Reflections, Poetry and Prose

This page will is devoted to thoughts, feelings, memoirs, etc. evoked by the Tomb and/or the Sentinels who stand watch over the Unknowns. If you have a piece to add, please forward it to the Webmaster.

"This story [of the battle] shall the good man teach his son, And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by From this day to the ending of the world But we in it shall be remembered We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. For he today that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition."

William Shakespeare, "Henry V" Act IV, Scene III

"...that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain..."

Abraham Lincoln
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
November 19, 1863

The above excerpt was written by Sgt Robert V Condon (69-70)

HERE RESTS IN
HONORED GLORY
AN AMERICAN  
SOLDIER
KNOWN BUT TO GOD

        I soar now, high among the clouds, aloft with the eyes and wings of an Atsah, the proud eagle, peering down on the plush green hills. They roll beneath me in the softness and tranquility of that which holds what I once was. I stand on aerial watch with the lone companion to my sacrifice. He walks his steady pace for me, never wavering from his duty, always aware. He does not know me and that is why he walks. I was chosen at random to represent what he now guards. I am unknown.

       I was not always this way. Born to a proud heritage, I once walked the sacred soil of my people as a member of the Navajo Nation. Steeped in the culture and tradition of a people long of this land, I was one of a long line of Navajo, the Dine’, who stood tall under the banner of two lands – that of my ancestors, ancient inhabitants of the pueblo studded cliffs of the desert, and that of the United States, the country I call my own. Born to two nations, I volunteered in my youth to serve the latter and by doing so, served them both.

        Woz-cheind, February, the year of 1945 - I am proud to be a Marine, a Washingdon be Akalh Bi-kosi-la, serving my country, my nation, and my family in the long fight against the tyranny of Japan, the Beh-na-ali-tsosie, the destroyers of life. A “Code Talker.” I listen and talk, the words I hear are only meaningful to me and my brother on the other end of the line. Our mission is to relay the words of our captains so the Beh-na-ali-tsosie cannot understand. We are the Bah-has-tkih, the secret, which the Beh-na-ali-tsosie will never solve. Our ship approaches the beaches of Iwo Jima. We have been told that this is the fight of all fights. We must take this island to take Japan. We think we are ready. Our spirits are high, and I know that the spirit of the Dine’ is with me. I will serve well and do my best.

        The companions still walk, each in turn as the days and weeks and months roll by, never-ending in their repetition. They never falter in their steps, they never waiver in their service. They have been with the shell of my former body since I was laid here to rest with my fallen brothers so many moons ago. I was only a young man when the change came for me.

        Pressed against the rock cliffs of Mt. Suribachi, relaying the words of my Commander to the ships we had left only three days ago. “Tell them to adjust the close air support closer to our position,” the Captain yells above the din of the satchel, charges exploding near our heads. “We can’t locate all the pillboxes and tunnels near us. The only way to flush the enemy out is to force them to try and reclaim ground we’ve already taken.”

        I raise the microphone to speak and pull the code, the Yil-tas, from my mind. The words flow, each with a special meaning only another Code Talker can understand. Moments later the whine of the Gini, the Marine dive-bombers, shake the ground beneath us. The Holy Ones must surely be angry today as they watch so much death and pain. For a brief moment, I am back in the land of my family, playing the Shoe Game with the others, laughing and reveling in the traditions of my youth. Later, we go out into the night air and stand on the rim of Canyon de Chelly, the center of the Dine’, and stare upwards into the heavens. I take great pride and comfort in knowing that my ancestors soar above me. I go back into the Hogan and sit and listen to my grandfather and the other elders tell me again of how the Dine’ came to this land, of how the Holy Ones prepared this world for the Dine’ and of how the Dine’ passed from the First World into the Four Worlds. Sitting quietly, I hang on their every word, my soul swelling with the pride of my people.

