THE LAST MEDAL
A BIBLE SITS ON my mother’s nightstand. She’s had it there for as long as I can remember. It isn’t anything special—not one of those leather-bound volumes that dates back a hundred years and has all the family births and deaths written into it. No, nothing like that. It is a simple Bible with a purple soft cover. She reads it almost every night, but the pages contain something more to her than God’s words.
After my grandmother died in December 2003, I came home for the funeral. One evening, after all the guests had left our house, I turned off the lights in the living room and went to say goodnight to my mother. I found her in her bedroom, staring at the Bible on her nightstand. She opened it to reveal two ribbons and medals.
“These were your grandfather’s,” she told me as she lifted the first one up. It was a Purple Heart.
“Where’d you find that?” I asked, incredulous. My grandmother had told me he’d served in the Army, but I had no idea that he’d been wounded.
“In your grandmother’s things.”
She handed the Purple Heart to me. I held it like it was an ancient treasure with the ribbon draped over my index finger. Its gold edges gleamed in the bedroom’s light.
“He was wounded during World War II.”
“Nobody knows. He never talked about it. We just know he was infantry and fought in Europe.”
“My grandfather was a hero?” Why hadn’t I heard about this? My grandfather always seemed such a sore subject, almost taboo. We never spoke of him. All I knew is that he died long before I was born.
My mother looked away. She said nothing for a long moment, and I wondered if I had somehow said something wrong.
Slowly, she withdrew another medal from the Bible. As she handed it to me, she said softly, “He was a brave man. Once.”
I regarded the second medal. It was a Bronze Star for Valor, awarded for courage under fire.
“What did he get this for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Grandpa die in the war?”
“No. He just didn’t talk about it.”
Whatever my grandfather did during the war, he was a hero. At least he was to those who fought with him and led him into battle.
When I came home to Ohio after my Iraq deployment, I gave my mother my Purple Heart. She clutched it to her chest as tears streamed freely. She put it in the Bible with my grandfather’s medals. They’re close to her heart there.
As I sit in the VIP section of the reviewing stands at Parris Island, dressed in my service charlies and still looking like a drill instructor, I see that Bible in my mind: Simple, unadorned, and unpretentious, just like my mom and the life she’s lived. Tonight, she’ll have another medal to tuck away. I hope it’ll be the last to find a home in that Bible. There’s a premium paid for each one of these awards, and I pray that her future grandkids won’t have to pay it as we did. Two generations. We never met, but today I feel Grandfather’s presence.
The afternoon is beautiful. The sun shines, but it lacks the intensity of summer. A cool breeze blows and it feels crisp in my lungs. I turn my face skyward and close my eyes. There are precious few days as perfect as this one here at Parris Island. They always seem to be too cold, too humid, or too hot. Today, though, we’ve been blessed by the weather gods.
The parade deck stretches out in front of the reviewing stands. Alpha Company from our battalion graduates today, and the men parade before us, ready to move forward and become Marines. They’ll soon feed the machine in the Middle East.
A band plays. These freshly minted Marines march with pride and perhaps a little bit of a swagger. Jessica sits next to me, the wind playing with her shoulder-length strawberry blond hair. She’s wearing a new black sundress for the occasion. Beside her sit her folks. My mom’s a row behind me. My dad hasn’t spoken to me since I left for Iraq. I don’t even know where he is anymore.
The recruit company comes to a halt. They turn and face the review stands. The band plays a new song. That’s my cue. I rise from my seat and march out of the bleachers and onto the asphalt parade deck. I try hard to forget the thousands of eyes that are on me now. The spotlight does not suit me. I’d much rather be closeted away from the world, hidden from view. Today, I’m on display.
I will be gracious. I will be a gentleman. But how can I not feel like a fraud when I came home and Raleigh and Hillenburg and Phillips did not? This is their Navy Cross, not mine.
I stand at attention. The graduating recruits form up behind me.
The event narrator comes over the PA system to introduce me. A round of applause follows. It sounds like machine-gun fire, crackling in the distance.
“Attention to orders!” the narrator continues. Our depot sergeant major and Brigadier General Richard Tryon march out in front of me. I stare straight ahead. The narrator begins to read my citation.
“The President of the United States takes pleasure in presenting the Navy Cross to Jeremiah W. Workman for services set forth in the following.”
Why are they doing this? Don’t they know that I’m anything but a hero?
“For extraordinary heroism while serving as a squad leader …”
The words fade and echo away. I can hear my own breathing. My vision starts to narrow.
Oh God. Not again. Not here.
