Tomb of the Unknown Soldier

Listen first. On this hilltop, the loudest sound is often a single pair of heels striking stone. Click... click... and then nothing at all. A breeze moves through the old trees. Somewhere below, traffic hums faintly, but up here people speak in whispers or not at all. You are standing on a white marble plaza at the heart of Arlington National Cemetery, just across the Potomac River from Washington. In front of you is a plain, heavy block of stone. It holds one of the quietest stories in America.

A quick note on geography. Most visitors think of this place as part of Washington, and in spirit it is. Strictly speaking, though, you are in Arlington, Virginia. The cemetery spreads across rolling ground that once belonged to the family of Robert E. Lee's wife. The Union Army began burying its dead here during the Civil War. Today, rows of white headstones run over the hills in every direction. This tomb sits near the top of all of them.

The story begins after the First World War. That war killed men in such numbers, and in such destructive ways, that many could never be identified. Families in America had no grave to visit. Britain and France had already honored an unknown fighter from their own armies. The United States decided to do the same. The idea was simple and powerful. One nameless soldier would stand for every person who never came home.

The choice was made in France, in the town of Châlons-sur-Marne. Four identical caskets lay side by side. Each held an American soldier whose name was lost. A decorated infantryman, Sergeant Edward Younger, was given the task of choosing one. He walked slowly past the caskets and placed a small spray of white roses on one of them. That was the only sign. No one, not even Younger, knew who lay inside.

The chosen soldier crossed the Atlantic by warship. In Washington, his casket lay in state beneath the dome of the Capitol, and thousands of people filed past. Then, on November 11, 1921, exactly three years after the war ended, he was buried here. President Warren Harding led the ceremony. That date, Armistice Day, later became Veterans Day. So the holiday and this tomb grew up together.

Now look closely at the stone itself. The large marble block is called a sarcophagus, an above-ground stone coffin. It was finished in 1932, years after the burial. The marble came from the Yule quarry in Colorado, and it was chosen for its pure white color. On the side facing Washington, you can see three carved figures in classical robes. They represent Peace, Victory, and Valor. Along the other sides are carved wreaths, simple and repeating.

Then read the words. They are cut into the stone in clean capital letters: Here rests in honored glory an American soldier known but to God. There is no rank. No hometown. No date of birth. The inscription refuses to say anything it cannot truly know. Many visitors find that this honesty is what moves them most. The soldier could be anyone's son, brother, or neighbor. That uncertainty is the whole point.

Here is something many people miss. The sarcophagus is not the only grave on this plaza. In front of it, set flat into the stone, are crypts for unknowns from later wars. Unknowns from the Second World War and the Korean War were buried here in 1958. An unknown from the Vietnam War followed in 1984. So the monument grew from one soldier into a place for the missing of several generations.

The Vietnam crypt carries a remarkable twist. In 1998, the remains were removed for testing. DNA analysis identified the man as Air Force First Lieutenant Michael Blassie, a pilot shot down in 1972. His family brought him home to Missouri. Modern science had made it almost impossible to stay unknown. The crypt was left empty, and the inscription now honors America's missing service members. An empty grave, in other words, tells its own story.

Now watch the sentinel. A soldier has guarded this tomb every hour of every day since 1937. That includes freezing nights, blizzards, and hurricanes. The guards come from the Third United States Infantry Regiment, known as the Old Guard. The sentinel takes twenty-one steps along a black mat, turns to face the tomb, and waits twenty-one seconds. Then he turns and repeats. The number recalls the twenty-one gun salute, one of the highest military honors.

Notice the small details of the walk. The rifle always rests on the shoulder farthest from the tomb. This places the soldier between the tomb and any possible threat. The guards train for months, and their uniforms are inspected with great care. Only a small number ever earn the Tomb Guard Identification Badge. It is one of the rarest badges in the United States Army. Every sentinel's precision is a kind of silent conversation with the dead.

Behind you rises the Memorial Amphitheater, a ring of white marble columns. National ceremonies take place there on Memorial Day and Veterans Day. Presidents lay wreaths at this tomb on those days. Ordinary visitors can also take part. Groups such as school classes and veterans' associations sometimes place wreaths during a formal ceremony, arranged in advance. Watching one is a quiet lesson in how a nation remembers.

The changing of the guard is the moment most people come to see. A relief commander arrives, inspects the incoming sentinel's rifle, and the guards exchange duty with slow, exact movements. The crowd is asked to stand and remain silent. Phones go down. Children grow still. For a few minutes, hundreds of strangers share the same hush. It is one of the few places in a busy capital region where silence is expected, and freely given.

Before you leave, turn toward the east. Beyond the trees, the city of Washington spreads along the river, with its domes and monuments catching the light. The soldiers buried here never saw this view. Take one more look at the white stone and the words carved into it. Then listen again for the heels on the mat. Click... click... and the long pause. That rhythm will continue after you walk away, through tonight, and through tomorrow.