        An explosion rocks the cliff wall beside my head. The Marine Gini pulls away as his ordinance shatters the basalt and forces us to pull back until the smoke clears. I weep quietly inside. The Dine’ have always held a great respect for the land. Father Sky, Mother Earth, the Holy Ones, my brothers are one with each other. Yet here I sit, adding the destruction of that which my clans have always taught me to protect at all costs. The conflict within me is great. But, I must go on. My nation, both my nations, needs me now. I must do what I can to contain and destroy the evil before it threatens what I hold dear.

        Night has come to this most serene place. I still soar with the currents of the now-black air. The companions are still there. They never leave me. Always silent, always reverent, they walk their post with quiet dignity. One arrives; they speak quietly, then one leaves. Countless moons have come and gone yet they are always there. The heavens open and the tears of the holy ones fall, sometimes with brilliant flashes of their anger, yet the companions still walk. The cold white comes and the green hills sleep, yet they still do not miss their steps.

        Watching them makes me proud of what was given. My very name was lost, and now they protect that sacrifice with all they have. They stand and walk and stand and walk. They never flinch. I am sure they are part of the Dine’. They stand so others may pay respect to the courage of those who have died to make this land free.

        The fighting is getting worse. I scramble to stay with my Captain; the radio and pack slow me down. Inside my soul, I find the will of the Dine’ driving me on. We are moving slowly. In three days, we have moved only the distance across the Tseyi, the canyon, of my youth. My Captain yells again above the roll of battle. I am to relay that Mt. Suribachi is surrounded and that the close air support should shift east to the flatter part of the island so the mountain can be taken. I lift the mouthpiece and send the message. My rifle in one hand, gripping earpiece with the other, I listen as my brother Navajo on the ship tells me that the order has been given. The Gini pull away and move to flush out the enemy Oh-behi, the snipers, from their holes. The Captain raises his hand and we are up again, this time running up the loose shale.

        I cannot keep up. Each step I take in the volcanic ash causes the earth to give way under me. My Captain disappears into the smoke of battle. I am unaware that it is the last I will see of him in this lifetime.

        The flash of light is great; I struggle to walk through the smoke. In the clearing ahead, I see my Grandfather sitting by the fire. He is smoking his pipe – I wonder if this is the origin of the smoke? He looks up at me, his face is strong yet grim, he points in the direction behind me. As I turn around, I see the essence of my shell - I am torn. The pieces of my body scatter to the winds and I am no more. The landmines placed by the enemy have found their mark. I struggle to pull my shredded body up to safety, but my arms no longer work. I sink into a well of darkness. My last thoughts are of my people, the Dine’, and of my final “Walk with Beauty.” As my mind slips into death, I feel the serenity of my Grandmothers. I am at peace.

        They could not find my name. The dog tags from around my neck had been blown away from the force of the explosion and buried deep into the side of the mountain of my death. The remains of my body were gathered and placed with the thousands of others who also went to the Fifth World that day. Later, many doctors would try to identify me, but the damage was too great. My body was placed with the bodies of my brothers and marked with a simple stone bearing the word “Unknown.” I rested there until much later, when I was taken from the warm soil and placed next to others who had given their names as well.

        I look down onto the plush, green hills. Many have come to this place to watch the companion and see the final grave of my body. Crowds gather and watch, the silence among them deafening. Their hearts pound as they approach this place, this “Walking with Beauty.” They cannot see me watching, but I see all of them. The companion walks his rounds, pausing at each end to face my Tomb and then turns and walks again.

        His Sergeant approaches and posts the companion to his small box. Saluting my brothers and me, he turns and speaks to the crowd. “My name is Sergeant Tish, Commander of the Relief, Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The ceremony you are about to witness is a Wreath Laying Ceremony, conducted today by Veterans of the Battle for Iwo Jima in World War Two.” The aged heroes walk slowly down the steps to the plaza and place their shaking hands on the wreath. I look at their faces as they move slowly with the Sergeant to the mat. The face of one is the face I saw so many years ago.

        My Captain.

        He has not forgotten me! He has come here, not knowing that I rest beneath this soil, to remember my life, my death, and what I gave for him. I see into his heart and view the journey of his life. He wept for my loss that day and on many days after.

