As the late morning sun warmed the black granite of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, visitors began to arrive. Among them were school groups, tourists enjoying a stroll, and veterans from various conflicts wearing coordinated red shirts and vests to signify their California-based tour group.
Dan Creed, a Vietnam War veteran and National Park Service volunteer, positioned himself at the memorial’s center—two black granite walls etched with the names of fallen soldiers, located near the Lincoln Memorial in Washington. Remarkably, his infantry unit in the 101st Airborne suffered no casualties under his leadership, a rare feat in a war that claimed 58,220 American lives and left many more wounded.
Following the war, Creed married, raised six children, and built a successful career as a military contractor. Reflecting on the 50th anniversary of the war’s end, he shared how his perspective has shifted over time, particularly about what he considers his greatest accomplishment.
“I used to think my proudest achievement was that no one in my unit was killed or injured,” said the 76-year-old from Fairfax, Virginia. “Now, seeing my children grow into happy, successful adults is what I’m most proud of.”
For decades, the Vietnam War dominated American cultural discourse—a painful chapter marked by unclear objectives and deep national divisions. On this milestone anniversary, however, the war’s grip on the collective American consciousness appeared to have softened.
Few visitors seemed aware that the day marked the anniversary of Saigon’s fall. Many arrived as part of pre-planned trips, enjoying a pleasant spring day in the nation’s capital amid blooming azaleas and fresh foliage. Among the crowd were those who reflected on Vietnam and the loved ones they lost, now able to discuss their grief with less anger and more acceptance.
“For years, my anger and frustration were so intense I couldn’t speak about it,” said 80-year-old Dan Moore, a Vietnam veteran from McLean, Virginia. “But much of that torment has faded.”
The semi-autobiographical novel "The Things They Carried," written by Tim O’Brien, explored the moral dilemma of whether to evade the draft or serve in Vietnam. O’Brien ultimately chose to serve, a decision he has since reconsidered.
“I shouldn't have gone,” said O’Brien, now 78, in a recent interview. “I knew it when I was younger, but it’s even clearer now.”
In contrast, Tran Van Ly, a former South Vietnamese Army officer now living in Virginia, remains steadfast in his convictions. Wearing a tan military uniform adorned with medals and a black beret, Ly has never doubted his role in the conflict.
Though he fled Vietnam by boat in 1991 and has never returned, his outlook has softened slightly. He acknowledges improvements in the country’s governance and the increasing prosperity and freedoms his family now enjoys there.
“I thought it would never change,” Ly said of Vietnam’s government. “Now my country is better, and I feel hopeful.”
Carolyn Watson visited the memorial for the first time on this anniversary. Her father, Milford Marvin Tognazzi, was killed in Vietnam on August 7, 1969, when she was just 10 years old. Pressing her fingers to his name etched in stone, she was overcome with tears. Federal support following his death had helped her mother, who passed away two years ago.
Watson described her feelings as a blend of enduring sorrow and newfound gratitude. “I lost my dad,” she said, “but at least my mom was taken care of all her life.”
As one group of high school students departed, another arrived, crowding the stone walkway before the walls. Among those present, Moore could pinpoint the name of Kenneth E. Stetson, his former assistant and friend.
In January 1968, Lieutenant Moore handed command of his artillery unit to Lance Corporal Stetson and was reassigned as an artillery liaison officer. Two weeks later, the Tet Offensive erupted—a pivotal escalation in the war.
Moore vividly recalls the day he last saw Stetson: February 17, 1968, in the bombed city of Hue. He found his friend wounded in front of a ruined building, shot in the upper abdomen.
“Stetson, what happened?” Moore asked. “Lieutenant, I’ve been shot,” Stetson replied before being evacuated to a hospital where he later died.
Moore continued his military service, later joining the intelligence community. For years, he struggled to confront his memories of the war, unable to write or even think about it.
“I was angry over how pointless it all seemed and how many friends I lost,” he said.
During the Covid pandemic, Moore revisited his past and began writing again, finding solace in recalling his final moments with Stetson.
“It was providence,” Moore reflected. “I was able to see him before he died and give him some comfort.”
More than 57 years later, Moore says he no longer dwells on the chaos, sorrow, anger, or fear from those days. “I’m at peace now,” he shared.
