Gravesite of Second Lieutenant Christopher Loudon

The war in Afghanistan was the longest in American history. Many service members who died in Afghanistan or Iraq were on their second, third, or fourth deployment. The other sad reality of today’s wars is the number of troops that come home badly injured. Medicine has come a long way. Large numbers of service members who, in the past, would have died on the battlefield get patched up and sent home. We’ve done an excellent job mending their bodies, giving them new limbs, faces, and eyes. We’ve also done more for those who return home with the invisible signs of war. According to the VA, post-traumatic stress claims the lives of 17.5 veterans every day.

Section 60 contains over nine hundred American Soldiers, Marines, Sailors, and Airmen who died in Iraq or Afghanistan.

This section feels different. It feels much more like the present than the past. Every day, maintenance workers in their ATVs remove piles of yesterday’s flowers. The trash bins are full of old flowers from Section 60. You see new photographs and memory stones while walking among the graves.

In Arlington’s other sections, families often stop briefly to pay tribute to a service member from past wars. Section 60 holds the fallen of the latest generation of fallen heroes. Families and friends arrive and stay. There’s no place else to go. The work of the churches, synagogues, temples, and    mosques is now complete. There’s always a new funeral in the works. Soon, another comrade will join the men and women laid to rest in Section 60.

Loved ones bring lawn chairs, food, an extra beer or two, and anything else they can carry to remind them of their lost hero. They sit, lie down, pray, and talk. You can hear complete conversations. Families show up when Arlington opens and don’t leave until the security guards force them out at the end of the day. Section 60 has been called the saddest place in America.

Several years back, we visited during springtime. At the visitor center, you can use a kiosk to search for the name of someone interred. The night before, I’d done my homework. Second Lieutenant Christopher E. Loudon died in Iraq in 2006. He’d earned a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart. I didn’t know him, but I wanted to see where in Section 60 he is buried—the place of so much pain.

You can get a car pass to visit a particular grave in Arlington. The number of passes handed out each day is limited. The day we visited, we were fortunate to get one. We drove through the cemetery about as slow as a car can go. It still felt too fast. As we drove, “Silence and Respect” signs lined our route.

I forgot to tell Lillian I wasn’t looking for Lieutenant Loudon. He was my excuse to get a pass and drive to Section 60. I wanted to see all the graves, witness the sadness, and walk among our fallen from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.

We parked, and Lillian took the directions printed from the kiosk and began searching for the young lieutenant. As she followed the numbers looking for Chris’s grave, I headed into Section 60’s sea of brand-new headstones. Other rows bore only the plastic markers of new graves. A permanent headstone would be more than a year away. The workload is backed up in Section 60. The burials and headstones will come but not soon enough.

As we walked about, a dozen or so families paid their respects. A young mother held her two-year-old daughter. An older couple wandered, looking for their great-grandson. A Vietnam vet had camped at one of the graves and smoked a cigar. It wasn’t his first visit, nor would it be his last.

Once Lillian realized I wasn’t looking for Lieutenant Loudon’s grave, she walked over to where I stood.

“I thought we came to see Lieutenant Loudon?” 

“I wanted to see them all.”

“You could have told me . . .”

“Sorry.”

“He’s over there.”

“Look at this grave. Look how many stones.” 

The Jewish have a custom of placing small stones on headstones. They are an enduring symbol of how the memory of someone will last. Flowers wither and fade, as does life.

An Asian couple set up chairs for a picnic lunch. They’d come to spend the day. It turned out they came every Saturday. They hadn’t missed a Saturday for over a year now.

“Are you from around here?” I asked.

“We live in Alexandria.”

“We do too. Whereabouts?”

“Right off Duke Street. How about you?”

“Further south. In Hayfield. Our son went to high school at Hayfield High. How about your son?”

“Edison.”

“Did your son play football?”

“Why yes, he did. Our son lost his homecoming game to Hayfield.”

“Sorry about that. Do you mind? Can I sit? Would you tell me about your son?”

“Would you like a beer?”

“I’d love one.”

Sadly, I can’t remember the young soldier’s name or the names of his mother or father. But I can remember the kind of beer we drank. So, there I sat. I made polite conversation with the mother and father, who’d lost their only son. Then, I sipped my Corona and enjoyed the mild spring weather.

Section 60 is about three-quarters of a mile from the visitor center. I recommend you walk if you’re not visiting a loved one or friend. Take your first left on Eisenhower Drive and then a right on Sergeant Alvin York Drive. Lieutenant Loudon’s grave is in the middle of Section 60, surrounded by his friends and comrades.

New graves in section 60