Seventeen boys from our neighborhood in DC died in Vietnam.
It wasn’t a big neighborhood, just a few blocks square. Just working class kids who, when their country called, they answered, just like their fathers had in WWII. Just 17 boys who maybe could have cured cancer, but probably would have just gotten a job, gotten married, had kids, complained about the light bill, cooked-out on weekends, cried when their children married, rooted for the Redskins every chance they got, kept too many pictures of the grand-kids in their wallets. played slap and tickle with their spouses long after they were old enough to know better, laughed too much, cried too much and then died.
17 boys that most people will never know.
But a neighborhood, just a few blocks square, was blessed to know them, and we will not forget.