Basher Five-Two (15 page)

When I was trying to survive in Bosnia, I had felt
incredibly unlucky. My plane and I had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But having survived and been rescued, I was suddenly in the right place at the right time. The Great American Celebrity Machine wanted to make me a hero. As I’d tried to explain to so many people, I wasn’t really a hero, I was a survivor—but the label seemed to stick anyway. As my gaze swept over the hallowed hills of Arlington, I knew who our country’s true heroes were.

My last stop in the vast cemetery grounds was the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Approaching the steps leading up to the Tomb and the Memorial Amphitheater behind it, I watched silently with the rest of the crowd as the lone honor guard marched back and forth in front of the large marble crypt. The sun reflected off his visor, and the only sounds you could hear were the click of his boots and his palm slapping against the butt of his rifle. Inside the crypt were the remains of four unknown servicemen, one for each major war that the United States had fought in the twentieth century: World War I, World War II, the Korean War, and the war in Vietnam.

Receiving special permission, I stepped over the chain to the tomb itself and knelt before the crypt. This tomb symbolized the ultimate sacrifice. Not only had these four individuals given their lives to protect the freedoms of
generations unborn, they had given their identities. No one could mourn them personally, no one could give them a parade or make a speech about their lives. But in giving everything and asking nothing in return, theirs was the highest honor of all.