OMAR BRADLEY, A LITTLE RED CAR AND ME
Let’s circle around the Lincoln Memorial one more time. If we still can’t find a parking place, we can head across the Memorial Bridge to Arlington.”
The year was 1981. The date was April 14, a Tuesday. For us three seminarians, this week was a welcome break. It was reading week, a time to prepare for final exams and write papers. That day, we were not in the mood to read or write. My best friend Pat, her fiancé John, and I decided to take advantage of this day full of spring. Winter had been long and snowy and cold. The green blades of grass had only recently reappeared after four months of brown camouflage and periods of being AWOL.
We were looking for a change of pace, a little fun, a last escape before finals and graduation. As usual, I was hoping for an adventure.
The plan was to drive from our seminary in Philadelphia to Washington, D.C. for a day trip. After a little discussion, we decided I would drive. I always wanted to drive if the trip was of any distance, because I knew that a speed limit of 55 really meant 62. Piling into my 1974 red Hornet Hatchback, we set out.
About three hours later, we entered the Capitol city. Our itinerary was to include brief forays into the Supreme Court and the Library of Congress, an encounter with Abe Lincoln at his memorial and a reconnoitering of specific graves at Arlington National Cemetery.
With no success at finding a parking place at the Lincoln Memorial, (In 1981 people could still park all around it. Terrorism and hordes of tourists had not yet shut down convenient access to the Capitol, the White House and all the major memorials.) we parked by the Supreme Court, wandered through the halls of justice, then meandered through the Library of Congress. I wished I had all those books for myself.
So, there we were, circling the Lincoln Memorial for the third time. “Okay, let’s head across the bridge to Arlington.”
We came around the bend and onto the bridge access. As we drove across, we couldn’t help but notice that either side of the bridge was lined with clean cut young soldiers dressed in crisp khakis. A few ties rippled like flags in the breeze.
I said, “I wonder what’s going on. They must be practicing for something.” At that moment, we realized that both lines of uniforms had snapped to attention and were saluting us as we drove by in my 1974 red Hornet Hatchback.
We laughed as Pat said, “I wonder who they think we are.”
“Maybe this is the way they greet visitors to Arlington these days,” I answered.
John, an Army veteran from the late 60’s, just shook his head in amazement.
We crossed the bridge and drove through the gates of Arlington to begin our self-guided tour. Suddenly, I jammed on my brakes. A sergeant, with as many chevrons on his lower sleeve as on his upper sleeve, had stepped into the middle of the road. I immediately noticed the rifle he held across his body. It looked like a small tree branch compared with his 6’5”, 250+ pound body. He could have played offensive tackle for any pro football team.
He came up to my window and, leaning over, peered in, carefully examining us. “What are you doing here?”
I thought the answer was rather obvious, but I didn’t want to rile him. “We’re just here to visit the cemetery.”
In a voice that seemed to rumble up from beneath the Potomac, the sergeant intoned in a brusque, inflectionless manner, “You can’t come into the cemetery today. The cemetery is closed. Today is the funeral of General of the Army Omar Bradley. Please turn your vehicle around and exit now.”
He really didn’t have to say please. The polite formality of his response was a bit incongruent with the rifle he was holding.
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” I stuttered, forgetting the important rule that you never insulted a non-commissioned officer by addressing him as “sir.” Before he could point his rifle and shoot me for my breach of protocol, I turned the car around and drove out the driveway.
As we left, we needed to make a quick decision. We could either get on the congested multi-lane interstate to who knew where or we could go back across the bridge into the center of the city and see some other sites.
We opted for the latter. Until we came over the crest of the bridge. We realized immediately that we were in the only vehicle along Constitution Avenue for as far as we could see. Getting off that street as quickly as possible seemed to be the prudent thing to do.
However, we immediately realized that wasn’t going to be an easy task. Both sides of the street were now lined with military personnel standing shoulder to shoulder, extending across each intersection in front of the sawhorses used to keep anyone from entering.
Somehow, when the authorities had closed off access to the route of the funeral procession, they had missed us. We were trapped.
I slowed to about 15 miles per hour as we tried to figure out a way to extricate ourselves. It had quickly dawned on us that with the cemetery behind us and no escape in sight, we were driving inexorably toward that very procession. It wouldn’t be too long until the caissons went rolling along right into my front fender.
Just as panic was beginning to set in, I heard a disembodied voice coming from alongside my car. I looked to my left and found myself staring at a knee length, highly polished black boot.
