Newspaper Articles

Newspaper Articles help provide more incite to this wonderful traveling memorial. Hopefully, it will inspire you to bring it near you.

The Moving Wall™ - an article that first appeared in Among Friends, Newsletter of Friends of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Written by Gerry Stegmaier Maggsm@aol.com. Gerry has granted permission for copying and publishing provided the story is attributed to him.

John Devitt - 40 years later at The Moving Wall 40th Anniversary Event in 2024

The Wall is solid, its granite face designed to resist the elements for all time. Yet, as visitors touch its surface, the Wall becomes almost fluid. Small ripples of hope and healing spread ever out-wards. Like the concentric circles created when a stone is tossed into a pond, the impact of the Wall grows and grows.

In 1982 John Devitt, a former helicopter door gunner and Army veteran, visited Washington, DC for the dedication of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial and to participate in the National Salute to Vietnam Veterans. This visit and experience changed Devitt's life and led to the creation of the "Moving Wall," which has since moved millions of people.

His story is one of thousands spawned by the Memorial. As Devitt explains, "When you approach the Memorial, you don't recognize what's going on. It's a visual experience that words cannot describe. . . Then suddenly, as the words inscribed on the Wall come into focus, it's so subtle, you're drawn in and it's too late. . . You're riveted and the emotions just pour forth."

This emotional outpouring and the pride of having participated in a parade honoring Vietnam veterans inspired Devitt to dedicate the next eleven years of his life to giving people all across the nation a chance to experience a similar catharsis. Originally, Devitt and his friends had hoped to create a photo mural of the Wall, but when the negatives proved unusable, they came up with another solution. The concept was simple: build a replica of the Wall in Washington which could travel across the country, so that everyone who couldn't visit the Wall could share the experience and emotion which it evokes.

Devitt's idea was deeply personal. He had been out of work when the Wall was dedicated, and had made the trip with financial help from family and friends. "There were millions of people who would never be able to come to Washington," he realized, "I wanted them to be able see and feel what I had."

His emotions ran deep. "Before 1982 I never felt like I needed a parade or a memorial," he says. He had come to the Wall expecting to dislike it, anticipating it would be as some media stories had said, "a black gash of shame." Instead, the Wall changed his life; it gave him a new mission and sense of pride in his military service. With the help of a few friends, Devitt set out to build a movable wall. They estimated it would take $40,000, however, pooling their savings they could only come up with $2,500.

They decided to seek assistance in raising the necessary funds. "We had a tough time in the beginning, convincing people about what we were trying to do," explains Devitt. "The Wall is a visual thing. When you tell people you want to build a half-scale replica, they think miniature and model; they don't realize the power of Maya Lin's design." Searching for a way for the work to be completed, they sought contributions of goods and services. If they couldn't get the material donated, they could at least arrange credit terms and discounted pricing.

"We were totally surprised by the reaction of the businesses we approached. I didn't even have a credit card at the time, but when we talked to various companies and explained what we were trying to do, they were very sympathetic. Many took the job on our word." Devitt says, "I knew that once we got started, it would pay for itself...and if it didn't, we were prepared to pay for it ourselves." He was convinced of the need for the Moving Wall.

The first Moving Wall was built of Plexiglas, with each name silk-screened onto the panels. The photographic negatives of the names were made available by the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund, the organization responsible for building the Memorial. When new names are added to the Wall, they are also added to the Moving Wall at the end of its season. In its present form, the third generation, the Moving Wall consists of aluminum panels and is a half scale replica of the original.

In the eleven years since the Moving Wall has been in existence, it has been visited by millions of people, in over 410 locations. While the material of the Moving Wall has changed, its impact remains the same.

The Moving Wall was first displayed in 1984 in Texas as part of the Tyler Rose Festival. "We hadn't even put up the fifth panel when a Gold Star Mother placed a beautifully decorated candle at the base of the panel where her son's name was inscribed," Devitt recalls. Just like the Wall in Washington, people began to leave mementoes, so many, in fact, that Devitt decided to have them shipped to the Moving Wall's off season home in San Jose, CA. He hopes to build a museum to display the items, but for now concentrates on making sure the Moving Wall travels to as many cities as possible.