        When the horrible war ended, he had journeyed to the land of the Dine’ to tell my family and my people of my courage and sacrifice. “The war was won because of soldiers like your son,” he spoke quietly to the elders of my clan. “I am sorry his body was never found.” Stepping quietly from the Hogan, he walked into the night air and peered over the rim of the Tyesi. Behind him, young children played as he wondered to himself if my death was his fault. All his life he carried that burden.

        And now he has come to the place of my eternal “Walk with Beauty.” He stands there, his face streaked with the tears from years of struggle, his heart filled with the same courage he now judged me to have had; his head held high.

        Looking to the sky, he catches a glimpse of my wings spread to the wind. His heart leaps, then rests quietly. His mind clears and he snaps his hand to his brow and renders the Tomb, my brothers and I, his most reverent honor.

        The hills beneath me fill each day with the soldiers of this land. They give of themselves without thought of their sacrifice. They lie in peace. And in the center of this place is the companion. And me.

        I am Navajo. I am Dine’. I am unknown to the world, yet I am known to all. I was a Code Talker. And I am proud.

 Known But to God by Pam Tish

THE COURAGE OF SAM BIRD
by B. T. Collins

I met Capt. Samuel R. Bird on a dusty road near An Khe, South Vietnam, one hot July day in 1966.  I was an artillery forward observer with Bravo Company, 2nd/12th Cavalry, 1st Cavalry Division, and I looked it.  I was filthy, sweaty, and jaded by war, and I thought "Oh, brother, get a load of this".  Dressed in crisply starched fatigues, Captain Bird was what we called "squared away" - ramrod straight, eyes on the horizon.  Hell, you could still see the shine on his boot tips beneath the road dust.

After graduation from Officer Candidate School, I had sought adventure by volunteering for Vietnam.  But by that hot and dangerous July, I was overdosed on "adventure," keenly interested in survival and very fond of large rocks and deep holes.  Bird was my fourth company commander, and my expectations were somewhat cynical when he called all his officers and
sergeants together.

"I understand this company has been in Vietnam almost a year and has never had a party," he said.

Now we officers and sergeants had our little clubs to which we repaired. So we stole bewildered looks at one another, cleared our throats and wondered what this wiry newcomer was talking about.

"The men are going to have a party," he announced, "and they're not going to pay for it.  Do I make myself clear?"

A party for the "grunts" was the first order of business!  Sam Bird had indeed made himself clear.  We all chipped in to get food and beer for about 160 men.  The troops were surprised almost to the point of suspicion - who, after all, had ever done anything for them?  But that little beer and bull session was exactly what those war-weary men needed. Its effect on morale
was profound.  I began to watch our new captain more closely.

Bird and I were the same age, 26, but eons apart in everything else. He was from the sunny heartland of Kansas, I from the suburbs of New York City. He prayed every day and was close to his God.  My faith had evaporated somewhere this side of altar boy.  I was a college dropout who had wandered into the Army with the words "discipline problem" close on my heels. He had graduated from The Citadel, South Carolina's proud old military school. If ever a man looked like a leader, it was Sam Bird.  He was tall and lean, with penetrating blue eyes.  But the tedium and terror of a combat zone take far sterner qualities than mere appearance.

Our outfit was helicoptered to a mountain outpost one day for the thankless task of preparing a position for others to occupy.  We dug trenches, filled sandbags, strung  wire under a blistering sun.  It was hard work, and Sam was everywhere, pitching in with the men.  A colonel who was supposed to oversee the operation remained at a shelter, doing paper work.
Sam looked at what his troops had accomplished, then, red-faced, strode over to the colonel's sanctuary.  We couldn't hear what he was saying to his superior, but we had the unmistakable sense that Sam was uncoiling a bit. The colonel suddenly found time to inspect the fortifications and thank the men for a job well done.