I stopped, leaned out the window and looked up—way up—into the face of a mounted Washington, D.C. police officer. I felt an instant of relief. Someone had sent the Calvary to rescue us.
Channeling John Wayne, he asked, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
To which I replied, “We’re trying to get off this street. It’s General of the Army Omar Bradley’s funeral.”
As if an echo, the voice stated, “This is General of the Army Omar Bradley’s funeral. You have to get off this street immediately.’
Before I could ask him to assist us in that cause, he rode off into the sunset or horse barn or movie set.
The three of us now were moving into panic mode. We had driven past the Army contingency, the Marines, and the Navy, each of who, in turn, had stood at attention and saluted. Not too far in the distance, we could see the headlight of the cars preceding the horse drawn cart with the casket of General Bradley. I swore I could hear the mournful wailing of bagpipes, for his funeral or ours, I wasn’t certain.
In a surreal moment of insight, I was struck by the way in which individuals respond to a crisis in different ways.
John, who was sitting up front, had a quiet, rather serious demeanor most of the time. He spoke up, unintentionally giving a good imitation of Pooh’s friend Eeyore, “They’re going to recommission me, court-martial me and send me to Leavenworth. In a low, almost chant like fashion, he began repeating, “I’m going to Leavenworth. I’m going to Leavenworth.”
For Pat, on the other hand, speech came easily, with clarity and conviction. However, when she was overwhelmed, she lost the ability to construct a coherent sentence. As she sat in the back seat, leaning forward with her head in the front seat between John and me, she began to babble. All that came out was, “Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”—like a vinyl record skipping on a scratch.
Me? I see pictures in my mind. The picture I saw at that moment was of Walter Cronkite delivering the evening news. “Today, in Washington, D.C., the funeral of General of the Army Omar Bradley, was disrupted by three seminarians who were quickly taken into custody. They were unarmed and driving a 1974 red Hornet Hatchback. The reason for this protest is unknown at this time. Stay tuned to this CBS station for details as they develop.”
The ludicrousness of the situation hit me like a pie in the face. I realized I was draped over the steering wheel laughing hysterically, accompanied by the refrains of my two friends, as I continued to inch my way toward the inevitable confrontation.
I swatted the image of doom out of my consciousness. I was a mature, level-headed thirty-year-old woman in my eighth year of higher education. I could handle this. Since no one had recognized me as a damsel in distress and rescued me, I had to do it myself. I had to take action. NOW.
We were driving through a saluting cadre from the Air Force, decked out in their blue uniforms. If I had figured correctly, the only service we had not yet confused was the Coast Guard. We were getting closer to our own D-Day.
Deciding that retreat was the only option, I prepared to turn around in the middle of Constitution Avenue. To give myself enough room, I edged over as close to the right side of the street as possible.
As I maneuvered the car into position and began to execute the turn, I had a close-up view of worried young faces. Although the dutifully continued to stand motionless and salute the inhabitants of this car with the mysterious mission, they were all surreptitiously looking down at their feet to see how close I was to their toes.
I spun the wheel as hard to the left as I could. Inspired by the bravery and courage of these military units surrounding us, I made a precision perfect K-turn and reversed our direction.
Quickly, but with all the decorum I could muster, we began the trip back up the street toward the bridge. Maybe our observers thought we were taking the point on this funeral procession and making certain that all was in readiness to honor the general.
Here we came again, approaching the Memorial Bridge. As we drove up and over, the army contingent again stood at attention and saluted us. However, I noticed in the rear view mirror, that every head turned as we passed for the third and absolutely final time in order to follow that mighty 1974 red Hornet Hatchback until we were out of sight.
One last decision remained. If we continued straight ahead, we would again be confronted by the giant sergeant with the rifle. We had no doubt that if we dared to enter those gates again, he would shoot us.
That certainty led us to the only other option. I turned to the ramp to the interstate, only to realize our egress was being blocked by yet another barricade. Sensing our distress, the man guarding the sawhorse moved it out of the way. We felt like Moses and the Jewish people at the parting of the Red Sea. Without looking back, we drove onto the interstate, effecting our escape from arrest, imprisonment and possible execution as traitors.
We all exhaled at once as danger faded away behind us. “where to now?” I asked my cohorts in mayhem.
Pat pointed to the exit sign and I knew we had been sent here by divine guidance. We laughed as we pulled into the parking lot in that faithful 1974 red Hornet Hatchback and entered the building.
With confidence and a wondrous sense of irony and in Omar Bradley’s honor, we took the tour of the Pentagon.