Rolling Thunder
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Rolling Thunder Vive la France , is all I can say this morning. Well over half the voting electorate turned down the opportunity to approve the new Constitution of the European Union. The nation that came up with the European Union has turned down the document that would codify it. It is not left to some dyspeptic Conservative Brits to say they won’t accept the sleek Brussels techno-wonks telling them how to live their lives. Or maybe it wasn’t about that at all. They say the document was long and complex and had little of the stirring rhetoric of the document I served most of my life. In simplicity there is ambiguity, which is why we are still arguing about incomprehensible amendments here, like the Second, or are so fiercely committed to very simple ones like the first. I imagine there is considerable relief in many capitals that no one has to urge passage of the document any more. Back to the drawing board. My recommendation, which no one asked for, is to keep it simple next time. And let the Frenchmen be French. I was thinking about simplicity yesterday as I walked through Arlington Cemetery, looking at the inscriptions on the headstones . Some of them were the essence of simplicity. “Unknown U.S. Soldier.” There were a lot of them in the older part of the cemetery, from the Civil War era. I had not intended to be walking there among them. I thought I might try to get a vehicle pass so I could drive down to the graves nearest the Pentagon. My knee is flaring up again and I didn’t want to push it unnecessarily. Leaving Big Pink for the cemetery, I motored down Arlington Boulevard toward the river in a sea of thunder. The bikers are in town, thousands of them, to honor the day. It started as a Vietnam Vets protest about the Missing in Action from the Vietnam war, and it has grown from there. For three days the roar of motorcycles has filled the air as packs of motorcycles roared into the city. Yesterday there were so many of them that it was more difficult to get around than during rush hour. It has changed from a protest to a celebration. Trying to sneak in the back way to the main gate, I found myself trapped in a line of vehicles that could not get on Route 110, which divides the cemetery from the Pentagon Reservation. The Arlington County police were out, too, blue lights flashing, to protect the riders. The police came in squad cars driving in formation, and on bikes themselves. I relaxed, and watched the parade, since that is what it was. Vets and cops, the roar of motors. The main entrance to Arlington had some road blocks and masses of Harleys. I had to keep going, and wound up circumnavigating Fort Myer and the cemetery proper. I gave up, and entered the main gate at Fort Myer , which encircles the western end of the cemetery. At least I could park there, and if I had to walk, so be it. There are contract guards at the gate for the first time, not the soldiers of the Old Guard, who are deployed to Iraq . The Army is getting thin on manpower, and gate guards are a logical function for out-sourcing. The guard waved me through without the crisp salute my blue decal on the windshield normally gets me. I turned left, past the PX and drove down toward the old Chapel where the memorial services are held, and the horses and caissons wait to take the dead to their rest. I parked the truck and walked over to the guard who stood with a clipboard. asked politely if I could drive in, but I knew what the answer would be. You have to get a pass at the main office, said the contract guard in the orange florescent vest. Sorry. No exceptions. I knew that would be the answer, and smiled, showing my ID as I walked on by. I could hear the roar of engines off in the distance, the motorcycles circling the serenity of the cemetery. I carried the bouquet of flowers at something like port arms. I have walked from the heights here at the Old Chapel and down Patton Drive to the plain with throngs of mourners. Today, I would walk by myself. Copyright 2005 Vic Socotra www.vicsocotra.com |
