Arlington

by Richard Seifried

Signal Hill Musings

September, 2010

Every conflict the United States has ever fought is remembered in ceremony and stone at Arlington National Cemetery across the river from Washington, D.C. – and none more so than the Civil War, which gave birth to the cemetery’s most recognizable traditions: the three-rifle volley signaling the end of a cease-fire; the haunting tune we know as “Taps,” described as the most beautiful of all trumpeter calls; the horse-drawn caissons for transporting dead soldiers to their final resting places; the elaborate honors reserved for unknown soldiers. All of these originated during America’s bloodiest conflict.

The scars from that war remain etched deep in Arlington’s topography, which also tells the story of the nation’s recovery and healing, of a young country’s growing realization of its power, of its willingness to exercise that power on the world stage through two World Wars, the Korean conflict, the Cold War, Vietnam, and subsequent hostilities. Each with its flashes of glory, its moments of doubt and agony, and its added burials for Arlington, which continues to grow. From an initial 200 acres established in 1864, the national cemetery covers 624 acres today.

Few images linger in the national image as vividly as this hallowed ground, with its ghostly white tombstones, its deep green turf, its gnarled trees alive with songbirds and cicadas. Almost four million people visit Arlington each year to pay homage at President Kennedy’s eternal flame on the hillside; to watch the silent, solemn changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns; to walk among the scientists, explorers, jurists, writers, spies, actors, criminals, admirals, and thousands of ordinary citizen-warriors resting there.

For many visitors, a pilgrimage to Arlington is a devotional act – to seek out a buried relative, to pay respects to a treasured friend, to leave a promised beer or cigarette at the headstone of an Army buddy, to brush off a wife’s grave and bring her up-to-date on the latest headlines. Sisters come to Arlington with photographs of brothers now gone forever; girlfriends bring bouquets and balloons; someone hangs wind chimes in a dogwood, which ring with music when the limbs shiver. A Marine’s parents drive down from Pennsylvania, unpack their lawn chairs, set them up in Section 60, and pass a spring afternoon with their son, recently killed in Iraq. They speak to his tombstone as if it is the most natural thing in the world. It is at Arlington where other pilgrims do the same thing every day.

Do the tombstones speak back? Of course they do.