This post was contributed by Marilyn Aagaard Martin from www.mmartinbooks.com.

Several months ago my daughter invited me to accompany her on a two-day business trip to Washington, D.C. I readily accepted. And early on the first Saturday in February of 2005, Laura and I flew out of Orlando headed for Dulles Airport. We had two extra days to tour our nation’s capital. I was excited not only to spend time and see the sights with Laura, but also to fulfill a personal vow I made twenty-four years ago
when the Vietnam Veterans Memorial was erected.

Stashing our luggage in our hotel room about three hours later, we set out for Pennsylvania Avenue, both eager to begin our visit in the city of memories. We wandered for hours. As I walked down the steps of the Lincoln memorial my emotions began to build. My long-held promise was nearing an end, for just across the way was the granite wall.

“Sir,” I addressed a guard near the entrance, “I graduated high school along with a tall, redheaded soldier whose name I’m sure is engraved on the wall.” Supplying his last name, I asked if they were listed in alphabetical order. The guard explained they’re listed by the war year, the month, and then the day of the week in which a man died.

“The numbered slabs start with one in this west section, the early war years of the late 50s, and move to the center, where they reverse going east to the war’s end in 1975.”

“I know his first name as well,” I added.

“Ah,” he replied, “then you’ve got three-quarters of the battle won!” He waved us onward, and as I stepped away I spotted a shiny penny on the sidewalk—Lincoln Memorial side up. I picked it up and slipped it into my pocket. “Check with the lady at the information booth,” the guard reminded us. And so we did.

“There’re several with that name,” the woman said while typing, her brow furrowed as she pointed to her computer screen. She swung the consol around, and my daughter read the name.

“Do you know his middle initial, Mother?” Laura asked.

“No,” I said, worried we’d fail without that one bit of information.

“Might it be, Lee?” Laura prodded. I shook my head in dismay. The woman tilted the screen toward me. I scanned the full name appearing in large print until my eyes automatically skipped to the welcome and familiar words in much smaller print just below.

“Easton, Pa.!” I said, my eyes welling with tears. “That’s it! It’s our home town!”

With a feeling of satisfaction and a grin on her face, the woman swung the screen away, and hit a few keys. A piece of white paper inched out of a printer. She ripped off the grocery store-like receipt and held it up.

“The slab numbers are listed at the bottom left corner. You’ll find his name located at 46 E and on Line 51.” She handed us a piece of paper with a dark border running across the top showing the memorial’s title. “You may use this to make a graphite rubbing of his name as a keepsake,” she said.

Stepping away and clutching the small biographical paper in both hands, I scanned the precious text while Laura kept track of the numbers as we strode along.

“He was a captain in the air force,” I read aloud, my heart growing heavier with each step. “I didn’t remember that. I thought navy,” I added, recalling only the briefest account of what happened to him in the Easton Express sometime in 1968. “All I knew was that I’d read that his airplane was shot down over enemy territory.”

It was then I understood how much I didn’t know about this once energetic, happy young man and many more questions arose. Are his parents alive to mourn him? Did he have any siblings or a wife and children to carry on his name?

Where did he spend his college years? Where is he buried? On and on went my mind. Except to assume we probably had exchanged brief greetings as students over the years, I later told Laura I could picture his face perfectly, but I have scant recollection of Richard in my classes. I simply knew we’d spent the same six years at Wilson High School.

“We’ll start the eastward count here at the center,” Laura said. We hurried along until I saw something on the slip of paper that stopped me in my tracks.

“Oh, my word—it’s his birthday weekend!” I cried. “He was eight days younger than I,” I said, turning to see grief cross my youngest child’s face. “And he died March 27, 1968. Your brother was only ten months old then, just a babe in arms.”

Arriving at 46E, I perused the huge black granite block filled with names. Taking note of tiny indents located every tenth line, I counted—ten, twenty, thirty, and all too soon, fifty. Overcome by a sense of dread, I slowly knelt, knowing just below I’d find that familiar name. Drawing a deep breath, I slid my fingers across to the very end of the line. And there, after forty-eight long years, once again I met Richard Lee Whitteker, silently remembering to give him my humble thanks.

We set to work, rubbing the engraving with our only available instrument, a ball point pen, but it was of no use. An elderly veteran happened by suggesting the two volunteers at the center marker could supply a pencil. He went off to check. After several minutes we noticed a small crowd of tourists had gathered round the busy men. When we headed over, the old vet saw us and explained our plight to one of them. He waved me over, wanting to know something about the serviceman whose name we’d located. I told him what I knew about a well-respected, high school classmate. Tears evident, I again revealed it was his birthday.

Growing silent now along with the onlookers, the guide was well aware no further words were necessary as he handed me another sheet of white paper and a stub of graphite.

Over the years I’ve often read about and seen pictures of the thousands of personal mementoes left at that poignant memorial.

I counted only three that day. I had nothing for the young hero nicknamed Red, I silently fretted. Then remembering the beginning of our odyssey along the memorial wall, I reached into my pocket and knelt to p lace the bright copper penny against the bottom of slab 46E, directly below the end of line 51—Lincoln Memorial side up.

“Your battle is over, so rest on in peace, Red,” I murmured, “for you are surely in grand company.”

Thus it was that on a beautiful, azure-blue winter afternoon I satisfied my wish to pay a debt of gratitude to a brave soul whom I had not seen since graduation day in June of 1957. Like so many of his fellow classmates, he was a vibrant young man who marched proudly up to receive his diploma, undoubtedly filled with high hopes and dreams of a bright future, though fate eventually led him to war. On that sad day in March of 1968, Red Whitteker made the ultimate sacrifice, ensuring that his family and all Americans, including our first grandchild—son David’s ten-month-old baby boy named Evan—will live in freedom.

** Visit www.TheVirtualWall.org to read more about “Red” Whitteker and his second-seat, who also made the ultimate sacrifice: Lt. James Badley. **

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