Tonight, my assignment was to cover the memorial of a soldier who was killed over in Iraq Sunday. There were at least 100 people there by the war tank on the corner of Broad and Oak, including 30 or so of my AVMRA men and women. (Every single war-themed event, good or bad, without fail, you better believe there will be representatives from their group.) There was a service, with a Catholic Bishop and everything, as well as a Color Guard from the local Legion and VFW.
I've covered enough of these to be able to pretty much get by without getting emotional, and I pride myself on that. But as the old vets with the rifles shot off the 21-gun salute, damn it if those rag-tag shells of men in beaten-up leather didn't stand straight as arrows, saluting their flag as if they were the kids they used to be before the war beat them down.
And damn it if I didn't choke up.