From: Gary Hunt at the Outpost of Freedom

It was just six years ago, May 1992, in Washington, D.C., that 115 members of Prodigy had gathered to honor those veterans -- friends, brothers, sons and fathers – who had given their lives for a cause. We had gathered so that we could make a journey that most of us thought we would never make. It was with the commonality that those one-hundred fifteen people  had shared, for months and years, their losses that most of us were finally able to muster the courage to face the reality of what had been just over two decades gone.

Mike Miller, veteran, friend and client of my survey business in Florida had designed a logo – two sets of wings formed in the shape of two " V" s. with the scrolled words " Duty with Honor" below them. William (Top) Shultz, of Las Vegas, Nevada, who was soon to make a cross country bicycle crusade in hopes of stopping the sending troops to Bosnia, had penned our purpose for the trip:

In silence and in reverence
We come here one and all
To say a final found farewell
To our friends upon the Wall

We come here with our memories
Of that long and distant past
With Love for one another
A Healing Time at last.

Together these were presented on ceramic cups to those who wanted them. My lone surviving cup sits before me now, and reminds me of that eventful day.

Just a few weeks before, I was on my way to pick up airline tickets to fly to the West Coast to meet some patriots. I had been planning for the first edition of the Outpost of Freedom and was seeking writings from some patriots I had "met" on the phone, and there were others that I wanted to meet to encourage their participation in the newspaper.

Sometime events occur which change the course of our lives. In this case, a motorcycle accident that left my right foot shattered and splintered, delayed the trip to California and Arizona. It did not, however, delay my trip to Washington, although crutches became my mode of movement.

I still remember the first trip to the Wall – in daylight and among thousands of other solemn visitors. Most nearly my age with the painful memories etched upon their faces. I remember, still, as three of us lined up to make the descent into the scar that is the memorial to that blemish on American history. Without each other, I doubt that the three of us would have had the courage to face those names who replaced us as the contributors of their all. I also noticed that we three were not the only veterans who needed the shared courage of others to make that short walk – which seemed to be one of the longest walks I had ever made.

It was later that evening, or, actually, early the next morning when a number of us decided to return to the Wall in darkness and solitude to once again say our good-byes. Two childhood friends, Carl Creal and Billy Prescott, from Rolling Hills, California, were the names that were forever impressed upon my mind. Carl was just another kid, but Billy I had known since probably the first grade. Rolling hills, back in the early fifties, was a small community and all of the students in each grade would fall in two classes. Everybody knew everybody. Billy was quiet, nearly shy and a very good friend to all. He was the least likely candidate for the violent death that befell him – in service to his country, and in his and my belief that we were serving the Constitution.

I suppose that Billy's image was in my mind much more than someone else's brother lost to friendly fire, a father whose son, some months later, finally made contact with another pilot who had seen his father (declared MIA) bleeding from his helmet as he plane flew into North Vietnam's soil. There were the members of squads of some of my companions who had returned in the infamous body bags, family members lost to unknown causes, every manner of loss that was suffered due to the "war" , but it was Billy in the front of my mind as I crutched myself to the center of the apex of the Wall.

At the edge of the walk and the grass, I turned to face the Wall. I looked left, then right – and in each direction I was overwhelmed by the number of lines visible on each slab of black granite. Earlier, I had been able to see only a few slabs at a time, through the hundreds or thousands gathered to touch, as if this gesture might bring their loved-ones back. However, at two O'clock in the morning, the entire Wall, naked to the sins of a nation, stood exposed. I remember, as if it were yesterday, as, leaning on my crutches, standing alone and trying to come to terms with the magnitude of what I was viewing, I yelled, hoping to be heard throughout the sinful capitol, "Fuck the government!" A second, and finally a third time I uttered the words that, just a few months later, in Waco, Texas, would be confirmed as my sentiments in the matter.

Only restoration of Constitutional government under the authority of the People Only restoration of Constitutional prohibitions, such as the requirement for a Declaration of War by the Congress Only restoration of the protection of Rights, not the defamation thereof Only… how long can I go on about what needs to be achieved – Only then will those names upon the Wall be such that a purpose has been served by their deaths. Only then will vindication for their deaths be achieved. It was for the Constitution, whether willingly or unwillingly, that they gave their lives. It was their sacrifice that began to point out to many the rampant excesses of authority exercised by what has become an evil and unConstitutional government. Only after the restoration of the proper roll of government will I ever be able to, as so many of my brothers have, Rest in Peace.

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