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The Graduates of Thomas Edison High School

Only about six miles separate Thomas Edison High School from Independence Hall in Philadelphia. In fact, to drive between the two it only takes a straight lined, 20-minute drive southward on Rising Sun Avenue, through neighborhoods like Hunting Park, Fairhill, West Kensington, and Northern Liberties. But in the whole of American history, the distance is a lot further than a few miles on a flat, stoplight-lined municipal street. At Independence Hall, people try to remember. At Thomas Edison High School, people try to forget.

About halfway between the two sites is 2836 North Leithgow Street, a small, two-story brick apartment building located on a one-way side street. The home is almost nondescript—as though it was cut and pasted from nearly any city across America. But to the Dillmans, it was home. It’s the place where George and Marie Dillman lived, and hoped, and worried—and it’s the place where they raised their one and only child, Wayne Thomas Dillman. Like so many others from the neighborhood, Wayne went to nearby Thomas Edison High School. When Wayne was a sophomore, in November 1963, President Kennedy was killed. A few months later, in 1964, the Beatles came to America. During his junior year, Civil Rights at long last became law in America. And after Wayne’s senior year at Thomas Edison, he asked his girlfriend, Mary J. Dougherty, to marry him, and shortly after that, he was drafted by the United States Army to fight in Vietnam.

After basic training, Dillman joined the Third Squadron, Fifth Cavalry, Ninth Infantry Division on March 28, 1967. He was 19 years old—exactly two months away from turning 20. At that point, the war had become a cesspit of political delusion driven by what seems like, in retrospect, intentional neglect. The fog of war was not limited to the jungles of Southeast Asia, but also to the Pentagon and White House, where insecurity and delusion carried the day. In 1965, the year Dillman entered the Army, 1,863 Americans were killed in Vietnam. By 1967, the year he arrived in the Vinh Binh Province, that number climbed to 11,153.

Despite the poor leadership, the questionable cause, and the ever-present fear within him, Dillman carried on. By the time the war began to enter a more belligerent, escalated phase early in 1968, Dillman was nearly at the end of his tour. He wrote back home early in 1968, “Just 50 more days.” Back on North Leithgow Street, George Dillman had even arranged for a “Welcome Home” sign and had it printed. The whole of the Dillmans’ block had a surprise party planned, to celebrate Wayne’s return, and his upcoming marriage to Mary.

Then the news came. Wayne Dillman had been killed when a vehicle he was traveling in hit a land mine. He was 20 years old. It was February 8, 1968. No one can ever be sure what was going through Dillman’s mind when he was killed. Was he thinking about home, about North Leithgow Street, about his parents, about his fiancé and the life he wanted to build with her? Was he thinking about the task at hand, the soldiers he served with, or just the days he had left? Like the tens of thousands of others who died in Vietnam—and the hundreds of thousands of Americans who have died fighting in all of our wars—these are among the questions no one can ever know. Back at home in Philadelphia, the “Welcome Home” signs came down, along with any sense of hope along North Leithgow Street. A few days later, George Dillman told The Philadelphia Inquirer, "He was our only child, but if anybody can use the signs they can contact me."

Wayne Dillman’s story is tragic. A life, in so many senses, unlived—one that was taken away from him not so much by enemy combatants or a stray landmine, but by the politicians and military officials that sent him there. It’s a story that encapsulates the worst that humanity, and America, has to offer. But then consider the fact that Dillman’s death was not unique. Not merely because 58,000 plus other Americans died fighting in Vietnam—but for the fact that another 63 graduates of Thomas Edison High School alone died in Vietnam.

Sixty three other names that now fill a few inches on the Vietnam Memorial wall in Washington walked the same halls, learned in the same classrooms, and ate the same school lunches as Wayne Dillman. They had names like Antonio Garcia, Henry B. Thomas, Duane G. Williams, James J. Allen, Francis A. Zerggen, Neely J. Singletary, and Alfred A. Purvis. Purvis had graduated from Edison High in June 1968 and had joined the Marines just before Christmas that year. In the ten months between Dillman’s death and Purvis’ enlistment, America had experienced more change than some decades have to offer. Nearly the same week Dillman had been killed, the Tet Offensive had commenced. On March 12, Richard Nixon won 78 percent of the vote in the New Hampshire Republican primary—while, on the Democratic side, anti-war Senator Eugene McCarthy won a shocking 42 percent, nearly beating President Lyndon Johnson. A few days later, on March 16, Senator Robert F. Kennedy announced that he too would seek the Democratic nomination. By March 31, President Johnson announced he would not run for a second term. A few days later, on April 4, Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated in Memphis. By November 5, Richard Nixon had won the presidency. And on December 12, 1968, Alfred Purvis began his tour in the Quang Nam Province in South Vietnam, as a member of Bravo Company, 1st Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment, 1st Marine Division.

Exactly two months and ten days later on February 22, 1969, Purvis was killed when he stepped on a boobytrap. He was 18 years old.

Unlike the Dillmans, Purvis’ parents were separated. His mother lived at 2021 N 19th St, while his father lived at 3116 Restwood St, both of which are far north of North Leighton Street. And unlike Wayne Dillman, Alfred Purvis—along with the majority of the Thomas Edison 64—was Black. He served a country that was fighting a war both abroad and at home, the former of which resulted in a loss and the latter of which resulted in a draw—and neither of which Purvis had the chance to see through to the end. Like his fellow classmates at Thomas Edison High School, Wayne Dillman and the rest, Alfred Purvis died carrying out orders. That day, he was told to march, so he marched. Just as a year prior, Wayne Dillman was told to get into the vehicle, so he got into the vehicle. They didn’t question command even though they may have questioned the cause at hand. They were young men—kids, in a real sense—who fought out of a sense of obligation and duty to this country that few others can understand. They were, and are, heroes whose lives meant something, even if their country didn’t seem to think so, and even if their parents never got to say “Welcome Home” to them.

Today, we don’t talk about the Vietnam War or teach its lessons in school. Just as the complications surrounding the Civil War are avoided, so too are the lessons of Vietnam. We should only remember America at its best, the thinking goes—our gallant World War II victory that saved humanity from destructive dictatorship—rather than recall the failures that led over 58,000 young American men to their deaths. It’s the same reason people rush to Independence Hall, to conjure up the American ghosts of wisdom, rather than travel a few miles up the road to Thomas Edison High School. Mostly, it’s understandable: how could a person ever know about a place they never knew existed? But if they did, they might understand that’s where the real lessons can be learned.

Sources:

https://www.virtualwall.org/js/Profile.htm

https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/14773075/alfred_alexander-purvis

https://www.newspapers.com/image/179846021/?terms=wayne%20t.%20dillman

https://www.militaryfactory.com/vietnam/casualties.php