CALL TO DUTY

"This is the global war on terrorism medal," she says. "This is his good conduct medal. And, of course, his Purple Heart. Here is the Silver Star. He was shot four times.

"This is him on prom night and graduation night. The prom was at the Howard Johnson in Meridian. This is another picture." She pauses. She stares at the six-foot blond with freckles scattered across his nose. "He always had a clear, direct way of looking at you," Mabry says. "If you would have known him. He was so young. So well-thought-of. He loved life. He took to life."

The china cabinet is what's left of Christopher Mabry, the grandson that Frances Mabry raised since he was a boy. His bedroom is down the hall, now darkened. She pulls out his letters from Iraq. In one, he asks if she could please send Pop Tarts, trail mix and razors.

I appreciate everything ya'll have done for me. I wish I was still at home, too, or at least in the states. I hate this place with a passion. You worry about getting blowed up or stabbed or shot in the back.

After her grandson was killed, faraway postmarks and fancier stationery kept arriving in her mailbox in the small Mississippi town of Chunky. There is the official Marine Corps letter from a Capt. C.J. Bronzi.

It is with the deepest regret and my most heartfelt sympathy that I write this letter to you.

And a letter from the White House, signed by President Bush. In her trove of memorabilia, Mabry also has a photo of herself with the president last year when he visited the Nissan plant. She holds the picture with particular pride. "He said, 'God bless your family, this country owes you,' " Mabry recalls. "When he learned that Chris's cousin was over there, too, big tears welled up in his eyes."

Chris Mabry knew he wanted to be a Marine from the time he was a junior at Clarkdale. In preparation for boot camp, he'd run up and down the highway wearing headphones. He'd run on the blistering track at school while the maintenance man cut the grass in the dead of summer. Seeing him out there made everyone feel proud because they knew he was determined to vault over the circumstances of his life and become a Marine. The only anger that Frances Mabry holds is toward the Marine recruiter who she says stood in her living room and said it was unlikely that Chris would be sent to Iraq. Of course, six months after boot camp he was in Iraq, and five weeks later he was dead at 19.

"The snipers set up an ambush," Mabry explains. "The Marine captain said they were outnumbered. Where they were, they really didn't have a chance. An ambush was set up. Chris was shot through the left thigh. His left arm was literally blown off, according to the autopsy report. He was shot through the right abdomen. The bullet that killed him went through the sixth and seventh rib, through the liver, the lung and apex of the heart. He survived for six hours."

She is reading from the autopsy report. A retired nurse, she wanted to know the details. Now she closes her china cabinet.

"The only way to preserve our freedom is to fight for it," she says. Her voice has a quiet dignity but also the weariness that comes with grief. "I feel like our president has done the best he could. I can't fault him because of Chris's death. Every bit of improvement we can make in their lives over there, try to reason with them to see that there's a better way, well, I'm for it."

A Different Path

Decision comes gradually

Blake Johnson is standing on the foul line with the Clarkdale Bulldogs in the late afternoon light. The bleachers are full, and hamburgers are grilling. When Faith Hill's voice begins singing the national anthem, hats are removed and hands are placed over hearts. Diane Johnson arrives by the third inning, after work. The Bulldogs lose but hold their own against a formidable team Blake Johnson describes as "rich preps who drive way nicer trucks than ours."

After the game, Johnson throws his bats into his truck, and guns into town with his friend Tanner Street, the right fielder. Street announces that he's signing with the Army Reserve.

"I'm going," Street says. "Nothin's gonna change my mind."

"That girlie might," Johnson says, of Street's longtime steady girlfriend.

"Not even that girl will change my mind," Street answers. His father, a retired sheriff's deputy, has just left Mississippi to take a better-paying job in Iraq training police officers. Street fumbles through a stack of CDs. The interstate lights bounce off his boyish face and brown bangs. "If I have to go over there and fight, that's fine with me. Hey, Blake, you got any George Strait? That song, 'Cross My Heart,' man, that's gonna be my wedding song."

Johnson listens to his friend, only 17 and already planning his wedding and his war. Johnson won't be enlisting. The decision doesn't come in a lightening-bolt moment. It occurs gradually, seeping in. While the death of Chris Mabry inspired some boys at his school to enlist, it sent Johnson's mind in another direction, focusing him less on pageantry or revenge and more on what happened that day in Anbar province.

"He was on watch," Johnson says, of Mabry. "There was a building. You know how the Alamo looks? Some stone-lookin' little house? He got shot through the stomach. I guess some Iraqi dude did it. They were taking him back to the hospital when he died."

Johnson's tone is reverent. His own path will be different. Instead of boot camp after graduation, he'll try to find a job -- "anything I reckon" -- and start community college in the fall.