"When you think about it," he says, "two or three million people visit the Wall every year. There are ten or twenty times that many people, who, for whatever reason, will never be able to make the trip to Washington." Scheduling the route of the Wall is a tough job and Devitt tries to be as objective as possible. Dates fill up quickly, almost a year in advance, and there are often schedule conflicts which prevent visits to certain events and locations. "When we started, it was much simpler," he says. "Someone would call and if I wasn't going to be somewhere else at that time, we would load things up and go."

While the costs involved were greater than expected, Devitt was opposed to any kind of charge to visit the Moving Wall. "Originally, we thought we could put out a donation box and that would cover our expenses," he explains. Convinced that there should be no charge to have the Wall come to a community, someone came up with the idea that local host committees be formed to sponsor the Moving Wall's visit. This solution has worked well, and the schedule of the Moving Wall remains crowded as it journeys across the country.

Many people have not heard about Devitt or the Moving Wall; his humble and hard working attitude are partially responsible. "When the Wall comes to a town, it brings people out from all over. We try to play it low key because the Wall speaks for itself." He continues, "This isn't about me. It's not about John Devitt. Its about remembering 58,000 people who died in service to their country."

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A VOLUNTEER

(at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial)

Nancy Smoyer

The volunteer is coming on duty. She walks quickly to the National Park Service kiosk to sign in, get the Directory of Names, rubbing papers and pamphlets, puts on her yellow volunteer hat, and starts toward the Wall.

Her pace slows as she pauses to acknowledge the statue of the three fighting men with the thousand yard stare and slows even more as she leaves the hectic pace of the outside world to adapt to the slower, quieter rhythm of the Wall. As she walks the length of the Wall, she scans the visitors looking for anyone who needs assistance. She reads the letters and makes note of other items which have been left by earlier visitors--a high school varsity letter, a newspaper article, a Purple Heart, a picture of a squad of men in Vietnam, many flowers, a POW/MIA bracelet. And so her day begins.

A family comes down the walkway. The little girl is skipping and laughing. Her mother stoops down to talk to her, telling her that this is a serious place, the names of lots of men and women who died in a war in Vietnam are on that wall and their families and friends are coming to see their names. They continue on, the mother holding her daughter's hand as she walks quietly by her side.

A man with greying hair and wearing a business suit walks slowly down the pathway. His body is tight, his hands by his side. He looks only down or at the Wall, stopping occasionally. The volunteer watches him go by, knowing he will be coming back. She hands out a few pamphlets, explains to a couple how the names on the Wall are arranged, and keeps an eye on the man. She looks up the name of a high school classmate for a woman, directs her to the name, offers rubbing paper, and watches the man. He walks slowly back and she goes over to him and quietly asks, "How are you doing?" He says, "OK," stops and quickly turns out toward the grass, fighting for composure. She waits and then says, "Is this your first time here?" He says "yes." And so a conversation begins.

They talk about the war and the people he knew there, the ones who made it back and those who didn't. She asks how he's been doing since he got back and he says pretty well but he has a friend--a buddy of his from Vietnam--who is hurting. She urges him to encourage his friend to go to a Vet Center and to bring him to the Wall so the healing process can begin. After talking for a half an hour or so, he prepares to leave, but before he goes he says, "I didn't think I wanted to talk to anyone, but I'm glad you stopped me." She gives him a hug before he leaves.

A group of three men are talking animatedly, exchanging stories, happy to be there together. After a while the volunteer goes over to them, curious about who they are and what brought them there. She learns that they demonstrated against the war and are now counselors of veterans. One does outreach service with Vietnam vets who live isolated lives in the woods of New England. As they continue talking, one of the men asks about her connection with the Wall and so she shows them the name of a Marine she knew and tells them the story of his death. The ex- protester rubs his fingers over the name again and again as tears flow down his face.

A woman walks back and forth along the Wall crying. The volunteer offers her a tissue and she stops to talk. She didn't know anyone who died in Vietnam and only a few who went, but the impact of the names has overwhelmed her.

Another veteran comes to the Wall for the first time after years of flying in and out of DC as a pilot. He was also a pilot in Vietnam. When asked why he came on that particular summer day, he answers, "Because it's hot and humid." There it is.

A group of veterans come. Most are wearing parts of their uniform from Vietnam. They are a Vet Center rap group and they have worked through to this goal of coming together to see their buddies on the Wall. They hug and cry and laugh and tell stories--and go away lighter.

