Last weekend, we celebrated Veterans Day, a time set aside to honor those who wore the uniform.

In our little corner of God’s great geography, we saw towns and civic groups host vets while others stopped to thank individuals for their service.

Recently, some local vets boarded an Honor Flight to Washington, where they toured the many military monuments. The flight was a way for others to thank the men and women who served their nation. 

For those on that trip, a highlight was a visit to the stark Vietnam War memorial bearing the names of thousands of service members who did not come home. It is an almost sacred place where you frequently can see old warriors standing before the name of a long-lost pal. Sometimes the silent vigil involves tears. But many lost souls from that conflict are not mentioned on the long black wall.

Let me tell you the story of a U.S.Marine Vietnam War vet whose name is not carved on that imposing black stone wall. His name was Larry. He was a black inner-city kid who lived a thousand miles away from the rock-bound coast of Maine.

I met him on 10 November 1965 when Uncle Sam ordered us to report to a downtown building. I had been drafted. So had Larry.

As a couple of dozen of us waited in an office, a fat Army sergeant walked in and barked out an announcement. We need three Marines, he said. Any volunteers? The offer produced dead silence. After no one stepped forward, he did the honors himself. 

Pointing to the back of the room, he selected a big, strong guy and said he looked like a Viet Cong killer. Then he turned to me and said: You, "Sealed Beams" (my eyeglasses). Then he told the group: “When the n***r  in the corner wakes up, somebody tell him he is a Marine.”

That afternoon, they flew us to San Diego and hustled us into a bus that took us to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot. There, a trio of drill instructors began the two-month process teaching us the Marine Corps way to stand, salute, and shoot. It took just a couple of months to transform Larry from a slick "Diddy-Bopper" into a proud Marine. To say he was proud of his accomplishment was an understatement.

Fast forward the story about 10 years. I was working as a newspaper reporter covering the courthouse when I spotted Larry’s name on a docket. The judge let me talk to him.

Larry told me he went to Vietnam right after infantry training. There, in DaNang, another fat sergeant asked if he would volunteer for a special job that would keep him out of combat. Larry thought that was a good idea and signed up. They sent Larry to a unit called "Graves Registration." He worked there for the next 13 months, seven days a week, stuffing the arms and legs of fellow Marines into body bags that were to be sent stateside. By the time his tour was over, Larry was a stone junkie - a heroin addict.

Larry came home and brought that burden with him. That was the reason he was in court, charged with possession of a tiny bit of heroin. Larry asked me for help.

After our visit, I asked a friendly lawyer if there was any way he might help Larry. It would be pro bono, a freebie, as Larry could not afford legal fees. The lawyer nodded OK.When the judge called Larry’s name, the lawyer told the public defender he would take over the case. 

And he did. After listening to Larry’s story, the judge gave him a break on the condition that Larry go into rehab and try to put his life back together. The lawyer followed through on his promise and shepherded Larry into the VA rehab clinic.

After graduating from rehab, Larry needed work. A  friendly grocer gave him a job. His hard work impressed his bosses. Larry soon worked his way into the job as assistant manager.

Then, one day, I got a call from the friendly grocer who wondered if I had seen Larry. He had missed work for a couple of weeks. The grocer was worried.

I asked around but could not find any trace of Larry.

A month later, as I shuffled through a pile of police reports, I found Larry’s name. The report said he died from an overdose of heroin. 

It seemed the demons Larry thought he left behind in Vietnam returned to reclaim his very soul.

If you visit Washington and stop at the long black stone wall, you won’t find Larry’s name alongside others who died from wounds suffered in Vietnam. 

But, if I had my way, it would be.