I slowly walked the roped-off perimeter, the half circumference of a large semi-circular display, lost in my thoughts, lost in my head, maybe watching my feet, and my father’s feet next to mine. My father’s hand dangled below his waist, right next to my tiny ear. I reached up and grasped his hand searching for warmth or security. A voice I didn’t know spoke out. “I’m not your father, little boy. He’s over there.” I looked up to find a man I’d never seen before pointing about a third of the way across the roped off circle. Terrified, I ducked under the rope and ran through the empty space towards my father.

A voice boomed out, “Ten Hut!” A dozen feet thumped the ground in unison. “Shoulder arms!” I heard the loud and telltale sound of hands slapping weapons as the soldiers came to life. I screamed and ducked under the rope. I buried my face in my father’s shirt and cried like the baby I practically was.

I don’t know if this is accurate. It’s how I remember it, but when I went back to visit in my twenties, there were only two soldiers. Not the firing squad I see in my memory. But I know it happened, it’s family lore. Even if the details are off, I’ll never forget the face of man who wasn’t my father looking down at me. I’ll never forget the feeling that I was about to be spattered by a barrage of gun fire.

This past week, I learned that Peter Hegseth, the ‘Secretary of War,’ joined the exclusive club I’ve belonged to for over sixty years—those who have been reprimanded at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

I was too young to be embarrassed by my disregard of decorum. I didn’t understand the rules, and I didn’t understand the gravity of what the tomb represents. But I’m certain Mr. Hegseth does. He simply doesn’t care.

Image by SyndramDesigns from Pixabay