The chaplain stood forward at the podium and offered his words, and the words of God, in an attempt to weave them together into a meaning for this young man's life, and into a meaning for his death. When he was finished, the first sergeant marched forward from the back, between the rows of metal chairs. When he reached the front he stopped, performed an about face, and began his ceremonial role call.

With a loud booming voice he called out, "Pvt. Stacey."

"Here, first sergeant," a voice in the crowd answered loud and prompt.

"Sgt. Wade."

"Here, first sergeant," another voice loudly answered.

"Pvt. Bader."

No one answered back.

The first sergeant paused and then again called out, "Pvt. Anthony Bader."

There was no reply and the first sergeant paused again.

"Pvt. Anthony Wayne Bader."

The silence following his words was broken only by the firing of rifles in unison, just outside the bay. A few soldiers jolted or twitched when the crack of the first volley hit the air, but held still at attention for the other two. Then, the volley was made official by the all too familiar echo of taps, the melody of the fallen, and the theme song of war.

We were called to remain at attention as the members of command stepped forward to render their respect. As the haunting chords of the bagpipes began to resonate throughout the bay, members of the senior command stepped forward from the front row and marched up the stairs in twos to render a final salute to the symbols before them. They laid down their coins in appreciation, and knelt before the upturned rifle and the photo of the young man they had likely never met. They held his dog tags in their hands and bowed their heads, closing their eyes. And then after them, each of us in turn. I, myself, had never met this soldier either. But that did not matter. He was my brother.