Respect. It’s not something I thought about often, before Arlington. But as the trumpet blared the military song “Taps,” all other noises vanishing, I took in just how many we lost. How many soldiers were forgotten. The low notes ring from the soldier’s trumpet. Silence ensued once more: and the crowd could have passed for a wax museum, even the birds were statues.
After a brief pause, a sergeant stepped to the center of the plaza, faced the crowd and exclaimed, “Today we shall witness an old tradition dating back to World War I, the changing of the guards ceremony…..”
Stepping down from the bus, thoughts of soldiers, trumpets, and respect were the last thing on my mind. All that crossed through my head was the raw bite of the early autumn mourning; the air like the waters of Lake Michigan after the spring thaw. I thought to myself, It’s a perfect mourning, the sun shining through the trees, a light breeze in the air, and not a cloud in the sky. Crossing through the threshold of the gate, we heard someone whistling a cheery tune from my home state of Michigan, called “Hail to the Victors.” Out from behind a bush, a cheery, middle aged man clad in Maize and Blue stepped. It was from him that the tune came, and I instantly liked him.
He explained that he was our guide and our tour began. The next few minutes, compared to what would occur next, are hazy and incomplete in my mind’s eye. If you asked me about them, I would be unable to tell you much. However I do hold a few details of our stop at John F Kennedy’s grave, or memorial rather. Cameras flashing, speech’s being read out loud. It was a minute of chaos, then of silence as a sharp whistle pierced the air, coming from our guide. It was time, the tomb was ahead. Our group was not the only one at the cemetery and, as we filled into the large granite floored plaza, that fact was made clear. We stood still and silent as a stone, scarcely moving as we watched the centennial march across the tomb. First to the left, moving his rifle to his other shoulder, then he would stare. He would stare at the small almost featureless tomb labeled with the inscription “Here rests in honored glory, an American soldier known but to God,” for twenty-one seconds, and as the time passed by, all that could be heard was the wind. He then turned, and walked the twenty-one steps to the other side of the tomb and faced it once more. We sat there silently as the soldier walked back and forth, his repetitive movements almost mechanical like an old windup toy. I wonder, how many times does he do that? Each day, week, and year.
After some minutes later, a sergeant and an old soldier grasping a trumpet came up by the right side of the tomb. He spoke to us, his voice deep, craggy, and gruff. He spoke about how this tomb, founded at the close of The Great War, had been guarded every day and night, no matter the weather, rain or shine.
“This tomb,” he growled in a voice soaked in pride “was guarded even when the rest of the world faced the worst. Even through World War II and 9/11, these men did not desert their post.”
Then, as the sergeant stepped to the side, the trumpet player raised the instrument to his lips. It was in that moment, that small fragment in time, that I looked. That I truly looked at the tomb, made of white marble, and with several wreath designs carved on the front. I realized how many soldiers were honored here. How many men had given up everything, even their humanity, to keep us free. Then I was saddened; remembering that no one would ever know who these courageous men were. Their sacrifice was before we kept accurate logs or had DNA testing. No one knew if these people, these American soldiers, were family, related to friends, or were complete strangers. As I noticed this a second guard appeared out of the shadow of a tree: then slowly and deliberately, he walked towards the tomb. The soldiers walked back and forth each walking half the tombs width. Their precise movements, stiff form and purposeful stride clearly showed that they must have done this hundreds of times. The guards switched places and the old guard melted away into the shadows.
The sergeant then announced, “I'd like to thank Kenowa Hills Middle School for accepting our invitation to lay wreaths on the tomb, would the four students please step forward.”
I wish I could have been me, I thought, But I’m glad Trent gets to do it. The students each placed a wreath in front of the tomb and we all had a moment of silence to honor and respect the dead soldiers of the Tomb. In this time, the people in the crowd appeared to be made of marble and even the air was frozen in place. Then, as our tour guide whistled “Hail to the Victors” we boarded our bus and departed for our next stop.
This moment was the event that stirred up my emotions the most on the Washington D.C. trip. This small snapshot in time revealed to me a string of emotions I had not experienced before. I felt deep regret that my freedom was based off of all this sacrifice. I felt sadness that so much life was forgotten and buried in this tomb. But, there was also, something else. There was also pride. It dawned on me that our country was able to take anything that the world threw at it, and it was still standing. Through all the wars, sacrifice and strife, our nation was as resilient as stone. If nothing else, our nation had--through great sacrifice--left a mark on the world.