THE Following is the author's reflection on a visit he made to The Wall, the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington, D.C., while serving as a Navy hospital corpsman.

At a slow pace down the slightly inclined walkway, with green lawn on the right, black granite on the left, my journey begins with one name, then a few more, and then more than a few until, at the bottom of the incline, the chiseled names reach over my head. A long pause in sorrowful meditation, and then a slow walk up the other side where, almost level with the green, one last name.

From one end to the other, name upon name upon name of Americans sacrificed by those who worship in the unholy church of "Saint" Mammon, at the main altar of the messianic conviction that America is the Savior of the World, whether or not the world wants to be "saved," and at the side altars of deceit, arrogance, greed, corruption, secret agendas, political expedience, and empire building.

Elderly couples, clutching baby photos and faded pictures of much happier times, stumble along, searching, searching. The grief carved on their faces is reflected back to them from the glassy surface of the cold stone.

Middle-aged men in faded cammy jackets and baseball caps displaying unit insignia, peace symbols, miniature medals and ribbons, lean forward with hands on a name, as though trying to cradle a dying comrade, tears puddling among the cobbles at their feet. Others hold each other like long-lost brothers. I am in uniform, and so we acknowledge each other with a silent nod as we pass. Children solemnly place scrawled poems and crayon art for fathers and grandfathers they never knew, and are all the poorer for it.

Visitors leave dogtags, military decorations, flowers, old love letters, teddy bears, photographs, even beer and liquor. Not one human voice is heard, except for soft crying here and there, for we all know that we are in the presence of revered heroes.

This long, black open wound in the earth stuns the senses, and I don't know if it will ever scar over and heal. My heart is lead. My eyes water. The taste of death fills my mouth, and I cannot spit it out.

And the silence is deafening, the mutilated dead screaming... Don't forget us, please don't forget us.

It seems only we, who are here at this place, at this time, can hear them. I walk out of this vale of crushing sorrow, my spirit seared in a way which I cannot explain, my emotions roiling.

Just before dawn, when the darkness is most profound, and the cold wind whistles outside my window, and my loved ones are warm and safe, I sometimes wonder if I could have left my wife and children, like many of those dead had, and returned to being a Navy corpsman. Maybe, just maybe, I might have been able to keep at least one name off that wall. I'll never know.

J. RICHARD LEBEL lives in South Attleboro.