I fly by Arlington National Cemetery and pass its gates several times a
week as so many of us in Washington do every time we travel between office
and airport. Lately I've felt its pull, and last month I arrived shortly
before it opened at 8 a.m.
A guard asked me to wait behind a group of cars that had arrived for the
first of the day's 14 funerals. On most days, Arlington averages more than
20 burials, although not all of them are related to the war in Iraq.
It suddenly occurred to me that I ought to visit the grave of Geoffrey
Cayer, a fallen Marine whose remains had been escorted to D.C. on a
commercial flight I had boarded last July. I didn't know him, but the
flight, met by a military honor guard, was a sobering experience. I later
read what I could find about him and even corresponded with friends of his
family.
I went to the information counter and asked how to find Lance Cpl. Cayer's
grave. An employee walked me over to a computer kiosk, searched "Cayer"
and printed out a map of the cemetery with "Cayer, Geoffrey Robert,
Section 60, site 8411" printed at the bottom.
If John Kennedy's grave and the tomb of the Unknown Soldier can be
considered tourist attractions, then Section 60 is the part of the
cemetery where the real work goes on. I had the 600 acres of gently
rolling hills nearly to myself. The silence felt eerie. I walked softly,
as if a trespasser. I looked in all directions but saw no one.
Map in hand, it took about 15 minutes to get to Section 60, the quiet
disturbed only by the rumble of bulldozers and backhoes shuttling back and
forth to keep up with the work. In several areas along the way, workers
were setting up mobile canopies and green felt-covered chairs for funerals
later in the morning. The same military system that fashioned our forces
into a fighting machine has also created a machine to process grief
efficiently and effectively.
I found Cayer's grave on the outskirts of Section 60. He lay between two
comrades, Matthew Phillip Wallace and Tulsa Tulaga Tuliau, both of whom
had been awarded Bronze Stars and Purple Hearts. Tuliau was a master
sergeant from American Samoa killed by an improvised explosive device. He
left a wife and two very young daughters. Wallace died from burns, also
caused by an improvised explosive device. The fresh black lettering stood
out sharply on their white tombstones, in contrast with the names on the
stones fanned out behind them, faded, perhaps like the lessons of history.
Cayer's grave was in what, until a few weeks ago, had been the last row.
Now, new berms of disturbed earth rose up behind it. From an airplane, the
lines of white stones seem to stretch to the landscape's limit and give
the sense that perhaps the cemetery will soon be full. But on the ground,
it's clear there remain vast fields to fill, like a crossword puzzle not
finished until every blank space is occupied. Grass had not yet grown over
Cayer's resting place. The new grave in front of his had only a tiny,
temporary plastic marker. Ten yards away lay a just-dug hole that gaped 8
feet down into the brown mud.
I wondered why it had taken me so long to drive the short distance across
Memorial Bridge to pay my respects. I'm surprised more Americans don't do
so. It's symptomatic of the distance at which the war has been kept from
most of us, and of how content most of us have been to keep it there. We
live in a town that generates volumes of opinion about sacrifice and
service, but sometimes what is required of us is simply to bear witness.
I stayed at the cemetery for about 90 minutes. Except for the
gravediggers, I saw only one other person, a man wearing a suit and a long
black coat and also visiting Section 60. This is where the activity is
these days, although Section 61 can't be far behind. We were only a few
paces from each other but did not speak. It was just a quiet moment to
bear witness, even if there was nothing one could say.