The Extraordinary in the Ordinary

John Gunyou Whenever I visit a military cemetery it reminds me of the first time I saw the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington National Cemetery. I was ten, and taking photos with my Brownie Instamatic, framing the stone faced, ramrod straight Army honor guard in full dress uniform as he marched slowly back and forth in front of the white marble sarcophagus. To get a better angle for his shot, the man next to me stepped one leg over the rope barrier. The guard instantly whirled, aimed his rifle and fixed bayonet straight at the man and said in a deep clear voice that still brings me a chill, That barricade is there for a purpose, sir. As the man scrambled back over the rope, I remember thinking that this was a bigger deal than your typical cemetery. As a graduate of the U.S. Air Force Academy, I now have a much better understanding of the significance of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. After each major war, the unidentified remains of a single soldier have been entombed under the simple inscription: Here rests in honored glory an American soldier known but to God. Its our way of recognizing the contributions of the everyday soldier - that unknown hero who reflects the nobility of all who have been called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice for their country, their comrades, and their families. Although each of the unknown soldiers was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor, its not likely that they lost their life in some heroic act of valor - not by leading a courageous charge up the battlements, nor braving death to save a wounded comrade in the best Hollywood fashion. More likely, they were unremarkable men or women simply doing their duty. I think thats the beauty of the Tomb of the Unknowns. The person enshrined there could be anyone . . . and everyone. That anonymity carries with it the suggestion that each of us is capable of greatness, whether or not someone actually witnesses our deeds. And, whether or not those deeds were heroic in the usual sense. And, whether or not anyone even knows who we are. A few years ago, the Unknown Soldier who served in Vietnam was identified. After a long battle with the federal bureaucracy, the sister of a missing veteran finally obtained approval for DNA testing. And thus, the unknown was known. Through her persistence, the sister of a pilot long classified as missing in action was able to bring her brother home to his family. In the end, the high level political pressure that led to a known soldiers false entombment was overcome by regular folks who thought it more important to bring every fallen soldier home.

In a way, its sad that with modern forensics there will never again be an unknown soldier. While families will now gain the comfort of closure, we as a nation will forever lose the mystery of the unknown hero. As it turns out, that previously unknown Vietnam soldier was a friend of mine. His name was Michael Blassie, and we were classmates at the Air Force Academy. In fact, we lived next to each other in the dorm. By most measures of classic heroism, Michael was not all that remarkable. He grew up in a working class family in north St. Louis, the oldest son of a meat cutter. At the Academy, he had average grades and played intercollegiate soccer. Michael graduated in the middle of our class, went to pilot training and flew an A-37. He was shot down near An Loc in 1972, only four months after arriving in Vietnam. It would be hard to argue that Michael made a huge difference in anyones life by the time he died at the age of 24. I do know that he made a difference in mine. For one thing, he had the patience to teach me the tennis serve I still rely on to compete with people half my age. Far more importantly, Michaels quiet acceptance of duty helped me better appreciate the responsibility of public service. Beneath his easy, confident smile, there was never any question about his dedication and commitment to the lot in life we had all chosen. While there are many honorable ways to serve our country, you feel a distinct difference when you put on a military uniform. Michaels was the first name I looked for when I finally gathered the courage to visit The Wall in Washington, D.C. His was the first name I saw among my many other friends chiseled on those sobering slabs of polished black granite. Although his name now graces the headstone where he rests, Michael remains a very appropriate unknown hero. He was not likely destined to be a great general, but rather, was an average person who served his nation in the best way he knew how. I think thats an even more heroic calling. True heroes are more often than not, quite ordinary people who are called upon to do extraordinary things. I think its also a bit more than that. Heroism doesnt only involve monumental feats of courage. It also has to do with everyday, selfless acts that make a difference in someones life - both epic and small. It was truly my privilege to call Michael my friend and comrade.

John Gunyou lives in Minnetonka, Minnesota.