It was the eleventh month and the eleventh day, just shortly after the eleventh hour, when it happened.

He bent over the campfire. A hand grenade came off his belt and fell into the fire. After serving a couple of years with Germans shooting at him and coming out unscratched, he died by his own grenade.

If, that is, that's what really happened. Aeschylus, the greek dramatist who lived from 525-456 BC, said (in greek) that "In war, truth is the first casualty." They didn't call it "fragging" until 'Nam, but it occurred in earlier wars - and what better time to get even with an officer whose harsh discipline kept you alive than when an armistice has been signed, and he no longer is critical to your survival.

So "Uncle John", as the family remembers him, didn't come back from The World War. The first one wasn't numbered, of course, until there was more than one of them; it was supposed to be the war to end all wars.

I won't post his picture here, although I could. He was dashing and handsome; his mother must have had a more appealing milkman than my mother had, for neither of us look like the majority of the family.

But I'll let you imagine what he looks like. Chances are, you'll fill in the details with the soldier, sailor, or airman that you know best, and that's what I really want you to do.

Mr. Bush declared victory more than five years ago. The greatest honor we can pay to our soldiers' memory is to not waste any more lives.

We're praying that "our" soldier, a young naval aviator named Danny, comes home in perfect physical condition, just as he was when we entrusted him to Uncle Sam. But at this point, we'll settle for getting him home alive. Several times a month, we hear about a local soldier returning home in a bag. No mas.

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Memorial Day - honor - soldier