Vic Socotra

27 May 2008

Decoration Day

I have an unofficial deal with the President. I try to stay out of his way, and I do pretty well at it. I expect a little courtesy coming back the other way, but he is a busy man and sometimes you can’t avoid the odd motorcade, though, and that is how Memorial Day got into a bit of a nut-roll.

I don’t parade well, and accordingly lean toward the original tradition of the day, which was officially proclaimed by General John Logan, national commander of the association of Union veterans, the Grand Army of the Republic. He directed that flowers be placed on the graves of the fallen at Arlington National Cemetery, although he specifically excluded the graves of Confederate soldiers who had died as prisoners of war. Reconciliation was not on his agenda, and the heat of passion was still too near.

Arlington House was the property of Robert E. Lee’s wife, after all, and the proper symbolic narrative of the place had not been sorted out.

Now it is, and Arlington House is where the President was going to be, on the plaza that fronts the Tombs of the Unknowns.

I wanted to do my decorating early, and low key. I decided to not worry about the zoo at the main gate at Arlington, and decided to sneak in the back by the Old Chapel at Fort Myer. That way, I could stop and get some flowers at the Commissary and pick up a couple of sundries.

That part went well enough, and I drove the L'il Black Truck as a sort of rolling souvenir tribute to the 487th Bomb Wing (Gentlemen from Hell) to keep the battery charged and the synthetic lubricants heated and pumped through the engine block.

In normal times, it is possible to approach the desk at the visitor’s center and get a pass to drive onto the grounds of the sprawling cemetery, but it seemed to me that there would be chaos on the holiday, and it would be easier to simply park the truck and walk down from the heights to the place where I wanted to place the flowers.

It is a bit of a hike, but it is on a distant part of the grounds from the tourists.

I pulled up to the Old Chapel lot to park the truck under the shade of the trees and was confronted by a Sergeant of the Old Guard in dress blues.

"Sorry Sir, the gate is closed until 1300 in order to prepare for the wreath laying. The President is coming," he said.

"What about the front gate?" I asked. "I have some people I want to honor. " I didn’t want to hassle a kid who might just have returned from Iraq, since one of the 3rd's companies just got back from the Surge.

The Sarge looked uncomfortable, and said he expected the situation at the front gate would be the same. Waiting for three hours to permit the President to honor all the dead was going to put a crimp in me honoring the relative few that I knew, so I thanked the man for his service and motored out the back gate.

As I drove down the hill past the old Freedman's Village district of the cemetery, past the Netherlands Carillion, which chimed the half hour as I drove.

I noted that the gravel verge down by the side gate still had a few places left, if one was artful about parking near the big motorcycles, and my eyes widened as I saw that the pedestrian gate was open, the one that was so tempting to enter when we used to jog around the national burial ground.

I think there was a time when we ran there; there must be, or the signs would not exist. Since I expect to spend the next glacial age in the place, I have a certain proprietary attitude, and I took my chance as I saw it. I swerved the truck into a nice place at the end of the row. I picked up my flowers and locking the truck, thinking that this gentle slope was once the tallest mountain on earth.

In other times it is the finish loop to the Marine Marathon that completed its 26.2 miles in the shadow of the great sculpture. It is that last “point two” uphill that is the pain in the ass.

Maybe the memory of what I could do, compared to what I can do got me confused. That happens with increasing frequency these days. But there was an open gate, and free access, and all I had to do was walk north to south along the Potomac expanse of the cemetery, and back. I was a man on a mission, and that is what I set off to do. The flowers would wilt, after all.

There was a huge crowd of civilians pouring in the front gate when I got there. Poor Old Guard. This is not Ramadi, after all, and imposing discipline on the civilians is a greater challenge.

I gathered that there was a ban on heading up-slope to the Tomb of the Unknowns where the wreath would be laid, and a ban on backpacks. I was carrying the bouquets in one of those conference give-away totes that I could ditch, if necessary, since I find it vaguely ridiculous to walk smartly with flowers at port arms.

