- Hawaiian-born Allen Hoe was drafted in 1966.

He arrived in Vietnam in December 1967 just before the devastating communist surprise attack known as the Tet Offensive.

Here to share his story is acclaimed actor BD Wong.

(audience applauds) - As a teenager, my interests were surfing, hot rods, and chasing girls.

But in my family, you always heard stories about warriors because we Hawaiians live in a warrior culture.

Kids from my generation accepted you were going to serve.

I was sent to Fort Sam Houston and trained as a combat medic.

Most of my class got assignments to Vietnam, but I landed at the Presidio in San Francisco.

After a while, I started to ask myself, "Am I worthy?"

So I submitted a request for transfer to Vietnam.

The company first sergeant thought I was crazy.

I knew that.

But I also knew I needed to prove myself.

They assigned me to a long-range reconnaissance platoon.

The number-one job was staying alive.

As a medic, you are responsible for the health and welfare of every guy in your platoon.

On patrol, I never hesitated to be one of the first guys firing my weapon.

After a while, you feel invincible, no matter what kind of horrors you've seen.

I was on mandatory R&R when my unit went in to help some Green Berets and got overrun.

18 of my buddies ended up killed or missing in action on Mother's Day 1968.

The worst thing as a grieving parent is not knowing about the last moments of your kid's life.

So when I got back home, I found my friends' families and did what I could to offer comfort.

I got married to a wonderful woman, Adele.

We had two amazing sons.

Nainoa was our eldest.

His name means he who is without limits.

He was born the night of a full harvest moon.

When he was 12, I took him to the Vietnam Memorial Wall and showed him the names of the men I'd served with.

He grew up knowing their stories.

Later, we went to watch the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

Nainoa decided right then he wanted to be a soldier.

Joined the junior ROTC program, enlisted, aced Navy dive school, passed Ranger school the first time.

Nobody does that.

Finally, he became a first lieutenant for the 25th Infantry Stryker unit.

Nainoa loved serving.

He gave everything to his guys.

Mosul, Iraq, in 2005 was a dangerous place.

24/7 combat.

Saturday, January 22nd, Nainoa and his team were securing a polling place.

An enemy sniper identified him as the platoon leader.

The bullet tore through a gap in Nainoa's black jacket and pierced his aorta.

A medic worked to keep his heart pumping.

They raced through the streets to the aid station.

None of his guys would leave.

They just stood out in the rain, waiting.

A trauma nurse found Nainoa's pulse and sent him to the operating room.

But nothing could be done.

The day he was killed, there was a full moon.

Even now, whenever his men see a full moon, immediately they say, "That's our lieutenant."

For me and Adele, the world just stopped.

I was numb, in disbelief.

Adele was incredibly strong.

Our younger son, Nakoa, was set to deploy to Iraq but flew home instead.

He lived up to his name, he who is courageous, in the way he dealt with his brother's loss and shared our grief.

After being a soldier in Vietnam, I thought I knew what loss meant.

But let me tell you: until your son is killed in combat, you don't have a clue.

I had a button made with Nainoa's picture and the words My Hero to wear every day.

In May 2005, I was scheduled to speak at the Memorial Day ceremony at the Vietnam Wall.

That morning, I presented traditional Hawaiian leis to two nurses who'd served in Iraq and were being honored at the Women's Memorial.

I welcomed this young woman, Paula Coughlin, and started to put the lei over her head.

She grabbed the button on my chest and said, "I know him."

"That's my son," I said.

"I was his trauma nurse.

I was with him when he died."

We were both speechless.

Finally I said, "What a miracle.

What a blessing to meet you."

She told me how all 40 of Nainoa's guys knelt around his bed and prayed.

How she held his hand in his last moments.

How she would never forget his face.

I told Paula I knew deep in my heart that everything possible had been done to save my son's life.

That day at the wall, I shared Nainoa's story with the families gathered there in front of those 58,000 names.

Every year, it gets harder to talk about Nainoa's death.

I see the young kids who were part of my son's platoon suddenly growing up.

Becoming parents, becoming fathers.

That's what hurts the most.

My son was the best soldier I ever knew.

I've been able to serve him by sharing his legacy with younger soldiers.

I tell them about Nainoa and his battle buddies, about the men I fought with in Vietnam and the 18 guys I lost, 16 of them now buried in U.S. soil, because people need to hear those stories.

Each year on Memorial Day, Adele and I pause to remember the young men and women whose lives were cut short, their futures extinguished along with the hopes and dreams of their loved ones at home.

We honor them by saying their names and remembering the special moments in the lives of our heroes that brought us the most joy.

A hui hou, Nainoa.

Until we meet again.

(gentle orchestral music) (audience applauds)