nodded.
“I won’t forget.”
THE FOLLOWING MONTH
I returned to Fort Campbell twenty-nine days later.
This time, I did not come alone.
My daughter, Ellen, drove me.
She had been curious about the story, especially the letter. I had finally told her everything about Thomas, the photograph, and the afternoon in the dining hall.
When we entered, I noticed something immediately.
The photograph was still on the wall.
But the plaque beneath it had changed.
There were six names now.
Six young people.
Six lives.
And underneath them, a new
line had been added:
THEY WERE YOUNG, TOO. THEY WERE FRIGHTENED, TOO. AND THEY WERE SOMEONE’S CHILDREN.
I stood there for a long time.
Then I noticed another change.
A small framed copy of Thomas’s letter had been placed beside the photograph.
Not the entire letter.
Just the final paragraph.
The part about remembering.
A young soldier approached.
He looked nervous.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
I turned.
“Yes?”
“Are you Staff Sergeant Braddock?”
I smiled.
“I’m Quinn.”
He stood a little straighter.
“My grandfather served in Vietnam. He never talked about