Another day, this time on the front lines after weeks of awful show, we were given something called "coffee cake" that had the look and texture of asphalt paving.  Furious, Sam got on the radio phone to headquarters. He reached the colonel and said, "Sir, you and the supply officer need to come out here and taste the food, because this rifle company is not taking one
step further."  "Not a good way to move up in the Army," I thought. But the colonel came out, and the food improved from that moment.  Such incidents were not lost on the men of Bravo Company.

During the monsoon season we had to occupy a landing zone. The torrential, wind-driven rains had been falling for weeks.  Like everyone else I sat under my poncho in a stupor, wondering how much of the wetness was rainwater and how much was sweat.  Nobody cared that the position was becoming flooded.  We had all just crawled inside ourselves. Suddenly I saw
Sam, Mr. Spit and Polish, with nothing on but his olive-drab under-shorts and his boots.  He was digging a drainage ditch down the center of the camp.  He didn't say anything, just dug away, mud spattering his chest, steam rising from his back and shoulders.  Slowly and sheepishly we emerged from under our ponchos, and shovels in hand, we began helping "the old man" get the ditch dug.  We got the camp tolerably dried out and with  that one simple act transformed our morale.

Sam deeply loved the U.S. Army and traditions.  Few of the men knew it, but he had been in charge of a special honors unit of the Old Guard, which serves the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington National Cemetery and participates in the Army's most solemn ceremonies.  He was the kind of guy whose eyes would mist during the singing of the National Anthem. Sam figured patriotism was just a natural part of being an American. But he knew that morale was a function not so much of inspiration as of good boots, dry socks, extra ammo and hot meals.

Sam's philosophy was to put his troops first.  On that foundation he built respect a brick at a time.  His men ate first; he ate last.  Instead of merely learning their names, he made it a point to know the men.  A lot of the soldiers were high-school dropouts and would-be tough guys just a few years younger than himself.  Some were scared, and a few were still in
partial shock at being in a shooting war.  Sam patiently worked on their pride and self-confidence.  Yet there was never any doubt who was in charge. I had been around enough to know what a delicate accomplishment that was. Half in wonder, an officer once told me, "Sam can dress a man down till his ears burn, and the next minute that same guy is eager to follow him into hell."  But he never chewed out a man in front of his subordinates.

Sam wouldn't ask his men to do anything he wasn't willing to do himself. He dug his own foxholes.  He never gave lectures on appearance, but even at God-forsaken outposts in the Central Highlands, he would set aside a few ounces of water from his canteen to shave.  His uniform, even if it was jungle fatigues, would be as clean and neat as he could make it. Soon all of Bravo Company had a reputation for looking sharp.

One sultry and miserable day on a dirt road at the base camp, Sam gathered the men together and began talking about how tough the infantryman's job is, how proud he was of them, how they should always look out for each other. He took out a bunch of Combat Infantryman's Badges, signifying that a soldier has paid his dues under fire, and he presented one to each
of the men.  There wasn't a soldier there who would have traded that moment on the road for some parade-ground ceremony.

That was the way Sam Bird taught me leadership.  He packed a lot of lessons into the six months we were together. Put the troops first.  Know that morale often depends on small things. Respect every person's dignity. Always be ready to fight for your people.  Lead by example.  Reward performance.  But Sam had another lesson to teach, one that would take long and painful years, a lesson in courage.

I left Bravo Company in December 1966 to return to the States for a month before joining a Special Forces unit.  Being a big, tough paratrooper, I didn't tell Sam what his example had meant to me.  But I made a point of visiting his parents and sister in Wichita, Kan., just before Christmas to tell them how much he'd affected my life, and how his troops would walk off
a cliff for him.  His family was relieved when I told them that his tour of combat was almost over and he'd be moving to a safe job in the rear.

Two months later, in a thatched hut in the Mekong Delta, I got a letter from Sam's sister, saying that he had conned his commanding officer into letting him stay an extra month with his beloved Bravo Company.  On his last day, January 27, 1967 - his 27th birthday - the men had secretly planned a party, even arranging to have a cake flown in.  They were going to "pay back the old man."  But orders came down for Bravo to lead an airborne assault on a North Vietnamese regimental headquarters.

