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It's just a bronze plaque, maybe eighteen inches wide and two feet tall, bolted to the flat side of a large granite boulder. On the top of the plaque is some writing and a few dates. Then two rows of names, twenty-three in all. Arranged alphabetically. Frank's is the second name in the left column. They don't say on the plaque, but he died on Aug 2, 1969, on some hill with a number instead of a name, somewhere deep in the wild part of South Vietnam. The other twenty-two names died in Viet Nam, too. All twenty-three came from this town.

The rock sits in a pretty spot, high on a hilltop, at one end of a neatly planted grove of trees, below a flag that flies 24/7. I was reading the plaque for the, I don't know, maybe one hundredth time. Dawn was breaking over the mountain behind me, casting gory color all over the sky. The hills in the distance were California gold. Not a breath of air stirred. And way off in front of me, rows of gray ships sat forlornly, uselessly, in the bay, mothballed after service in some other wars.

Dad named me after his brother, Frank. I was born years after he died, but I am Dad's only son, so he saved the name for me. Maybe that's why Dad is so pissed. Went ballistic when I postponed college and enlisted. He doesn't want me to go off to war. He doesn't want to lose another Frank. But my training is finally over, and in ten days I'm headed out. After 911, I think I am doing the right thing, but seeing Uncle Frank's name on a bronze plaque does give me pause. People die in war. Even the ...

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