A distinguished looking couple blend in with the other visitors. They go directly to a panel and a name and stop. She wonders again why no one from his platoon ever got in touch with them. She dabs her eyes, he puts his arm around her, they pause for a few moments and then walk off.

A 12-year-old boy stands crying among his classmates. The girls try to comfort him while the boys giggle self- consciously. The volunteer goes over, puts her arm around him and asks if he has a relative on the Wall. He shakes his head no, but says his mother's boyfriend's name is there. They go off together to do a name rubbing for his mother.

A young man walks up to the volunteer and shows her his silver POW/MIA bracelet. He says he's been wearing one for the past five years--not the same bracelet because he gives them away to people who show interest, but each bracelet had the same name --and he wants to find that name. The volunteer locates it in the Directory and takes him to it. She shows him the plus sign next to the name which indicates the man is missing. She tells him how that sign will be changed to a diamond if the man's remains are found or a circle will be drawn around the plus sign if he returns alive.

A group of women of varying ages slowly filters in. They are nurses and they inquire about the progress of the women's statue. They locate a woman's name on the last panel and one of the nurses tells the volunteer that the two of them were on the plane which was airlifting orphans out of Saigon when it crashed on take-off. Several of her friends are together on the Wall in the lines for those last few days of the war.

A man comes down with his tour group and asks for help finding a name. The man on the Wall was a neighbor of his family who used to shovel their walk. The volunteer offers to do a rubbing for him and as she finishes it, she asks if the soldier's family has been to the Wall. The man says "no" and so another rubbing is done for him to take home to them. And then a third rubbing to give to his own parents in memory of their neighbor.

A jogger, face glistening, clothes wet, walks by greeting the volunteer with a smile. He pauses briefly at a name and goes on out to continue his run.

A vet in jungle fatigues bedecked with ribbons, medals, patches and pins stands alone in front of a panel with a single red rose. She can tell he's been there before and goes over to talk. He says a buddy of his was blown up over there by a grenade--it's the one death he couldn't get over after the war. But when he came to the Wall a couple of years ago, that settled it for him. He doesn't know why except that seeing his friend's name on the Wall with all the others made it final, resolved. But he won't forget, so he wears a black bracelet with his buddy's name engraved on it.

It's dark, her back is aching, she has a slight sunburn, and she knows her ankles will be swollen that night. She starts to leave, but sees a man coming along alone who might need help. Then his buddy catches up with him so she starts out again. A couple asks about the dates  1959 and 1975. She explains and gives them a pamphlet. There are only a few people there now. More will come later tonight when they can be alone. She takes off her hat, passes "her" name, and goes on out.

Walls and Bridges

The Moving Wall™, a portable replica of the Vietnam memorial in Washington, is one veteran's tribute to the sacrifices made by his fallen comrades.

By Michael Oricchio, staff writerSan Jose Mercury News: July 16, 1990

Everything seemed to come together for San Jose native John Devitt when he attended the dedication of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. nearly eight years ago.

Not until then did the former Army helicopter door gunner realize that anyone wanted to recognize the sacrifices made by more than 58,000 of his dead brothers in arms.

Not until then did the recurring problems he'd been dealing with since serving in Vietnam from '67 to '69 cease. For years he had suffered from violent temper flares, the sweats, bad dreams and the boredom of going from an intense, adrenaline-pumping existence to normal workaday life.

"That's why I wanted to do something. People really did care and I wanted to let other vets know they care," says the 41-year-old Devitt. "I wanted to capture that spirit I felt in Washington, D.C. and sort of spread it around and share it with people who couldn't get there."
To do that, he got together with a couple of friends in January 1983 and spent 22 months and about $28,000 in donations building the Moving Wall, his original, aptly named half-scale plexiglas replica of the memorial in Washington.

These days, there are two Moving Walls that tour around the country during the year.

A third serves as backup in case there's a booking problem. Now, however, that third replica is on display at San Jose's Municipal Rose Garden, at the corner of Dana and Naglee avenues, until its two-week appearance there ends Saturday.

Gone for almost a year, the Moving Wall has returned to the city where both creator and creation were born.

"After having traveled all over the country with it," says Devitt, "it's good to bring it home and let people know it's still going on."