“… Corporal Workman fearlessly exposed himself and laid down a base of fire that allowed the isolated Marines …”
Gunfire erupts around me. Instinctively, I want to duck, but through my tunnel vision I see General Tryon smiling at me. It’s okay. I’m at Parris Island. There’s no shooting.
Cordite. I smell cordite. Then I hear the tink-tink-tink of spent casings bouncing off concrete. The sound causes me to start sweating.
Hold it together, Jeremiah. You’ve got to get through this. I take a deep breath. The world goes out of focus.
“… Corporal Workman’s heroic actions contributed to the elimination of twenty-four insurgents …”
General Tryon is gone. In his place, I see three faces staring accusingly at me. Raleigh Smith, Eric Hillenburg, and James Phillips regard me in cold silence. Hillenburg’s temple is shattered by a bullet wound. Blood leaches from it and trickles down his cheek. His eyes are black as coal.
I want to reach for them and scream I’m sorry. I’m sorry I could not save you. I’m sorry I have stolen your valor.
“… By his bold leadership, wise judgment, and complete dedication to duty, Corporal Workman reflected great credit upon himself and upheld the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service.”
Raleigh steps forward. His face is devoid of color, his eyes lack definition. I want to embrace him. I want to flee. Instead, all I can do is stay rooted in place.
A roar of gunfire assails my ears. It grows like thunder until it overwhelms every other sound. My eyes jerk left and right, searching for the source until I realize it is only applause. Thousands of hands clap for me. People whistle. The crowd rises as one and cheers wildly.
Raleigh’s gone. General Tryon has stepped close to me. He pins the Navy Cross to my uniform and shakes my hand.
The applause grows even louder. Whistles like incoming artillery shells cut across the parade deck. My legs quiver. Will I make another public spectacle of myself?
The sergeant major shakes my hand and offers his congratulations. I smile as best I can, but it is a phony effort. I have never felt such utter despair as I do now.
The three of us march off the parade deck and back to the VIP section of the stands. I don’t look down at the stairs as we climb back to my family.
“Jeremiah! Jeremiah!” my mother calls to me. The general leans forward and gives her a hug. She turns and wraps her arms around me, suffusing me for a few fleeting seconds with a childhood sense of safety. But then I hear the tink-tink-tink of shell casings on concrete, welling up from the past again, and the moment is lost, replaced by an awkward sense of complete vulnerability.
Hillenburg stands beside me. I see him from the corner of my eye. He’s flanked by Raleigh Smith and James Phillips. I didn’t know James that well, but every time I saw him it seemed he was either talking about his girl, Kitty, back in Plant City, Florida, or his hot rod Mustang. I had an ’03 for a while. We shared a love of pony cars.
I cannot bear to look at them now. Not while I’m surrounded by family and a thousand cheering fans. But they know what I did. They know what happened. And they are never going to let me forget. I failed them, and they paid the price.
General Tryon introduces himself to Jessica and gives her a quick hug. Her eyes are glassy and moist. I see pride on her face. Behind that pride something else tries to hide. It takes me only a moment to recognize it: Deep, abiding, guilt.
Part of me wants to console her and take her in my arms. I’d tell her all the things I’ve needed to say for all these months we’ve lived in marital limbo. We’d figure out a way to return to how it was before we thrashed each other and destroyed what was once between us. Perhaps the only redemption for either of us lies in our effort to stay together.
My mother’s arms are still around me. She sobs against my chest.
The general interrupts. “After the pass and review, there are some reporters who want to talk with you.”
That is going to take supreme effort to endure. “Yes, sir,” I tell him. I’ll let Captain Chontosh’s example be my guide. At Twenty-Nine Palms, he was mobbed by people wanting a piece of him. He stood and took it with a graciousness that impressed everyone that day, especially me. I will have to do the same. Then I’ll lock myself away somewhere far from humanity and not emerge for a week. If ever.
Jessica slips into my arms. She clutches me hard, and I give her a kiss on the cheek. It is salty from her tears.
As we pull apart, we make eye contact. It feels like a stab in the heart. Her guilt and my shame connect for that split second, and both of us verge on breaking down. She hugs me again, if only to break the spell. I hear her whisper in my ear, “Jeremiah, I had no idea what you went through.”
I don’t know what to say.
“I wish I had been there for you,” she says through a barely controlled sob.
I wish that, too.
We break our embrace, and I sit down next to her. The applause ripples and fades, like distant gunfire in a dying city. My face turns to the sun, eyes closed as I absorb its mild spring warmth.
When I open my eyes, I see only a smoke-shrouded stairwell.