AUSTIN BAY RECOUNTS a conversation in Bagram.

On the desk was a picture of a young US Army second lieutenant. The pilot picked it up. “That’s my son. He just finished armor officers basic.”

I recognized the patch on the young man’s shoulder. Thirty years ago I served in the same division.

“Some day I may be flying strikes to support my son,” the pilot said, his voice soft steel.

I choked up. So did he.

“Thank you for what you do,” I said. “And for producing a son like that.”

Indeed. But read the whole thing.