Sam's helicopter was about to touch down at the attack point when it was ripped by enemy fire.  Slugs shattered his left ankle and right leg. Another struck the left side of his head, carrying off almost a quarter of his skull.  His executive officer, Lt. Dean Parker, scooped Sam's brains back into the gaping wound.

Reading the letter, I felt as if I'd been kicked in the stomach.  I began querying every hospital in Vietnam to find out if Sam was still alive. But in June, before I could discover his fate, I was in a fire fight in an enemy-controlled zone.  I had thrown four grenades.  The fifth one exploded in my hand.  I lost an arm and a leg.

Nearly a year later, in March 1968, I finally caught up with Sam.  I was just getting the hang of walking with an artificial leg when I visited him at the VA Medical Center in Memphis, Tenn.  Seeing him, I had to fight back the tears.  The wiry, smiling soldier's soldier was blind in the left eye and partially so in the right.  Surgeons had removed metal shards and damaged tissue from deep within his brain, and he had been left with a marked depression on the left side of his head.  The circles under his eyes told of sleepless hours and great pain.

The old clear voice of command was slower now, labored and with an odd, high pitch.  I saw his brow knit as he looked through his one good eye, trying to remember.  He recognized me, but believed I had served with him in Korea, his first tour of duty. Slowly, Sam rebuilt his ability to converse. But while he could recall things from long ago, he couldn't remember what he had eaten for breakfast. Headaches came on him like terrible firestorms. There was pain, too, in his legs.  He had only partial use of one arm, with which he'd raise himself in front of the mirror to brush his teen and shave.

He had the support of a wonderful family, and once he was home in Wichita, his sister brought his old school sweetheart, Annette Blazier, to see him. A courtship began, and in 1972 they were married. They built a house like Sam had dreamed of - red brick, with a flag-pole out front.  He had developed the habit of addressing God as "Sir" and spoke to him often. He never asked to be healed.  At every table  grace, he thanked God for sending him Annette and for "making it possible for me to live at home in a free country."

In 1976, Sam and Annette traveled to The Citadel for his 15th class reunion. World War II hero Gen. Mark Clark, the school's president emeritus, asked about his wounds and said, "On behalf of your country, I want to thank you for all you did." With pride, Sam answered "Sir, it was the least I could do." Later Annette chided him gently for understating the case.  After all, he had sacrificed his health and career in Vietnam.  Sam gave her an incredulous look.  "I had friends who didn't come back," he said.  "I'm enjoying the freedoms they died for."

I visited Sam in Wichita and phoned him regularly.  You would not have guessed that he lived with pain every day.  Once, speaking of me to his sister, he said, "I should never complain about the pain in my leg, because B.T. doesn't have a leg."  I'd seen a lot of men with lesser wounds reduced to anger and self-pity.  Never a hint of that passed Sam's lips, though I knew that, every waking moment, he was fighting to live.

On October 18, 1984, after 17 years, Sam's body couldn't take any more. When we received the news of his death, a number of us from Bravo Company flew to Wichita, where Sam was to be buried with his forebears. The day before the burial, his old exec, Dean Parker, and I went to the funeral home to make sure everything was in order.  As Dean straightened the brass on Sam's uniform, I held my captain's hand and looked into his face, a face no longer filled with pain.  I thought about how unashamed Sam always was to express his love for his country, how sunny and unaffected he was in his devotion to his men.  I ached that I had never told him what a fine soldier and man he was.  But in my deep sadness I felt a glow of pride for having served with him, and for having learned the lessons of leadership that would serve me all my life.  That is why I am telling you about Samuel R. Bird and these things that happened so long ago.

Chances are, you have seen Sam Bird.  He was the tall officer in charge of the casket detail at the funeral of President John F. Kennedy. Historian William Manchester described him as "a lean, sinewy Kansan, the kind of American youth whom Congressmen dutifully praise each Fourth of July and whose existence many, grown jaded by years on the Hill, secretly doubt." There can be no doubt about Sam, about who he was, how he lived and how he led.  We buried him that fall afternoon, as they say, "with honors."

