By Sandra Olivetti Martin
The National World War II Memorial — epically situated in the memorial heart of our capital city, on the National Mall between the Lincoln Memorial to the west and the Washington Monument to the east — looks like it will be around for a long time.
It’s solid as a rock, built of granite and brass. It’s as basic as the elements, water and sky, that join with manmade structures in defining its reach.
But the animating force of this great plaza survives now in short time.
Go there on any given day, even Memorial Day if you can get in.
Enter Memorial Plaza through the Atlantic or the Pacific pavilion, named for World War II’s twin theaters of conflict. Look up and see, beneath the heights of the sky, four wing-spread eagles twining a ribbon around a laurel wreath.
Or enter through the curvilinear rampart walls at the north and south, and read the story of America’s mobilization in 24 bas-relief panels sculpted in brass on the ceremonial entrance walls.
Inside, there’s plenty to move your heart: the oval Rainbow Pool and its splashing fountains great and small; the 56 wreath-hung pillars for each of the states and territories that sent their sons and daughters to the conflict; the inscriptions of lofty words; the roll of battles; the Freedom Wall with its Field of Gold Stars, 4,000 to represent the 400,000 Americans who died in this war.
None of those mighty, solid works holds a candle to the ancient men who shuffle with you through this sacred space. Some roll in wheelchairs; some lean on walkers; many hold the arm of a wife, daughter or escort. Their bodies are gaunt or paunchy. Their cheeks are hollow, their jowls wattled, their noses veined and bulbous.
