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the black man. “I heard somebody say ‘about twenty klicks from
     An Khe,’ and I … my damn
stomach
just disappeared.”
    “II Corps,” Michael said. “You were a little south of me. Name’s Michael Poole, nice
     to meet you.”
    “Bill Pierce.” The two men shook hands. “This lady here is Florence Majeski. Her son
     was in my unit.”
    Poole had a strong, sudden desire to put his arms around the old woman, but he knew
     that he would break down again if he did that. He asked the first question that came
     to mind: “You get that hat off an ARVN?”
    Pierce grinned. “Snatched it right off, riding by in a jeep. Poor little bastard.”
    Then he knew what he really wanted to ask Pierce. “How can you find the names you’re
     looking for, in all this crowd?”
    “There’s Marines at both ends of the Memorial,” Pierce said, “and they have books
     with all the names and the panels they’re on. Or you could ask one of the yellow caps.
     They’re just here today, on account of all the extra people.” Pierce glanced at Mrs.
     Majeski.
    “They had Tom right there in the book,” the old lady said.
    “I see one over thataway,” Pierce said, pointing off to Michael’s right. “He’ll find
     it for you.” In the midst of a little knot of people, a tall, bearded, young white
     man in a yellow duckbill cap was consulting sheets in a looseleaf binder and then
     gesturing toward specific panels.
    “God bless you, son,” said Mrs. Majeski. “If you’re ever in Ironton, Pennsylvania,
     I want you to stop in and pay us a visit.”
    “Good luck,” Pierce said.
    “Same to both of you.” He smiled and turned away.
    “I mean it now!” Mrs. Majeski yelled. “You stop in and see us!”
    Michael waved, and moved toward the man in the yellow cap. At least two dozen people
     had him circled, and all seemed to be leaning toward him. “I can only handle one at
     a time,” the man with the cap said in a flat Midwestern voice. “Please, okay?”
    Poole thought, The others ought to be at the hotel by now. This is a ridiculous gesture.
    The young man in the yellow cap consulted his pages, indicated panels, wiped moisture
     from his forehead. Michael soon stood before him. The volunteer was wearing blue jeans
     and adenim shirt unsnapped halfway down over a damp grey T-shirt. His beard glistened with
     sweat. “Name,” he said.
    “M.O. Dengler,” Poole said.
    The man riffled through his pages, located the D’s, and ran his finger down a column.
     “Here we go. The only Dengler is Dengler, Manuel Orosco, of Wisconsin. Which happens
     to be my home state. Panel fourteen west, line fifty-two. Right over there.” He pointed
     to the right. Small poppies like red pinpoints dotted the edges of the panel, before
     which stood a large unmoving crowd. NO MORE VIETNAMS , announced a bright blue banner.
    Manuel Orosco Dengler?
The Spanish names were a surprise. A sudden thought stopped Michael as he made his
     way toward the blue banner through the crowd: the guide had given him the wrong Dengler.
     Then he remembered that the guide had said that his was the only Dengler. And the
     initials were right. Manuel Orosco had to be his Dengler.
    Poole was directly in front of the Memorial once again. His shoulder touched the shoulder
     of a shaggy-haired, weeping vet with a handlebar moustache. Beside him a woman with
     white blonde hair to the waist of her blue jeans held the hand of a little girl, also
     blonde. A child without a father, as he was now forever a father without a child.
     On the other side of the broken strip of sod, planted with flags and wreaths and photographs
     of young soldiers stapled to wooden sticks, the fourteenth panel, west, loomed before
     him. Poole counted down until he reached the fifty-second line. The name of M.O. Dengler, MANUEL OROSCO DENGLER , etched in black polished granite, jumped out at him. Poole admired the surgical
     dignity of the engraving, the unadorned clarity of the