But  as I walked from that grave, I knew I was the honored one, for having known him.

READER'S DIGEST,  May, 1989

"I didn't learn about leadership and the strength of character it requires from an Ivy League graduate course.  I learned by watching one tall captain with proud bearing and penetrating eyes."

I am a Badge Holder by Scott Tish (75-76)

            I am a BadgeHolder. Twenty-two years ago, on November24th, 1975, at 1000 hours, I stepped onto the mat and began my final walk as a "New Man." Six BadgeHolders, two from each relief, watched from the plaza. Two watched my walk, two watched my weapons manual and two timed me. For the entire hour I was the center of their collective attention. I never knew they were there.

            Immediately following the 1100 guard change, I was escorted to the day room in the quarters, where I was critiqued and then questioned. “Where is Abner Doubleday buried? How many unknowns are interred in Arlington? Describe in detail the construction of the Tomb. What are your general orders? What are your special orders?” At the end I was given a written exam consisting of 150 questions. Passing was 100 %.

            Later that day I stepped onto the mat again, only this time I was no longer a NewMan. This time I wore the Badge.

            My time at the Tomb began almost seven months earlier. On a cool, sunny day I entered the front gate of Arlington National Cemetery and strolled up to the bottom of the east steps. There stood the Sentinel, the mat having been repositioned to the bottom of the stairs due to a renovation project on the south side of the plaza. I quietly took up residence off to the side and began to watch as the guard made his appointed rounds.

            I was in awe. For almost seven hours I stood motionless, watching and listening. And then it happened.

The Tomb spoke to me.  

            Not voices in my head, not the wind in my ears, but in my heart. I knew I had to stand there, on that long black mat. I knew I had to be part of the legacy that stood before me, ever vigilant in his reverence.

And so my journey began. I went on to work at the Tomb as a member of the Third Relief. For almost sixteen months I stood watch over the final resting place of men who gave the ultimate sacrifice for their country. And when it came my time to move on, I took my last walk on October 7^th, 1976. I went on to live the rest of my life, confident in the knowledge that while my time at the Tomb had been short, I had stood my watch to the very best of my ability. On my watch, the Tomb and what it stands for had not been disturbed. On my watch, the buddies had slept well.

During the first weekend in April in 1998, I returned to the beginning of my journey. There, surrounded by the peace that can only be found on the plaza, I was joined by almost 200 other BadgeHolders. We came together for one reason – to pay our respects once again to the Unknowns. Quietly, showing the same respect and discipline we had fostered years earlier, we stepped onto the plaza and rendered honors to those interred there before us. A wreath was laid, and each of us placed our own tribute just inside the mat we all knew so well.

            Pausing for a moment after placing my rose, I reflected on this, the moment I knew would someday come. I saluted my fallen brethren, turned and walked slowly off the plaza. Later that day, after all the good-byes had been said and most had left for their homes, I returned to the place where my journey had begun so many years ago. 

Standing in the same spot where I had remained motionless that fateful day, I once again closed my eyes and listened.

And once again the Tomb spoke to me.

            The Tomb Of The Unknown Soldier lives in the hearts of us, those that stood this most sacred watch. It speaks to us each day.

Honoring Our Heroes by Katy Feirman

    Many men and women have fought for the glory, pride and freedom of our country. They deserve to be honored for giving their lives for our country. I wish to present the wreath at The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier to honor my father and other members of my family who served or are now serving our country. I want to honor the people who fought next to my father and died and to honor the people who gave their life for our country since our country began.

