A fresh tribute to someone who had died more than 60 years ago. How long our memories last, how deep the pain and gratitude is!

The two arches soared above us, one representing the Atlantic theater, where I fought, and the other, the Pacific. Within each lofty belfry flew four giant bronze American eagles, almost like the cherubim guarding the Ark of the Covenant.

I hadn't gotten this sense from newspaper photos. Suddenly I felt someone tugging at my sleeve. I looked down to see a girl holding a notepad. "Are you a World War II veteran?" she asked. I nodded.

"I'm doing a project for school and have some questions to ask. Where did you serve?"

"France, Belgium, Germany."

"Were you in any battles?"

"Not really, except when we were caught between enemy lines in the Battle of the Bulge."

"Were you scared?"

"Like never before," I said. "Or since."

Groups of young people were interviewing people like me. They didn't have many old vets to choose from. We're dying at the rate of more than 1,000 a day, or so I've been told. Good thing they were asking their questions now.