Since the original Moving Wall made its first appearance in Tyler, Texas, it and its two counterparts have been refurbished. Currently, each measures 250 feet long, 4 feet tall at each end and six feet tall in the center. Each is made of aluminum with the 58,175 names of the American dead in Vietnam silk-screened upon black panels, which are supported by metal braces driven into the ground. All told, these sheet metal replicas cost about $60,000 each, the money raised through donations.

But the emotional price that came with building them was probably much higher.

"It was pretty hard dealing with it on a daily level - just all those names," says Devitt.

"It didn't seem like we were ever going to finish. There were times when I wanted to just get into my truck and leave," he adds. "I never left. I just said, 'Let's go for it.' And that meant stop when you finish or die trying."

When he started, Devitt thought the original replica would just be a weekend project. Shortly after he started, however, he decided to give up his maintenance work at a half-dozen San Francisco apartment buildings and devote all of his time to the model.

Eventually Devitt, who is single, could no longer afford his Mission District apartment and took to sleeping in his car or at the homes of friends.

"He's so dedicated to those 58,000-plus fellows on that wall. That's been his life," says his 68-year-old father, Mike Devitt, a former arson investigator for the San Jose Fire Department.

"It's like an artist," adds his dad, who now lives in Capitola. "How can I put it? Like an artist."

At first glance, his son the artist - who graduated from James L:ick High School in 1966 - looks like a freeze-frame still in someone's old photo album of the Sizzlin' '60s.

A black baseball cap sits atop his long, muddy brown hair flecked with gray, which hangs halfway down his back in a ponytail. A splotchy beard hides half his face, while big black plastic aviator-style glasses cover the rest.

His tall, lanky frame is clothed in the uniform of the day: black Vietnam vets t-shirt with an American bald eagle on it, faded Levi's and black sneakers. He wears an AMVETS ring given to him at an appearance and three bracelets with the names of MIAs etched on them.

"Underneath that beard and that long hair and those dark glasses, he's a hell of a good guy," says his father. "It makes me proud, not just as a father but as an American."

Apparently, others agree. As his project developed, Devitt found support from the Vietnam Combat Veterans, Ltd., the San Jose-area group to which he belongs. Eventually the memorial replicas became the primary project of that group, which has grown nationally since it was formed in January 1982.

"John, he's unique. He sees the wall as his Holy Grail. I guess that sort of colors his vision," says Bill Dupras, 45, who acts as president of the veterans group. "It's very all-consuming for him. It's almost an obsession."

Devitt also had a lot of help from two other local Vietnam vets who've stuck by him since the beginning.

Longtime pal, Gerry Haver, a Mountain View tree trimmer who served on an aircraft carrier in the Gulf of Tonkin, was one of the first people to be inspired by Devitt's idea.

"John and I were sitting around talking, and he mentioned that he wanted to get some project going," says the 47-year-old Haver, who threw in $2,000 of his savings along with the $500 or so Devitt had already put in the pot. It was all they had at the time.

"Then when he decided how big one side was going to be, I said, 'Oh, what have we gotten ourselves into?' " he adds with a laugh.
The pair took the idea to Norris Shears, another Navy vet who owns the Screentique silk-screening shop in south-central San Jose. Eventually that became their base of operations.

"I didn't know what to think. It was a hell of a project to take on," says the 47-year-old Shears. "Hell, I don't say no to anything."

In September 1983, Devitt and company went to the San Jose City Council for an endorsement, which they felt would help them raise more money for the model. Instead, the council gave them $16,000. As payback, of sorts, Devitt hopes to build a fourth, permanent model and a small museum in a city park.

After the original project was finished, and the demand for appearances grew, Devitt built a second model in 1986 and then the third in 1989.

The Moving Walls™ each visit 22 to 28 cities around the United States annually. Devitt says 75,000 to 100,000 people come out to the memorials during their weeklong appearances at each spot. There's a certain similarity to what happens in each city.

"Basically it's what happens at the wall in Washington, D.C.," he says. "You just see the whole emotional spectrum played out."

Devitt travels by truck with one of the memorials - in fact, he recently returned from an appearance in Concord, N.H. - while someone else travels with the other. The third is used as they need it.

He doesn't pull down a salary, his traveling expenses and lodging are provided by the organizations that bring The Moving Wall™ to town. Those sponsors also pay a fee that goes for maintenance and insurance for the structures and a mileage transportation charge.

No admission is charged at the display sites.

Still, there's a big payback for Devitt.

