It was a magnificent thing. It was old, dented and tarnished, but otherwise in good shape. Long, long ago—before radios—the Army depended on bugles. They sounded the charge and retreat, moved units here and there, woke sleepy soldiers at dawn, sent them to chow, and played them to sleep (or buried them) with the sweet, mournful sounds of taps. This one belonged to a young captain, but how it found itself in his rucksack, here in the middle of nowhere in the mountains of Bosnia in December 1995, I really wanted to know.He was happy to tell the tale. “It belonged to my great grandfather in World War I. He was a bugler. My grandfather carried it all through World War II. My uncle carried it in Korea and he left it to me.”“Can you play it?” I asked. “Sure,” he said. “We all can. We’re all buglers.”He was true to his word. Soon after, our unit was asked to launch a quick reaction force by air to secure a downed helicopter. As our troopers lifted off, I reached for the handset to inform higher. Before I could, there was the captain, cradling his bugle.“Sir,” he said, “I thought we might send them off in style. I thought we might sound the charge over the radio.” I grinned. “You know this is the division command net, right?” He grinned back. “Yes, sir!” Holding the handset up, I pressed the push-to-talk switch and held it down. He brought the bugle up to his lips and begin to play. Across the division, the stirring notes of the charge echoed. Division was not amused, but to this day veterans of the unit recall the day we launched our boys to the call of the bugle.A few months later, the bugle found itself in Africa, where its owner played a vital role in evacuating American citizens from war-torn Liberia. A decade later, the boyish captain had grown up, and was now a seasoned major fighting with me in Iraq. All too often, we attended memorial services for fallen troopers. On occasion, when no military musician was available, the major would step in and play.Somehow, knowing the story of that bugle made the solemn ceremony more meaningful. As the soldiers filed by the helmet, rifle and boots to caress the dog tags of their friend and say goodbye, one could close their eyes and imagine those same haunting notes floating over the fields of the Meuse-Argonne, the Huertgen Forest or a lonely mountainside in Korea. More than once, we saw tears coursing down the cheeks of hardened combat soldiers, generals and sergeants major, as well as corporals and privates. There can be something both grand and awful about saying goodbye forever.There is a continuity that attends soldiers at war, running deep across great tracts of time. That ancient bugle gave expression to all the joy, and sorrow, triumph and sacrifice that make every soldier—the living or dead, so special and so irreplaceable. I often found myself wishing that the loved ones of the troopers we lost could be there to hear that sound and know where it came from. I was sure it would comfort them at a time when they needed it most.The story does not end there. In the years of war that followed 9/11, the man and his bugle returned again and again to the battlefield, in both Iraq and Afghanistan. There were many more ramp ceremonies and many more memorial services. In overpowering heat and bitter cold on mountains and plains, this great soldier and his bugle campaigned faithfully in foreign lands, just as his forefathers had done almost a century before.The Army life is often rendered more compelling and more deeply personal by these touchstones. The young private who wears his grandfather’s dog tags from Vietnam; the World War II guest book that sits in a glass case at headquarters; the ragged colors, decommissioned long ago but still tenderly displayed in the command sergeant major’s office; the shoulder patches and faded ribbons that so often adorn the graves of our fallen—these and countless other mementos speak across the generations. Like the bugle, they whisper: “Much has changed … but not everything has changed. What you are, we once were. We are with you.”My young officer and his bugle went far. Now, he wears eagles on his shoulders and works in Washington, D.C. After so much hard service, I like to think of him in this city of monuments. They are everywhere, in marble, bronze, granite and stone. In solemnity and majesty they whisper on behalf of a grateful nation, “We will not forget. We are with you.” Outwardly, my bugler is not much for sentiment. He is too much the warrior, and far too stoic for that. But if you asked him, he might say, “Sure, that makes sense. Think about it. A nation that forgets its heroes won’t be remembered itself for very long.”