There were boy scouts and clueless people in a vast wandering herd. Some were dressed in a manner that was appropriate to the occasion, and others were not. There were Veterans, too, the now newly-old Vietnam-era bikers in leather vests with unit insignia, and the increasingly frail WW II survivors, who have an otherworldly dignity, one foot with their comrades under the pale white stones, and one with us still in the bright sun.

I knew where I was going, which separated me from the mob. I moved with purpose and did not look up toward the McClellan Gate where the Important People were going to be. That meant I could not swing by Frank's grave, which is up in that direction, and I remembered my last encounter with him, as his health was starting to fail. It was at the Navy Exchange Gas Station automated teller machine, right across from where the jet went into the Pentagon.

I find that this early in the season my feet have a tendency to go numb on a long walk. I remember that from my running days, but it normally passed after the five or six mile mark. This was unsettling to have it happen with barely a mile gone, and with at least three more to go.

Accordingly, I cut across the quadrant where Fred the U-2 pilot rests. There were groups of people standing in random patterns across the green field, some of near where Tony is, the Spook who reached out to the Mafia to provide security to the New York docks during the Big War.

There were many new graves. Not unexpected, and certainly with thousands of the old Vets passing away each week. This area on the flatlands is where the young dead are coming, too, and there are temporary roads to accommodate the temporary activity. They will settle back into rich green turf when the sections are full.

The Pentagon’s gray battlements loomed up over the trees as I grew closer. The haunting sound of bagpipes rose, too, and I was afraid I would run into another ceremony. As I emerged from the precise lines of white stones onto Marshall Drive, I saw it was a single piper dressed in fatigue khaki addressing a long row of stones, playing alongside a woman in a modest white skirt. I came to a stop when I came abreast, and remained there respectfully until the dirge was done.

The haunting tune was nothing I had heard before, though I whistled it under my breath the rest of the day. When the piper was done and moved out.

Ahead and to the left, I could see the granite capstan of the 9/11 Memorial that is my navigational aid to locate the rows where The Boys lie. I remember when this ground was raw and red, but the earth heals faster than the heart.

There was a couple there already, and I did not want to disturb their grief. They had decorated their son's grave with great precision, placing a blanket of carnations to precisely outline the plot, with a riot of colors at the headstone. I got my Commissary flowers placed with The Boys, and gave them each as crisp a salute as I can muster these days.

I did not want to bother the people who had real pain. Mission complete for this Decoration Day, I marched smartly back to the northwest, through the gardens of stone. I passed through the new Columbarium complex. The walls are grim and fortress-like on the outside, but discovered that inside they have a peace and tranquility not unlike that of a big residential building like Big Pink

The President arrived in his motorcade as the cannon began the 21-gun salute on the crest of the hill. I stopped and faced the flag that hanged at half-staff in front of Arlington House on the hill above. The President arrived in mid-salute. I counted eighteen vehicles to bring the official mourning party to the site. The ones carrying important people were armored, of course, and I marveled- not for the first time- at what it must cost to carry the President about in his official duties.

Two women on bicycles, not keeping count, stopped to ask me if that was the President, and I responded that it was. They turned out to be from the Netherlands, and they were only in town for the day. I told them that was too bad, and that there was a lot to see. They asked what I was doing, and I explained Decoration Day to them.

“In what country were your comrades killed?” they asked, thinking it must be something exotic. I waved at the gray bulk of the Pentagon that loomed across the highway.

“They died right here, right where this started.” They thanked me for the information, and peddled away to continue their tour.

I made it back to the side gate as the lonely strains of “Taps” were played on the bugle. I heard it later on the radio as a news report on the day, much shorter, but more clearly.

I got the truck running and stopped at the Navy Exchange gas station on the way home to top off the tank before putting it to sleep again. I discovered the rate was $4.13 a gallon for hi-test, a new personal record.

I like to be prepared for anything, short of the tomb, and a full load of fuel is a good place to start.

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