On humility, military tradition, and the things that outlast us
I have always thought there is something to be said for knowing when to be quiet.
It is a simple enough proposition, though one that seems to have fallen out of fashion. We live in a world that rewards commentary, celebrates personalities, and encourages nearly everyone to have something to say about nearly everything. Silence, when it does occur, is often mistaken for an absence of thought rather than an expression of respect.
A short video circulating on Veterans Day brought that thought to mind.
Following the annual observance at Arlington National Cemetery, Secretary of War Pete Hegseth and members of his party were photographed in front of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. As the group departed, conversation and laughter could be heard. An Army sentinel stopped his patrol and offered a reminder:
“All visitors will maintain an atmosphere of silence and respect at all times.”
It was a brief exchange. There was no apparent confrontation, no argument, and no particularly dramatic display of authority. A soldier reminded a group of visitors of the rules governing the place they were visiting. That was about the extent of it.
Of course, the internet had other ideas. Before long, the incident became another occasion for people to sort themselves into familiar political camps. Some saw an embarrassment for the Secretary of War. Others rushed to defend him. There were arguments about decorum, respect, military authority, and the conduct of public officials.
I suppose that is to be expected. We have become remarkably efficient at turning small events into larger arguments about people we already have opinions about. I am not particularly interested in joining that exercise.
For one thing, a short video is a rather poor instrument for judging character. We do not know precisely who was laughing, what prompted it, or what anyone in the group intended. The footage does not establish that Hegseth himself was responsible for the disruption. It would be unwise to pretend otherwise. But the soldier’s response is worth considering.
The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier is an unusual place. It represents men whose names, in some cases, were never recovered and whose families may never have known exactly where they came to rest. They went to war, did not return, and became part of a national memory that has outlasted their individual identities. There is something humbling about that arrangement.
Since 1948, soldiers of the 3rd United States Infantry Regiment, known as The Old Guard, have maintained a continuous watch over the Tomb. Those selected for the assignment undergo considerable training. They learn the procedures, the history, and the responsibilities associated with the post.
The sentinel is not there to entertain visitors or accommodate their schedules. He is there to maintain a tradition and preserve the dignity of a place that belongs, in a sense, to all of us. It seems reasonable that the rules should apply equally to everyone.
I imagine that is easier to understand in theory than in practice. We are accustomed to making allowances for position. A person with an important title receives a little more room, a little more attention, and occasionally a little more indulgence than the rest of us. This is not necessarily malicious. It is simply one of the ways people arrange themselves around authority. Institutions, however, are supposed to provide some resistance to that tendency.
The soldier standing watch at the Tomb is not particularly concerned with the organizational chart of the Department of War. At least, he should not be. His responsibility is defined by the post he occupies and the tradition he has been entrusted to preserve. That responsibility does not become less important when the visitors happen to be powerful people.
There is a distinction here that I find worth considering. We tend to speak of leadership in terms of authority, as though the possession of an important office is sufficient evidence of one’s importance. But authority and stewardship are different things.
Authority is temporary. Stewardship is an obligation.
A person may occupy an office for a few years, perhaps longer, and exercise considerable influence while doing so. The institution itself, assuming it is worth preserving, must survive the individual. Its traditions, obligations, and accumulated experience cannot be reduced to the preferences of whoever happens to be in charge.
The military has understood this for a long time. The uniform represents something beyond the person wearing it. The oath is not a personal possession. The mission does not belong to the individual who happens to command it.
I suspect this is one reason military traditions can be so enduring. They provide a measure of continuity in an institution that otherwise operates in a world of constant change. The sentinel’s intervention was not an act of insubordination. It was not a challenge to civilian authority or an expression of political opinion. It was a soldier performing an assigned responsibility.
There is no contradiction between respecting the chain of command and expecting everyone, regardless of rank or office, to respect the place they are visiting. In fact, I would argue that the two ideas depend upon one another.
I have occasionally wondered whether we have become too accustomed to measuring the importance of an occasion by the importance of the people attending it. We give considerable attention to the guest list, the speeches, the photographs, and the personalities involved. We sometimes forget that the occasion itself existed before those people arrived and will continue after they have departed. The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier is a good example. I’ve witnessed a lack of civic regard there myself when visiting at the same time as high school groups. While I was frustrated with the kids, I was disappointed in the teachers who allowed the behavior.
The Secretary of War is an important visitor. So is the President. So is the general standing nearby. But none of them is the reason the Tomb exists. They are there to remember someone else. Perhaps that is the part worth sitting with.
The inscription on the Tomb reads:
“Here rests in honored glory an American soldier known but to God.”
I have always found that sentiment more compelling than most of the speeches we tend to associate with military observances. There is no elaborate explanation, no political qualification, and no attempt to distinguish one sacrifice from another. There is simply a recognition that someone served, someone died, and someone ought to remember.
The sentinel standing watch is entrusted with that remembrance in a very practical way. He follows the prescribed movements, maintains the post, and ensures that visitors understand the expectations of the place. It is not a particularly glamorous assignment. There is little opportunity for improvisation and even less for self-expression. The importance of the work lies largely in doing it correctly, day after day, regardless of who happens to be watching.
Perhaps there is something useful in that for the rest of us. I am not suggesting that every public interaction should be treated as a solemn occasion or that laughter is somehow incompatible with respect. There is a time and place for both. Nor do I believe a brief video provides enough evidence to make sweeping judgments about the character of those involved. But I do think there is value in remembering that not every occasion is ours to occupy.
Some places ask something of us before we enter. Some traditions deserve to be preserved without our improving upon them. And some responsibilities are important precisely because they require us to put aside our own importance for a little while.
On Veterans Day, an Army sentinel reminded a group of visitors of that obligation. Among them were some of the most influential people in the country. The soldier did not need to make a speech. He did not need to explain the history of the Tomb or offer a lecture on military tradition. He simply reminded the visitors where they were. I suppose that is enough.
There are times when the most important thing we can do is recognize that we are not the most important thing in the room.