    I want to present the wreath at the Unknown Soldier’s Tomb to honor my father, Lance Corporal Frank Feirman, who was wounded in Vietnam. He fought in Vietnam against the communists and was actually only in the war for 2 months before being wounded. He received a Purple Heart for being wounded in action. My father was first treated in the field and then transported in a helicopter to a field hospital for surgery.  From there he was airlifted to a hospital in Japan where he was stabilized for the trip home.  He was sent to St. Albans Naval Hospital in Queens, New York where he stayed until he was medically discharged from the Marine Corps. He then transferred to the Bronx VA Hospital. He spent 22 months in the hospital and had many surgeries. The bullet went in his back, fragmented and pieces went through his liver and right kidney and out on the right side. The problem was that some fragments lodged in his spine.  Now because of a little fragment of a bullet, he was a paraplegic for life at the age of 19. Because of war he cannot walk without someone to support him, crutches or his wheelchair. Many of his life functions have been affected as well. War made his life harder to live than anyone else that did not experience the tragedy of war. I have never seen my father walk with out some kind of support.  I never had a father that could go to the beach, go swimming and do many things that normal fathers and daughters could do because of war. I never experienced what kids with fathers that can walk have. They take for granted being able to have their father teach them to ride a bike, go camping with, to teach them to swim, or something as little as seeing your father walk. I never experienced any of those. I have to live my life with out any of those memories.

    I wish to honor the Unknown Soldier and my father by presenting the wreath to his tomb. For all we know that soldier had a son or a daughter too, who never had a father to teach them things, to have fun with, to do normal things with. I wish to honor that solider for giving his life for our country like my father gave up walking for our country. I want to honor every person who experienced the horror of war and how with a little piece of metal you can lose thousands of lives and memories.

I want to honor my Grandfathers who served in the Civil War, World War I, World War II, during the Korean War, my Father in Vietnam and my cousin and my uncle who are currently enlisted in the Navy and the Air Force.  I want to honor all those who fought for our country from when it was still just growing to what it is today.   I wish to honor the people in all wars, who died and gave up limbs, walking, seeing, who gave a part of themselves or their lives for our country. It would mean so much to me and to my family for me to present the wreath at The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. All of the people who went to war are heroes no matter what, even if they came back as healthy as when they left. Just risking their lives for their country is enough to call them a hero. I wish to honor all people who went to war, whether they came back home to their families or gave up their life in a fight to help their country. All people who went to war deserve to be honored and that is what I want to do. I want to honor them for the bravest thing they could do - risk their lives for their country, its people and me.

If I am chosen to present the wreath I will be able to honor my family and the people who died for our country. This means the world to me and I wish to be able to make my family proud. If you chose me I thank you ahead of time and if I don’t get chosen then I thank you for taking my essay into consideration. Thank you to for making the Washington DC trip possible.  Without this trip I would not be able to honor my family and all the people who died for our country. For being given the chance to do this I thank you from the bottom of my heart. This means so much to me. I am being given a chance of a lifetime and I am truly grateful for it.

The above letter was written by Katy Feirman (an 8th grade student) with the hopes of being chosen from her school to participate in a wreath laying ceremony at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

WHO AM I? CRIES THE WARRIOR

A lone sentry paces the walkway,
And many tourists come to see.
For “I am the Infantry, Queen of Battle,”
And you can, “FOLLOW ME!”
The OLD GUARD stands lonely vigil,
Twenty-four hours a day.
Through sweltering heat or freezing rain,
While in my marble Tomb I lay.

I am called the Unknown Soldier,
For no one knows just who I am.
I went ‘over there’ to fight ‘the great war’,
When called by my Uncle Sam.
Now in the gardens of stone, when all is quiet,
Shadows cast by light of the moon.
I search each headstone every night,
Of soldiers lost too soon.
For I was called to serve my country,
On a far and distant shore.
Now while others rest, my spirit roams,
And will forever more.
As my spirit walks the gardens,
Row after row after row.
Some of these names I recognize,
And others, I just don’t know.

Was I a farmer in Nebraska,
Or a lumberjack in Maine?
Did I die quickly, thru the mercy of GOD,
Or did I agonize in pain?
Did I lead soldiers into battle,
Or did I follow those who led?
To so many questions the answers I seek,
As I walk amongst the dead.

Who am I? Cries the warrior,
With faded medals upon his chest,
Who am I? Cries the warrior,
While those in the gardens rest.
‘Here rests in honored glory, An American soldier, Known but to GOD.’
These words in my Tomb cut so deep.
And as the lonely sentry walks his post,
The known of Arlington sleep. 