"A lot of these plaques here are from the places I've gone, organizations that have had the wall. It's just their way of saying thanks," he says, looking around the cramped, tiny Vietnam Combat Veterans, Ltd. Office in San Jose. The walls are jammed with citations, awards and photos.

"It's a real rewarding thing to be doing," he says. "It brings people together. People for the war. People against the war. It has a lasting effect."

"I came to see my son's name."

By Jim Schueckler 8219 Parmelee Rd. LeRoy NY 14482
Permission is hereby given to copy and distribute.

My job as a volunteer "visitor guide" was to help people find names on The Moving Wall™ Vietnam Veterans Memorial. More importantly, I gave visitors a chance to talk. While searching the directory or leading a visitor to the name they sought, I would quietly ask "Was he a friend or a relative?" Over the six days, I began conversations that way with several hundred people. Only a handful gave me a short answer; almost everyone wanted to talk. Each had their own story to tell. For some, the words poured out as if the floodgates of a dam that had been closed for thirty years had just burst open. For others, the words came out slowly and deliberately between long pauses. Sometimes, they choked on the words and they cried. I also cried as I listened, asked more questions, and silently prayed that my words would help to heal, not to hurt.

"I came to see my son's name." I heard those and similar words from several parents who came to The Moving Wall™. Their son had died in a war that divided our country like no other event since the Civil War. He died in a war that some Americans had blamed on the soldiers who were called to fight it. Some young men had no choice; they were called by the draft. Others, including some 30,000 women, were called differently, by a sense of duty to their family and nation.

Our culture mourns and respects our dead, but in the shadow of that bitter war, the sacrifices of those who died and their families were not allowed to have dignity. Mothers and fathers came to see that their sons had not been forgotten; that their names were remembered on that Wall; that someone else cares.

A frail and elderly mother came to The Moving Wall™ in a wheelchair. As we looked for her son's name, she described his interests during high school, and then the agonizing days when she was first told that her son was injured, then missing, then classified as "lost at sea." She asked me to thank all the other people who helped bring the Moving Wall to Batavia.

"'Til death do us part" came abruptly to thousands of marriages because of that war. I met two widows of men whose names are on the Wall. One woman showed me a picture of her husband and separate picture of their daughter. A man who never met his daughter. A girl who grew up without a father. I was painfully aware that had some Viet Cong soldiers been slightly better marksmen, my wife and son might have come to the Wall to see my name.

Sisters and brothers came to see a name. One brother so close in age that "People were always calling us by each other's name, and we both hated it." A sister said "I was so much younger than him I didn't realize why my Mom was crying when we said goodbye to him at the airport."

One brother confided that, although he had not been a war protester, his feelings and his first confrontation with the Wall in Washington were almost identical to those of the brother in the play "The Wall, a Pilgrimage". He said "It was as if the actor had reached into my soul and exposed every one of my feelings about my brother and the war."

A group of four people stood near one panel. I offered to make a rubbing of a name. The man pointed to the name Paul D. Urquhart. I asked "Is that Captain Paul Urquhart, the helicopter pilot?" The man nodded and said "He's my brother." I explained that I flew with Paul on his first tour in Vietnam and read that he had been shot down during his second tour. Paul's brother said that he and his family came from Pennsylvania on the anniversary date of Paul's becoming Missing In Action. I made a rubbing of Paul's name and added a rubbing of the Army Aviator wings from my hat, a symbol we had both worn so proudly so long ago.

Aunts and uncles also came to see a special name on the Wall. One aunt said "He stayed overnight at our house so much that one neighbor thought he was our son." An uncle lamented: "I took him hunting. I was the one who taught him to like guns."

Cousins came to the Wall, and many said "He was like a brother." One man asked me to look up the name Douglas Smith. I asked back, "Do you mean Doug Smith, a Marine, from North Tonawanda High School?" The man introduced me to his wife, Doug's cousin. She was pleased to be able to talk about Doug with a classmate who remembered him. I showed her Doug's name on my own, personal, list.

Veterans came to see the names of their buddies. Most of them were eager to tell me about their friend or how he died. Many remembered the day in great detail; and spoke of what's called survivor guilt. "He went out on patrol in my place that day." Or "If I hadn't been away on R & R (rest and recuperation), he wouldn't be dead." Others were bothered that they couldn't remember much about their friend because they had tried to "block it out" for so many years. Another man said "I lost a few good friends while I was there (Vietnam), but I don't want to find just their names, because I feel the same about all 58,000 of these names."

