The strains of “America the Beautiful” wafted out of the little gray stone funeral chapel at West Point as the two families of William Westmoreland – his immediate kin and the United States Army – prepared to lay the general to rest in what, we thought as we stood outside with a small knot of reporters, surely must be one of the most beautiful spots on which God has ever shed His grace. When the general’s family and friends emerged, they were led by his widow, Katherine, who was escorted by the officers now holding two of the posts Westmoreland had held, chief of staff of the Army and superintendent of the Military Academy. As the casket was carried down the steps, an honor guard came to attention, and a breeze blew in off the river and caused the general’s flag, with its four gold stars on a red background, to unfurl as if it were giving its own salute.

Westmoreland will be remembered for having personified in his time the West Point motto, “Duty, Honor, Country.” He’d proved his gallantry in World War II and again in Korea. In Vietnam, he had led what became one of the largest military expeditions in American history. He’d been sent to Saigon in 1964, after the catastrophe of the coup that President Kennedy had authorized in 1963 and that had resulted in the murder of President Diem, precipitating the war that defined a generation. Free Vietnam, in the years Westmoreland was there, faced and fought off one of the fiercest assaults any government has ever sustained. Millions of enemy soldiers were backed by both the Soviet Union and Red China. And when the general was in the thick of that fight, he asked his country for 200,000 more troops, only to be, on the recommendation of his civilian superiors, denied.

It is sometimes said that Vietnam was the first war that America lost. But there are those who understand that it wasn’t lost on the field of battle. What needs to be said at the time of Westmoreland’s passing is that he won, for his country and the Free World, the battle in the field. Even on Tet, in January 1968, when the enemy threw all its forces into an offensive that astonished the world, even then, the Americans and South Vietnamese and their allies were victorious in military terms. The enemy was devastated. What needs to be remembered is that the defeat came in the political arena when, early in 1975, Congress voted to halt the resupply of our ally, precipitating the retreat from the Central Highlands and the final communist conquest.

By then, Westmoreland had long since been brought home, where, while serving as chief of staff, he was cut out of the policy debate that led to the American withdrawal. After he left active service, he devoted his attention to the Vietnam veterans, who had not been welcomed home. He met with veterans in all 50 states. One admirer, who was involved with Westmoreland in that outreach, told us of the general meeting with a band of veterans in a bar in Lower Manhattan during a break in the libel case that the general had brought here in New York against CBS News. The network had implied that Westmoreland had been dishonest about enemy troop strength. The general sued to defend his honor. The suit was settled, but not before evidence surfaced that the network had violated its own standards and Westmoreland’s name was redeemed.

Westmoreland’s life bears reflection in the early years of what is going to be a long and controversial war. A new generation of officers is now in the field, risking not only their lives but also their reputations, and a new generation of young men and women is contemplating military careers. How inspiring they would have found the dignity, elegance, and modesty of the ceremony for this general, who had breasted the fiercest controversies of his day. There came a moment, after Westmoreland’s casket was placed over the grave, when the officer of the guard ordered a presentation of arms. There was the clack and slap of rifles being held out vertically. And then a silence, everything still. And then, suddenly, the cannons reported, one after another, 17 times as a signal of his rank, each enormous roar echoing in long ripples off the cliffs of the Hudson Valley. And then the valley fell silent and, in the dapples of sunshine of a summer day, the bugler played Taps.