August 30, 2004 - He was just one of those kids. You know the kind. He stood away from everybody else, with a detached, almost vacant look. You could see him there at his desk, head down, a pencil in his hand or a book spread open on the desk, never looking to the left or right. He wore tattered jeans and a faded shirt, the same one day after day. Nobody took him to the mall to get ready for school. He was always alone. He did not share in the chatter. He was never called down for talking in class. There was no one to talk to. You could see the other kinds sneak a sidelong look at him and snigger, “It’s my shirt from last year. Mom gave it to the Goodwill.” He always did well on tests but never turned in his homework. That is why he got bad grades.

His mother showed up once or twice for parent-teacher’s meetings. There wasn’t a father along. They were alone, just the two of them. Mom, she was barely 20 when he started kindergarten, hadn’t made it through high school. She supported them with what she could make slinging hash and hustling tips down to the truck stop. They made it through, but barely. The kids, and the teachers too if they could not be heard, called him “trailer trash”.

He had two uncles in the Army. His grandfather, the man he idolized and indeed the only man of significance in his life had worn the uniform in Vietnam. It was natural that he would be drawn to the service and they had the JROTC program in his high school. He signed up, forging his mother’s name to the signup form. She was too tired to bother with such things. He blossomed during high school. He was thrilled with the precision drill that they taught in the JROTC program and so he tried out for the flag corps. He was the only boy and it was a milestone when he was accepted. He had to stay eligible to keep marching and he made sure that his grades went up. His senior year found him listed in Who’s Who list of high schools students recognized for his academic excellence. He enlisted in the Army Reserves just after his 18th birthday.

He was killed in Tikrit last Wednesday. He was just 19; just one of the results of a catastrophic success. He is on his way home draped in the flag that they will fold in a tri-cornered bundle and hand to his mother as taps echo from the tape recorder and the American Legion firing squad sends off a ragged volley of blanks. Then the few gathered around will climb in their cars and drive off, trying to forget. He was just one in a thousand.