As you may recall, I have a fondness for this “hymn” from Mel Gibson’s movie, “We Were Soldiers.” In spite of its faulty orthodoxy. So sue me.

Yesterday I drove down to Kenyon, my home town, for a memorial service at a country church. A motorcycle group in the area does an honor ride every year for local people killed in action. This one was at the grave of a young man I graduated high school with, who died in Vietnam at the age of 19.

Gordie and I moved in different social circles (he was popular). But my brothers and I spent an afternoon with him and some other guys one summer afternoon, it must be going on 60 years ago now. Just walking the railroad tracks, wandering the woods, messing around by the river. Nothing illegal or dangerous. Just an easy summer day for country boys. Could even have been Memorial Day, I suppose. The woods we wandered were “Monkey Valley,” as we called it, a small river valley I renamed “Troll Valley” for a couple of my novels.