Tree-line vets" are men or women who have finally been able to go to a Moving Wall location, but are terrified of coming close enough to actually see some names that have been haunting them so many years. One such veteran stood for a long time some fifty feet from the Wall. My brothers Vic and Chris talked with him. After a while he and Vic were able to laugh about some of their common Marine Corps experiences and then they were finally able to approach, see, and touch, those names together.

Many people came to the Wall in the privacy or serenity of darkness. Our security men reported that there were only a few minutes each night that the Wall had no callers at all. One visitor spent several hours in the middle of the night standing in front of a certain panel. Whenever anyone came close, he would move away. When alone again, he would move back to that panel to continue his silent vigil. Still others came in the darkness before dawn to watch the break of a new day over the Wall.

One vet came in a wheelchair. He could not talk or walk, but with great effort, Peter's shaking hand could scrawl messages on a pad. The nurse who pushed his wheelchair said that Peter had been excited about the Moving Wall visit since he first read about it in the Daily News. Peter came to see the name of his friend he thought had died in 1975, but he could not remember the man's name. They had been high school buddies and joined the Army together (by michael at testsforge). They went to boot camp and Vietnam together. Peter saw his friend die. At the bottom of panel 1 West I squatted down and read off the names of the small number of men and one American woman who died in Vietnam in 1975. Peter did not recognize any of the names.

The EDS computer operators ran a search, but found no Vietnam casualties from Peter's small home town. We asked if his friend might have come from another town, and Peter wrote "Wales?" The computer search gave one name, but he was killed in 1968. I went back to Peter and asked "Was his name Eric Jednat?". The shock on Peter's face, and then his tears, told us that we had found the right name. We moved to panel 53 West where we turned the wheelchair so Peter could touch his friend's name.

Many people came who were not related, but knew one or more of the men named on the Wall. A high school teacher told me "I taught four of these boys." Others said: "He was the little boy who lived across the street.", "We were going steady in high school.", "He delivered my newspapers.", "I was his Boy Scout leader.", "He went to our church.", "I worked with his mother at the time he was killed.", "My son played football with him.", or "We were classmates for twelve years." There were hundreds of similar personal connections between the visitor and one or more names on the Wall.

To other visitors, the names were not as personal, but still were significant: "I didn't know him, but I remember how it shocked the town when he died.", "I just wanted to pay my respects.", "I didn't know any of them, thank God.", "I came to show support for the vets who came back.", or "My son went to Vietnam, but he came back OK."

Others expressed amazement: "I wanted to see the names of the seven young men from Holley, I can't believe our little village lost so many boys.", "I had no idea so many lost their lives.", "Such a waste. Such a terrible, terrible, waste.", "I hope and pray we never go through that kind of war again.", or "Is this the price of peace?" Some visitors asked rhetorically: "Will mankind ever learn?"

Two weeks after the visit of The Moving Wall™ to Batavia, a friend told my wife "I don't understand all the concern about the Moving Wall; why don't people just forget about that dirty war?" For many, The Moving Wall™ does not need to be explained. Those who do not understand are, perhaps, more fortunate than those who do.

Moving Wall Becomes Vet's Life Work

By Karen Sandstrom, staff writer
The Plain Dealer, (Cleveland OH) May 20, 1990

When you first hear about John Devitt and his ten-year odyssey with The Moving Wall™, the tendency is to leap to one of two conclusions. The first is that Devitt is completely selfish. The second is that he is completely selfless. People who know him say both assumptions are wrong. They believe that the man who created the mobile replica of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. has weaved self-interest and selflessness so seamlessly that virtually everyone walks away feeling healed.

Devitt, 45, has spent the last ten years on the road, living for his portable, 252-foot-long wall. The journey has taken him to places such as Tyler, Texas, and Maui, Hawaii. Last week he brought the Wall to Lakeland Community College, where it will be on display through Wednesday outside the school's athletic center. He has escorted it to Guam and Saipan. He travels 10 months a year, hitting 23 to 28 cities. Sponsors pay his room and board. He lives lean, keeping his life and his mission close to the bone.

