(If I might begin by telling a quick story: A number of years ago on Memorial Day, just before the ceremony started, a man walked up to the scout master of the troop my son was in and said that the person who was supposed to read the Gettysburg Address couldn't make it. Did he have a scout who would read it? He handed him a copy of the Gettysburg Address. The scout master turned to my son Joe, handed him the paper, and asked him to read it.

I have attended many Memorial Day ceremonies and have heard many readings of the Gettysburg Address and I have always honestly felt that my son did the best job of any of them. After today, I'm going to have to stop telling this story, because today's reading was the finest I have heard.

Those are powerful words and they need to be read well. I'm thankful that today I was here to hear them.)

Recently, through the miracle of the Internet, I have been finding and contacting childhood friends. One friend I was particularly interested in getting in touch with is a guy named Jay Wright. I grew up in a small town in Oklahoma, but moved away at the end of the tenth grade, so I haven't seen Jay since then. I was excited at the prospect of finding Jay's phone number and calling up and saying, "Jay Wright?" and he would say, "Yes?" and I would say, "This is John Governale." and there would be this little pause while the gears of time ran backward, then he would say, "John Governale! How are you!?"

I didn't find Jay's phone number. I did, however, find his name -- inscribed on the Wall at the Vietnam Memorial.

Jay, at age 19, was killed in December of 1967. In email conversations with guys from his unit, I have learned what happened that day. Jay was an army medic serving with Charlie Company 4th of the 9th Infantry. Jay's best friend in the company was a 20 year old from Georgia named Billy Godfrey. Billy was either on point that day or was the second man back. The platoon came under attack and Billy and several other soldiers up front were hit. Under fire Jay Wright moved forward and was killed while trying to render aid.

(This morning my wife said she would be willing to listen if I felt I wanted to practice my remarks. I said, "No thanks, dear. If I manage to get through this once today, that will be enough for me.")

Knowing I had been asked to speak here this day, I have been at a loss to think what I might say. How can I adequately thank the many men and women who throughout our history have paid for our freedom.

Today as we stand here there are men and women in uniform who are in harm's way. And some of them are not going to make it back to this country alive. What am I going to say to them. What am I going to say to my friend Jay Wright who never got to vote because he was too young, but who, nonetheless, when his country called, stepped up and voted for freedom with the ballot of his life.

I have decided not to give a speech. With your permission and the kind permission of our honored dead, I would like today to simply read a poem. Although it's called The Unknown Soldier, it is dedicated to men and women of all branches of service.

Certainly with no intention of taking anything away from those who have died in the armed services, I would, if I may, like to also dedicate this poem to those Americans who, though they took no formal oath of allegiance, have found themselves enlisted by circumstances into the service of their country. I am particularly thinking of those aboard flight 93 who, when they heard over their cell phones that other planes had been high jacked and had been used like guided missiles to crash into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, said inside themselves, as surely as any soldier, sailor, marine, or airman would have, "Not this plane."

(For today's reading, I have changed a line that says "school band" to read "community band.")