I would have told you to tread gently in these gardens of stone. This hallowed ground is not a stage for conduct unbecoming.

It was born in the grief and pain of a broken-hearted nation in Civil War. It’s origins, humble – a potters field – without ceremony or honors – but driven by the principle of “no one left behind,” it became a place for the fallen, no matter how near or far away, to be brought home and laid to rest. To be remembered and honored.

I would have told you that the only words that matter here, are: “On behalf of a grateful nation…” – nothing else. You have said enough already. Let silence be the tender cradle for memories of lives loved and lost.

I would have told you my best friend, and brother Medic, is buried here. Fifty-five years on, I still live that day, still feel the slick rain on my skin, and smell the wet sour tranh grass and brackish rice paddy water. It’s September – a Friday – rainy season – late afternoon – quiet – too quiet – even the birds hiding in jack fruit trees know that death is coming.

It’s real, and it’s a dream – and it never changes. Pat dies in my arms and I wear his blood on my hands and fatigues for days. I cannot escape the acrid smell and briny taste of his death – even now.

I would have told you that Arlington National Cemetery is America’s sacred garden of sorrows. It must be tended with care.