Guarding the noblest acre in America

The Army now had the grim, challenging task of identifying 12 sets of remains from the charred wreckage. Forensic specialists mostly succeeded, allowing for individual burials, including two at Arlington. But some of the commingled remains could not be identified. Thus, a group burial of the unidentified remains was necessary. The funeral would occur in Section 60 of Arlington National Cemetery on Oct. 12, 2007. And Charlie Company of The Old Guard, where I had served as a platoon leader since March, would lead the funeral.

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I knew more about this funeral than usual because three deceased soldiers — Capt. Mike Taylor, Sgt. Maj. Tom Warren, and Sgt. 1st Class Gary Brown — had belonged to the Arkansas National Guard, as did Carnahan. I had read stories about the crash by an embedded reporter with the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. I was seasoned in the cemetery by this point, and I was honored when I learned that we would perform the funeral for Easy 40.

We approached every funeral with a single standard in mind: perfection. Regardless of whom we laid to rest, we aimed to provide the family and mourners with a final, indelible image of honor for their loved one. They deserved no less, as did our fallen comrade. But this is not to say every funeral was the same; far from it. In fact, no one at The Old Guard could remember a group burial as large as Easy 40’s. We rehearsed the funeral for several days, which itself was unheard of. Although the funeral would follow the normal sequence that we performed several times each day, it also included 12 flag-bearers, one for each family. That was my role. We each had a prefolded flag that we would touch to the casket, one by one, and then present to the next family.

Oct. 12 dawned cool and crisp, with blue skies and plump clouds rolling over the green fields of Section 60, the famed but heartbreaking eternal home at Arlington of soldiers killed in the war on terror. Dozens of soldiers in ceremonial blue uniforms milled around Section 60: my fellow flag-bearers, escorts, liaisons, and others. Twelve sets of chairs, draped in plush green covers, formed a horseshoe around the grave site. A large media contingent gathered, including a crew from NBC “Nightly News,” which had followed Charlie that week as we prepared for the funeral. We heard the band in the distance, followed by the universal Army cry to get ready: “Square it away!”

As the flag-bearers came to attention, the largest funeral procession I would ever see at Arlington came into view: more than 10 limousines, five buses, cars stretching back too far to see. Hundreds of mourners gathered around the grave, including the Secretary of the Army, the Vice Chief of Staff of the Army, the Director of the National Guard Bureau, and several state National Guard Adjutants. Black Hawks flew over. The chaplain delivered the eulogy. Charlie’s seven-man firing party delivered the crisp three-volley salute. The bugler played taps. Then, one by one, the flag-bearers touched our flags to the casket and presented them to the families.

We marched off as we finished our part and linked up at our buses; Charlie had more funerals to conduct that day, after all. But we shared a sense of pride in the mission we had just accomplished. Easy 40 crashed into Iraq’s arid desert, but its heroes now rested in Arlington’s tranquil fields.

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*****

For all its beauty, Arlington is a working cemetery. The Old Guard and its sister services perform military-honor funerals every weekday aside from holidays. In most cases, the funerals are for veterans of older wars: World War II and Korea in my days, and increasingly Vietnam today. I often stood at the head of a casket at attention with eyes locked forward, listening to a chaplain eulogize a soldier who honorably served our country decades ago and went on to live a life full of love, friendship, and accomplishment, dying peacefully in old age. I tended to view these services as a time not only to mourn their deaths but also to celebrate their lives.

But Arlington is also the final resting place for soldiers who die in the line of duty, and The Old Guard conducts these funerals, too. Active-duty burials have, thankfully, become less common in recent years, but they still carry a deep feeling of sadness, loss, and tragedy. The Old Guard strives to honor the fallen and their families with solemnity, but nothing can reunite loved ones on this side of heaven.

All we, the living, can do is care for the family and properly honor and remember the fallen. And by doing so, we assure our fighting men and women around the world that they, too, will be remembered in death and their families will be cared for.

*****

I had left The Old Guard for Afghanistan by the time the Iraq War began to draw down and Afghanistan began to heat up. But I still return to Section 60 from time to time, sometimes with my wife and young boys, to recall my days on that sacred ground, to pay my respects to its heroes, and to teach the next generation about the heroes of Afghanistan and the price of freedom. I can trace the history of my generation’s two wars on those walks among the headstones. By 2009, Afghanistan veterans begin to overtake Iraq veterans, while veterans from earlier wars who survived combat start to rejoin the Iraq and Afghanistan veterans.

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“Section 60 is not exclusive to KIAs,” cemetery representative Joe Mercer explained. “It’s an active burial section and used to suit the logistical challenges of the cemetery.” Veterans from earlier wars continued to be buried on the south side of Section 60 during my tour at The Old Guard. And as the pace of active-duty burials slowed, these older veterans took their place on the north side among their children and grandchildren.

In the rows with graves from 2010 to 2012, the intensity of the fighting in Afghanistan becomes evident with another spike in active-duty burials. After 2013, though, Section 60 returns to its origins and resembles the other working sections of the cemetery. Active-duty burials still occur, especially for the special operations forces upon whom the nation calls so frequently, but World War II, Korea, and Vietnam headstones predominate.

Like many regular visitors to Section 60, I visit one grave in particular: that of Lt. Col. Mark Stratton, the commander of Provincial Reconstruction Team Panjshir. Stratton knew my commander, Lt. Col. Steve Erickson, so we met and worked together during our predeployment training at Fort Bragg. We were not close friends — our rank necessarily imposed a certain formality — but we were friendly comrades. It was hard not to get along well with Stratton, who was a cheerful and motivated leader. He perished in an improvised explosive device blast on May 26, 2009. I try to visit his grave every year on the anniversary of his death and any other day when I visit Section 60. Through these visits, I came to meet his widow, Jennifer, and their three children, Delaney, Jake, and A.J., learning more about him from them, and also sharing some of my experiences with him at Fort Bragg.

