From Huntingdon Valley, Pa., William E. Snow came with his wheelchair and his memories of Pearl Harbor. Herman Walton, once an Army truck mechanic near the front line in Germany, flew north from Columbus, Ga.

Marjory Doezel, who helped save the wounded in Europe, arrived in full dress uniform from Upstate New York. And Gene Mead, another former Navy man, brought his electric scooter all the way from a Chicago suburb.

On a Mall awash in patriotism yesterday, they again shared, perhaps for the very last time, a common mission and purpose.

They were there to be recognized, of course, for their during that awful time more than 60 years ago when the world seemed on the verge of collapse. Most long had wondered whether this tribute would ever take place.

They honored the Korean veterans, Mead said. "They honored Vietnam. They honored everyone else but World War II. So I thought we deserved something."

Yet something more than glory brought him and the thousands of others to Washington. Something akin to responsibility, a sense that they should be present to bear witness for those no longer able.

"The good master has been good to us to bring us all together," said the 82-year-old Walton, sitting alone on a chair in the middle of the great expanse of the Mall, a small American flag in one hand. He was missing one person in particular: R.B. Knotts, who grew up in the same Texas town and worked alongside him in the 767 Engineer Dump Truck Co. Knotts died in 1997.

"So many friends have gone on before," Walton said. "I'm sorry they didn't live long enough to see this."

Under a peerless blue sky, the dedication of the National World War II Memorial was also a reunion, with many men and women searching the multitudes for a familiar face. Or, at the least, a familiar insignia on a hat, vest, jacket.

Wesley D. Moore of Center Ossipee, N.H., wore the "Hells Bells" cap of his Army Air Forces fighter squadron for that very reason and parked himself prominently on a Mall bench.

"I came to look for guys I haven't seen in 65 years," he said, not since the 316th fought through the sandstorms of Libya, Egypt and Tunisia, then in the skies over Italy, France and Germany. Moore knows that few of these buddies are left; since June, four of the 11 men at his squadron's last gathering have passed on.

Did he come to the Mall for them? "Absolutely," he declared. "We were like one big family. We lived together 24 hours a day. We played together, fought together, ate, worked together."

With the best of that era's big-band music entertaining block after block -- huge screens showed dancers swinging on stage as "Chattanooga Choo-Choo" and "In the Mood" wafted through the air -- the hours preceding the dedication ceremony took on a magical, vintage aura.

It was not just that strangers were spontaneously coming up to the veterans, offering a heartfelt thank-you, taking their pictures, asking for autographs. The guests of honor confessed to being stunned by the reception.

"I was hugged by nearly three or four women," said Frederick Choromanski of Fairfield, Conn.

Choromanski, who served with the 43rd Army Infantry Division, was an understandable attraction, his uniform decorated with a Bronze Star, a Purple Heart and numerous other medallions and distinctions from his tour throughout the Pacific. In Saipan, the Japanese "almost blew my left arm off." He spent almost all of the next three years in a hospital recovering.

"He said, 'If I live to this time, we're coming,' " his wife, Evelyn, said as the couple walked through the crowds.

"There are a lot of memories," her husband, now 85, acknowledged. "Everything is very touching."

Repeatedly, emotions were evoked, often for little moments these men and women never had anticipated. Jim Halliburton, an Army Airborne veteran from Indianapolis, started to choke up again as he recalled what had happened the day before while he and two other members of VFW Post 10003 played tourist at a museum.

Out of nowhere, a class of students came up to them and shook their hands.

"That was the nicest thing that ever happened in my life," said Halliburton, 79. "I had a hard time keeping the tears down."

And sitting in the front row of one section of seats, Marjory Doezel struggled to explain, without crying, why she had traveled to Washington. Why she had arrived shortly after 10 a.m. yesterday, not minding a lengthy wait. Why the memorial felt so important to her.

She could not.

She talked about her seven years as an Army nurse in Iceland, England and France. "We were the first unit to go overseas," even before Pearl Harbor, she said. The Battle of the Bulge found her working at a hospital in France, where the wounded who had survived field triage were sent for "the long stays."

Doezel made a career of the Army and retired a full colonel. She met her husband in the Army and buried him at Arlington. At 88, she is looking back on the sweep of her life.

"It was just the personal sacrifice that we made," she said in one attempt at explaining.

"Just to see it, it's just all these years," she said in another try.

And finally:

"I'm still here," she said softly. "So many have died."

Crowds flock to the National World War II Memorial after the dedication. During the day, veterans said, strangers on the Mall came up to thank them, take their pictures and ask for autographs.Wendell Turner, 77, of Wauchula, Fla., watches the big-screen video of the dedication ceremony. Turner, who trained pilots for the Army Air Corps, said, "Many of the young men I trained didn't come home." Martin O. Weddington of St. Paul, Minn., a third-class corpsman in the Navy, greets well-wishers near the Reflecting Pool.

Jose Ramos Chavez, who served in the Army's 2nd Infantry Regiment, 5th Infantry Division in Normandy, holds a flag.

Edward Collins of Siletz, Ore., was with the 7th Infantry Regiment, 3rd Division in North Africa, Sicily, Anzio and France.