In Arlington National Cemetery, Washington DC, lay the bodies of nearly 400,000 US service men and women. Each of these tombs has the name of the fallen soldier, the date they died, and an emblem of their faith.
Except one. Overlooking the cemetery lies a memorial perpetually guarded by a soldier — selected from the 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment — equipped with rifle and sidearm. This sentinel has one of the highest honors in the U.S. Army.
This tomb does not have the inscription of the name of a man nor a date — but rather the words:
HERE RESTS IN
HONORED GLORY
AN AMERICAN
SOLDIER
KNOWN BUT TO GOD
This is the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The bodies of three servicemen currently reside in the tomb — two from the first and second World Wars and one from the Korean War. They have not been identified.
I have glimpses in my mind of individuals throughout history building important technology, who at some moment feel the immense weight in their bones of the imminence of being forgotten, statues eroded in the sands of time, and decide to soldier on nonetheless.
It is the possibility that they may play some small part in the generation of infinite moments — the laugh of a child yet to be born, the power of an orchestra reaching a crescendo, the roar of the maiden voyage to lands unknown. It is a glimpse of these that propels them forward.
We honor the great generals of history. But arguably the singular most reverent military tradition honors those who will never be named.
There’s no shortage of lavish praise on the great industry leaders of time (and Aaron Sorkin can’t make a movie for everyone). But strange how little we honor the footsoldiers of technology who decided to press on, knowing the sands would take them too.
Perhaps a monument should be built.
HERE RESTS IN
HONORED GLORY
A HUMAN
TECHNOLOGIST
KNOWN BUT TO GOD
Not because they need the credit, but because they didn’t.