They walked up the long avenue of graves at Arlington, both in winter uniform—dark blue, white hat covers—quiet, somber. He carried their child, who stared around him at the gardens of stone with the same look of wonder that he brought to every new thing.
Alan Craik, Lieutenant, United States Navy, wore the Silver Star, awarded him only an hour before in a private—in fact secret—ceremony. Rose Siciliano Craik, Lieutenant Commander, United States Navy, wore the ribbon of the Air Medal, awarded two weeks before.
They turned in among the graves and went on, she imperceptibly following his lead, which was purposeful and silent. On he went, turning twice, knowing the way, and coming at last to the small stone that bore his father’s name and dates of birth and death.
The sky was gray. The stones, recently wet, seemed luminous, achromatic. The trees, beginning to show leaves, moved faintly in a wind.
He handed the child to her and went and stood alone by the stone. He stood there for two full minutes, looking at it, his head bent so that she could not see his face. Then, quickly, he undid the medal he had just been given, removed his hat, and, bending at the knees, placed the medal on the stone.
He straightened and stood there, hatless.
The child stirred in his mother’s arms. He looked at his father, then at her.
“Dada cry,” he said.
“Yes.” She smiled, tightened her grip on him. “But it’s all right. It’s all right now.”
He stood there a long time. The wind blew, and the silence of Arlington was invaded by the sounds from over the river. Over there is the great city of monuments and public people, the noise of a nation, all the comings and goings, the wrangles and the words, the free acts and the decisions for which the long night watches are kept. And these two people and their child, silent now among the graves, will go there and take up new tasks, for this one is done.