"What Price Freedom?"

Lindsey Liberatore

Names. Thousands of names, all carved delicately and precisely into panels of marble, and together these names form what is commonly called the Wall. They are the names of those soldiers killed in the Vietnam War. The names of those soldiers, who fought and died for the sake of an idea, for the sake of an idea known as freedom. Like those who came before and after them, they gave their lives to aid in the achievement of this idea. They were killed for fighting for a common cause, and will be forever remembered and honored for their sacrifice.

I first visited this monument when I was three years old. I went with my father, and have always thought that my memories of that visit were a dream. I can remember the way my father looked. He was wearing very dark sunglasses, and was kneeling, touching one of the thousands of names before him. I walked over to his side, and he lifted me up into his arms as we walked away. When we returned home, I recall asking my mother, "what’s the matter with Daddy?" She simply said that he was sad, for what reason I didn’t understand at the time.

It wasn’t until last week that I learned this memory was not in fact a dream, but had actually happened. I also learned why my father had been so "sad" I have always known that my father served in the Marines, and was in combat in Vietnam, but never knew the full extent of the ordeal he went through. In 1967, he reported to boot camp on Parris Island in South Carolina. A young man named Steve was also sent to training in the same platoon. Almost instantaneously, the two became inseparable.

They spent every waking minute, making light of every situation possible, whether it be scrubbing the mess hall with toothbrushes or having to remake their bunks if a dime didn’t bounce a certain height when dropped onto the surface. They became best friends. The two survived boot camp, but were separated when my father was sent to Vietnam. However, to each one’s surprise they met again, and were stationed together during part of their tours.

It was like they never spent any time apart. The jokes and pranks started again, and the good times surpassed the bad. Never did the two think about the distinct possibility that one would make it home without the other. My father was on a base, making arrangements to report home, when he learned of Steve’s death. There was an explosion in the ammunition pit, and Steve was one of the several fatalities. His name now lies on panel twenty-five of the Wall, and it was there that my father knelt, tears streaming down his face unhidden by his sunglasses thirteen years ago.

When I was working on this paper, and trying to determine what freedom really means, and how one can possibly put a price on something that indefinable, my father said something that truly made me think. After telling me his story, he stated that most people might never know the true price of freedom. They will take their freedom for granted, and accept it as a given, until the threat of it being taken away is poised, or until they lose someone they love to the idea of freedom.

My father said that every day he thinks of Steve, and when I was born he thought of Steve and when he taught me to ride my bike he thought of Steve, and when he taught me to drive he thought of Steve. He thought of what he has been able to experience and Steve could not, and he thought of just how much was sacrificed to obtain freedom for all.

Our world has lost a countless number of individuals to the fight for freedom, and we will give our all to keep it within reach. We mourn for those whom we lost, and perhaps we mourn for the sacrifices we have all had to make, but we will always work to never lose sight of our freedom. We will always work to appreciate just how beautiful and precious freedom is, in all it definitions. We will always feel blessed to be allowed the chance to express ourselves, and be thankful for our personal freedom. We will always hold what we may not realize close to our hearts, we will hold our freedom close to our hearts.

For all of these reasons, and for many more, for Steve and my father, and all those who have made sacrifices; I have come to the conclusion that the idea, or rather the ideal of freedom is, and always will be priceless.