It started behind us, and off to the left. The whup-whup-whup of helicopter blades chopping through the air. Swooping down louder and lower, until they filled the auditorium, choppers on all sides, passing over our heads.

Sure, it was simulated, a trick of flopping aluminum sheeting or the like in front of a microphone, with speakers hidden across the ceiling, but it sounded real. And it moved in from the rear, to attack the stage in front. Raising goosebumps, and tears, at the same time.

We were at Inchon.

The drone of the choppers chased away the peaceful tune of the flute soloist on stage, a young university musician in black and white tuxedo, and a bright red tie. And then the battle began, an organized cacophony of sounds, building to a crescendo of the full orchestra.

We were at Inchon.

In truth, we were at the high school auditorium. Listening to the District Honor Band. Sixty to seventy of the best high school musicians from nine schools across the south-central part of the state, gathered here to perform. Including youngest son with his baritone, and eight of his bandmates.

We were late arriving, the blame of which I placed solely on the wife's shoulders. But now the tension of the trip here is forgotten. There is only Inchon.

This was the third piece they played, and it began with the stage darkened, one of the musicians stepping forward into a circle of light to read a letter. A letter from a soldier in MacArthur's invasion force at the beach at Inchon. A letter from the battlefield to his son, which spoke of the gentle sounds of a Korean flute floating across the waters to the invading forces, soon drowned out by the beating of the choppers, and then the sounds and violence of war.

The reader was replaced by the flute soloist. Who was later overwhelmed by, and joined, the complete orchestra. It was a challenging piece, executed with talent and skill, sounding even better than those we heard at the Festival of the Winds. With alternating pulses of excited reverie, dutiful movement, and the darkness of sorrow. Eventually the music, and the choppers, moved off in the distance, fading away.

In the end, only the flutist was still playing.

The band's last number was actually a combination of three compositions, again all with a patriotic theme. In the middle was John Philipso's "The U.S. Field Artillery March". And in the middle of that, the band stopped playing.

And began to sing.

"Over hill, over dale, we have hit the dusty trail, and those caissons go rolling along..."

And they sang well. I think Mr. Sousa would have been proud.

This was most touching to me, because the District Honor Choir was sitting in the audience, awaiting their turn on stage. And as petty as it may be, choir has been a favored child at our high school, and band the forgotten bastard. It is unspoken, but one can sense many teachers and parents believed band was for those kids who could not sing. A place for leftovers.

But tonight the band proved otherwise.

It's not that the band is made of musicians who cannot sing.

But that the choir is made of musicians who cannot play.