Who Am I? Cries the Warrior  by Don Burch
United States Army, Retired - 2002

21

Each motion crisp, each step precise,
The guard who watch o'er fallen know
the sacrifice that paid the price.
Their duty, honor they will show.

The eyes that look upon the Tomb
will see the reverence in me.
Their gaze will transcend all the gloom
to understand it's freedom's fee.

For those who've lost their lives for us
deserve, command respect and thanks.
The unknown brothers, glorious,
will never fade within our ranks.

This site we know and pay respect
to all our fallen boys and girls.
Their will and hope in us reflect
our spirit as when flag unfurls.

The guard, the Tomb, the dignity,
each action steeped in honor from
our hearts and minds. We honor thee.
Each state and territory come,

behold the men of twenty-one.

- With my utmost respect and wholehearted thanks
Matthew J. Hutchison - Civilian
Memorial Day 2006

HONOR GUARD

He did not know the Man he watched,
When told he did not ask why.
He watched the hero in solemn silence,
As quiet as the minutes that ticked by.

He knew not of his family,
Nor from whence he came.
His sole duty was to honor the hero,
Though only God knew his name.

His relief arrived, a new watch started,
He left the hero where he lies,
A tear held back in united strength,
With those that have to die.

They do not know the ones they watch,
When told, they never ask why.
They watch their heroes in solemn silence,
As quiet as the minutes that tick by.

©2004 George R. McKinney

I received Richard's e-mail message on Tuesday night, October 19th.  I was in a hotel room in Arlington, VA.  It was a cold, foggy night, drizzling rain...perfect for a walk from Memorial Bridge to the Main Gate at ANC, as close as I could get to the last place I stood beside Eldredge...on the plaza between the Memorial Amphitheatre and the Tomb.

 dark.  cold.  foggy.  raining.

Perfect for thinking:

Eldredge is gone.  Post and Orders remain....as directed.

Eldredge is gone.  It's so much easier to write those words than to say them aloud.  I find it difficult...so far, impossible...to say them aloud without a tightness in my throat.  My voice is strange in my own ears, hearing words so sad to say.

Eldredge is gone.  I find it easier to write the words, but still impossible without a physical effect, a profound heaviness in my heart, and a sense of  mental interference, as if my mind rebels against such use of my fingers, as if it refuses to believe I write the truth.

Post and Orders remain as directed.  As a young man, those were words of duty and responsibility, words of pomp and circumstance.  Little did I know then, and shameful that I fully realize only now, that the man who taught me when and how to say those words, Eldredge, was teaching me day after day, by word and example, that honorable life itself is in those words.

Eldredge.  It was our habit as young men to speak of him in that way...with no need to name his rank as part of his name...because speaking of him as "Eldredge" was speaking of him as the man he was, as the man who meant so much to us. Meant so much to us as young men who aged to understand more each passing year.  And as the years passed, understood how much he made of us. 

Eldredge...spoken with profound respect.  Sometimes spoken with a tinge of trepidation, of anticipation, of assurance, but always with profound respect.  Eldredge.  It was enough...all and everything necessary.

Eldredge is gone.  True enough...gone from our physical side, but forever existing in us as part of who we are.  And while we're capable of conscious thought, never gone.

Eldredge is gone.  Post and Orders remain...as he taught us by few words and many examples, to walk our post and order our lives...as directed.

Eldredge...remains.  

GPM (Oct 63 - Sept 65)

The Unknown Soldier

 You need not ever know my name
This unknown soldier seeks no fame

I'm here to bring out thought from you
May your heart see more than your view

America, we marched with pride
We gave our life, for you we died

How well we knew the time might come
When life could sound that final drum

Please think of us as life moves on
We tried so hard till that last dawn

Do let our spirit fill the land
Pass treasured freedom, hand to hand

God blessed this country with such love
Hold in your heart, abundance of

And when you stand before my grave
Think not of one, but each who gave.