But I also like to walk among all the other rows and graves. Section 60 is unusual not only for the number of visitors but also for the things they leave behind. Stones, rocks, coins, and other mementos sit on headstones, signifying a recent visit. Flowers and balloons commemorate birthdays and anniversaries. Photographs of the fallen with loved ones are common, as are pictures of kids, growing up and making new memories to share with their absent mom or dad. I always like to stop and look at these items, which tell stories of loss and pain but also love and life. They add a human element to the marble headstones, a reminder of the lives lived by these heroes. When items have fallen or gotten dirty, I pick them up and clean them as best I can so the next visitors can also learn from them, or so the family, if they visit, will know that strangers care for their loved ones and will look after them when the family cannot.

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As I walk around Section 60, I recognize many names of the fallen from my time in the Army and at The Old Guard. Ross McGinnis was a 19-year-old private first class with the 1st Infantry Division on the north side of Baghdad when I was deployed with the 101st Airborne on the south side. Two weeks after I returned home, he was a machine-gunner in a Humvee when an insurgent threw a grenade into the hatch. Rather than jump out, as every instinct must have screamed, McGinnis fell on the grenade. He died instantly, but his four battle buddies lived, and he earned the Medal of Honor posthumously. Two days later, Marine Maj. Megan McClung died in an IED blast in Anbar Province. She was the first female Marine officer killed in Iraq. Just a few steps away rests her fellow Marine, Maj. Doug Zembiec, known as the “Lion of Fallujah” for his heroism in the First Battle of Fallujah. He was killed in May 2007 by small-arms fire while leading a raid with the Iraqi troops he had trained. I had joined The Old Guard a couple of months earlier, and I remember learning at the time about Zembiec’s life from media coverage of his funeral.

I also learn new stories on my walks in Section 60. Staff Sgt. Adam Dickmyer and I overlapped at The Old Guard, though we did not know each other then. I first met him in Section 60 a few years back when I noticed the unusual headstone above his grave. The stone bore a silver replica of the Tomb Badge he earned as a Sentinel of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. He later deployed with the 101st Airborne to Afghanistan, where he was killed in 2010. One reason I wanted to write Sacred Duty was to share his story and others like it.

Stories like that of Cpl. Ben Kopp. When I read a headstone, I sometimes think about where I was when the soldier was killed, especially if I was in the Army at the time. When I first came upon Kopp’s grave, I noticed that young Ranger had died just a few days after I had left Afghanistan. Curious, I looked up his story. He was shot while I was still in country, fell into a coma, and died at Walter Reed hospital outside Washington. But Kopp lives today because he had volunteered to be an organ donor. His organs saved four lives, and his bones and tissues benefited dozens more. His heart was a match with Judy Meikle, and she lived because of his sacrifice. She visits his grave on occasion, and she and his mother, Jill Stephenson, have become friends through the experience.

When I think about Section 60, these are some of the heroes on my mind. Section 60 is not a mere resting place for the dead but also a testament to the lives they lived and the sacrifices they made. The steady stream of family and friends, the school field trips, the spontaneous conversation and friendships, the things they leave behind — all these things keep their spirit alive. I understand why some people call this bucolic patch of land “the saddest acre in America,” but I prefer to think of Section 60 as the noblest acre in America.

*****

That nobility runs deep in the soil of Arlington and in the soul of our nation. Over the years, I have noticed something about Arlington. Although a sign welcomes visitors to “our nation’s most sacred shrine,” no rules are posted. Yet visitors somehow understand a proper code of conduct. Adults speak in hushed tones. Children stay on their best behavior. Joggers and cyclists circle the cemetery but do not enter. Strangers treat each other with kindness.

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The same holds true for The Old Guard. We had a different code of conduct in Arlington, widely known but mostly unwritten. No exercise, except for large-unit runs. No cadence calls when running. No combat fatigues, only Army dress uniforms. Old Guard soldiers follow these rules scrupulously; I cannot recall a single infraction during all my time in the cemetery.

Arlington elicits instinctive reverence from citizen and soldier alike because this land is more than a cemetery. Arlington truly is sacred ground for our nation. For more than a century and a half, our nation’s fallen heroes have journeyed from the battlefield to Arlington much as did McGinnis and Kopp in our time. And before that, Arlington was our nation’s first memorial to George Washington. On the eve of a dreaded Civil War, this land passed to the stewardship of Robert E. Lee, then among the nation’s finest military officers, but soon the commander of rebel forces. From its ties to Washington to Lee’s fateful decision, this land, to borrow from Alexis de Tocqueville, “seems called by a secret design of Providence” to become our national cemetery.

And The Old Guard seemed destined to call Arlington home. War came to Arlington in the early days of the Civil War and on 9/11, and in both cases, The Old Guard was present for duty. Our nation’s oldest infantry regiment, The Old Guard predates our Constitution and served on the front lines through World War II. The story of America’s Regiment is therefore, in many ways, the story of America, a heritage that still echoes across the plains and hills of Arlington today.

Tom Cotton is a United States senator from Arkansas. He served in Iraq with the 101st Airborne Division and in Afghanistan with a Provincial Reconstruction Team. Between combat tours, he served with the United States Army’s 3rd Infantry Regiment (“The Old Guard”) at Arlington National Cemetery. Excerpted with permission from Cotton’s Sacred Duty: A Soldier’s Tour at Arlington National Cemetery, out May 14 from William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.