Remember the Fallen

When I was a teacher, I had this wonderful idea to assign a research project complete with PowerPoint and speech. Not surprisingly, my students hated it. But I took pains to assign each student a topic that (a) needed to be covered and (b) the student would enjoy learning more about. Corah was assigned September 11.

I write that date, and chances are all of my readers know exactly what I mean. December 11 is just another day. April 11. June 11. But September 11 changed everything.

But what still strikes me is that Corah and her fellows were less than one year old when four planes went down in the largest attack on American soil. They remember nothing else. We have been at war nearly their entire lives. And yet, while we can remember a time before 2001 when life was different, fifteen years in, most of us don't spend much time thinking about it.

Memorial Day is one day a year we set aside to remember those who have died in war. All American wars. We may not know specific names of Revolutionary War soldiers, but we remember their sacrifice. We may not agree with the reasons behind our government's decisions to go to war, but we remember the men and women who answered the call.

We celebrate Memorial Day weekend as the opening of the summer season. We grill, we picnic, we parade, we shoot off fireworks. We get loud and rowdy.

But there is one place on American soil where you will hear nothing but the wind, and the clicking of highly polished shoes.

The men and women who serve as Guards at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington National Cemetery volunteer to do so and consider it a great honor. They are considered to be the best of the elite 3rd U.S. Infantry regiment, the best of the Old Guard. They guard the Tomb 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, in all weather conditions, and each guard is relieved at the 30 minute mark in the summer and the 60 minute mark in the winter. Think about that. On the coldest nights of the year, the soldier walks in wind, sleet, and snow for a full hour, when the rest of us curl up with hot chocolate and comforters. They are a special group of people.

They are not guarding their families. They are not standing vigil by the bedside of a sick friend. They are walking in front of a tomb where an unnamed soldier from World War I has been buried. Although the above-ground sarcophagus is for a soldier from WWI, there are three identical white slabs on the ground before it where unidentified soldiers from WWII, Korea, and Vietnam rest.

The unnamed is "known but to God," and symbolizes all of the fallen who remain unidentified. Yet the guards serve with dedication these men they do not know.

Because our soldiers are trained to do that. For all of us. I don't know the names of any soldiers sitting in the desert right now, but neither do they know mine. Yet they put aside their comfort, leave their families, and insert themselves into dangerous situations to stand between me and danger, just as the Guards at the Tomb carry their rifles on the shoulder closest to the crowd to symbolize standing between the Tomb and any possible threat.

Please God, bring our servicemen home soon and safely. But let us never forget those who have sacrificed all. Never forget.