I was an altar boy at St. John’s Church in East Bridgewater, Mass., my hometown (population 8,500 at the time). It was my mother’s idea. I would have preferred my father’s suggestion for a kid to make a few bucks on weekends: setting pins in an old bowling alley in a Brockton social club. But the more godly choice won out and I went into altar boy boot camp.

I learned all the Latin prayers only to have the Vatican approve the Mass in English a few months later. I wasn’t crazy about the gig, except for the weddings and funerals. You could make $10 if you were assigned to one of them.

There was one funeral, however, where it seemed disrespectful to even think about getting paid.

Marine Cpl. Peter Moskos was killed in Vietnam, in July 1967. He was the son of the town’s former police chief. I knew his younger brothers. His death marked the moment that the Vietnam War, remote and still obscure, became crystal clear to everyone in East Bridgewater. It was an honor to serve at his funeral.

Fifteen years later, I was a columnist for the Baltimore Evening Sun and a weekly feature reporter for WBAL-TV, assigned to cover the dedication of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington. One of the most profound experiences of my life occurred when I took a moment to find Peter Moskos’ name in the polished black granite of the memorial wall — Panel 23E, Row 29 — and it was the only time I ever wept as I tried to do my work.

I remember, near midnight at the Sun, trying to write a column about that experience. I longed for the comfort of my hometown. I even dialed the Commercial Club to see if anyone would pick up in the hopes of hearing a familiar voice. Dave Lovering did. He was a couple of years older than me, a terrific athlete in high school in football and track, very cool, always chewing gum like Sam Sheppard in “The Right Stuff.” It was closing time at the Commercial Club, but Dave, the bartender there, did me the great favor that night of lingering and listening as I poured my guts out about seeing Peter Moskos’ name on the wall. He understood. He remembered how we all felt when that long, futile and divisivewar came home to our small town on the South Shore.

We honor those we lost — in war and in peace — by remembering them.

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