The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier: A Living Memorial For Our Nations Unknown

Click, click, click. The guard takes twenty-one steps, 

symbolizing the twenty-one gun salute, the most noble
and honorable sign of respect possible. He then spins 
around on his heels; waits twenty-one seconds and begins his return march carrying a shimmering gun on his broad shoulders. Back and forth and back and forth he marches in front of the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, on top of a high, marble mesa in the very center of the national cemetery, commanding the best view of our nation’s capital. Reverence, respect, and honor hang in the air like a heavy veil. The birds fly freely overhead. The ivory marble glistens in the afternoon sun. The wind blows, rustling the leaves and causing shadows to dance on the Tomb of the Unknown. The clicking of the guard’s shoes pierces the deafening silence. So proudly the guard marches.  There are young children with wide wondering eyes, old men; dressed in their crisp, neat uniforms, backs stooped by the years and hands hard and callused from hard work. They stand as straight as possible and proudly salute their fellow soldier, wiping  a tear from their eye.  Perhaps remembering their friend that they lost during the war all those years ago.  “Attention” the commander breaks the silence with his loud booming commanding voice. He has been polished and honed to perfection, anything less is simply not allowed. He stands tall and proud with honor, dignity, and respect. His shoulders are broad and straight. He and the relief sentinel join the current sentinel in front of the tomb. From here it is like a precise ballet by these three men to the sudden staccato clicks of their soles. There is then an inspection, every movement crisp and precise. The commander snatches the relief sentinels weapon and swipes its surface with an extended finger in a pure white glove. Next he inspects the uniform, hat, belt, and shoes, not a thing slips past him. With the inspection complete, the men salute the tomb and fall back into perfectly synchronized step. The two sentinels switch positions, the outgoing one leaving with the commander while the new sentinel takes his place passing back and forth in front of the tomb. Click, click, click.  Twenty-one steps and he spins around on his heels.  Twenty-one seconds and he turns and begins his returning march. On and on this ritual goes, without end, even when no one is there to watch their march continues, through wind, rain, sleet, and snow, they guard the tomb of our countries fallen unknown.