Devitt carries no extra weight on his lanky frame, wears faded jeans and pulls his dark hair into a ponytail that stretches halfway down his back. He drives a truck attached to a flatbed trailer that carries the panels of the Moving Wall. When he's not directing the setup of the Wall, he's in a hotel room, working off a laptop computer, writing letters or catching up on lost sleep. One friend says he's a good correspondent, but has no interest outside the Wall. Jan Scruggs, president of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund and the man credited with conceiving the memorial in Washington, puts it more bluntly: "I would say this has taken over his life in a pretty serious way."

Devitt tells a story of a man he met in the course of his travels with the wall. The guy was a vet, like Devitt, but "had the personality of a used-car salesman," he remembers. "He talked like a real huckster. He told me he might be a better representative for the wall because he wore a suit and tie. That's when I decided we weren't changing a thing." The Moving Wall is set up with an eye toward keeping the atmosphere respectful and hype-free. Devitt's rules are few but unbending; you won't buy an "I saw the Moving Wall at Lakeland" T-shirts on campus.

Devitt speaks softly and ducks away from camera lenses. He suffers the media uncomfortably, and only because it's useful. And when a second Moving Wall was built to accommodate more visits, Devitt sought to find a suitable escort. He does not expect all visitors to have identical reactions to the names on the wall. He hopes the structure helps veterans and their families find peace, and he has seen the wall teach children the price of war. "It's gone way beyond what we anticipated in the beginning," Devitt said of the project. "We thought we'd be done touring in a year." Balancing the Moving Wall's increasingly busy schedule, he believes it might travel forever.

Devitt lives in San Jose, California, where he went to high school. He thought about college, but enlisted in the Army instead, and became a helicopter gunner in the 1st Air Cavalry. He saw heavy action in the Tet offensive of 1968. Three times his helicopter was shot down, and it crashed a fourth time when the engine failed. He came home in 1969 with a strategy for dealing with what he had seen: "I wanted to forget about it."

Devitt had a series of short-term jobs, including his own business. He never had a lot of money, and what he did make he eventually poured into The Moving Wall™ project along with donations from others. When the Vietnam Veterans Memorial was erected in Constitution Gardens in 1982, friends and family pitched in to buy Devitt a plane ticket so he could attend the dedication. He was surprised by what he saw.

"During that week in Washington, you'd turn on the TV and all you heard was how Vietnam vets can 'finally put to rest' the memories. There was all this 'finally'."

But he didn't see anything as final. What he had found was the beginning of a chance for veterans to feel better about themselves. Sue Shears and her husband, Norris, were running a silkscreen shop in San Jose at the time Devitt started struggling with how to build a moveable version of the wall. Norris Shears had been in Vietnam, too. The Shearses collaborated with Devitt in the screening of the panels that are used on the wall. Sue Shears has watched Devitt, and speaks reverentially of his dedication. She said she believes he is driven to put in 16- and 18-hour days because the project helps him with his own pain.

"If you get to know him, you understand the suffering inside," Sue Shears says. But she admits Devitt doesn't speak much about Vietnam, not even to his closest friends. "He's not a loud sufferer. He doesn't preach it, he doesn't exploit it. But this is for him." Inherent in the project, too, is Devitt's devotion to the needs of the men he fought with, Sue Shears said. "Most of the guys who went were guys who couldn't afford college," she said. "So most of the people, the parents or their sons, still can't afford to get to Washington."

Taking the memorial to the people has paid off, Devitt said. "My attitude has changed 180 degrees from where it was when we started," he said. "I used to think about 10% of the people in this country really understood what was going on, and the others were mindless idiots and fools. Now I think it's exactly the opposite. I'm in a unique position to view the country."

People are willing to learn about Vietnam, he says; he has seen it happen."So many people have thought they have no connection to it. Then they come out to the wall. For so long (Vietnam) was politics," he said. Seeing the wall's 58,191 names, representing Vietnam casualties from 1959 to 1975, changes that, he said. Whether Devitt will run out of steam doesn't seem to worry him. The constant traveling takes a toll in fatigue, he admits. Last week he was trying to beat a cold he had caught in Erie, PA. But he said his needs remain simple. "As long as I'm eating and have a place to sleep, that's good enough," he says.

Sue Shears said she believes The Moving Wall is as important to Devitt as eating and sleeping.

"God has little plans for us, I believe," she said. "I think this was John's calling." --