NO HIGHER HONOR
THE MUSEUM BECOMES harder and harder work for me. Word has spread that a modern-day Navy Cross recipient works there now, and all sorts of people have started coming out of the woodwork to see me. Total strangers ask me how many people I killed. God, how I hate that question. Every combat veteran does.
Others want my autograph. One man comes to visit several times a week. He follows me around the museum, snapping hundreds of photographs of me. It gets to the point where I have to start avoiding him. One afternoon, he waits for three hours by my car as I hide inside the museum from him.
The attention’s adding a lot of strain to my ability to recover. I fight through it, but Jess suffers as I grow tense and stressed. I finally give in and go see the shrinks again. I refuse to take any Clonopin, but allow them to put me back on Zoloft. Jess notices a difference almost right away.
At the museum, every day becomes a test. I never know what’s going to happen or who will walk through the doors. Some of the folks are touchingly sincere. They press small gifts into my hands and thank me for everything I’ve done.
One afternoon, a man in a wheelchair pushes his way through the front entrance. I expect to see another aged World War II veteran. Instead, I see somebody my own age. He’s missing both his legs.
He rolls his chair to me and introduces himself. He served in Ramadi, little Fallujah, where so many of my friends have gone to serve during their second and third tours. He’d been a wrestler at the University of Indiana before he joined the Corps. He’s been recovering from his wounds at Walter Reed, where he recently was visited by President Bush.
He lost his legs to an IED, the ubiquitous roadside bomb.
“I came today because I wanted to meet you, Sergeant Workman,” he says earnestly.
“Me? Why?” I ask, confused.
“It is an honor to know a Navy Cross recipient. You are a true hero.” His eyes are full of emotion as he stretches an arm up to me. “I came to shake your hand.”
I feel like a complete fraud.
The hero in this room is this wheelchair-bound Marine who has survived horrors I could never endure. He’s the one who should have this Navy Cross on his chest, not me.
The world tilts. The edges of my vision grow fuzzy. I pull away and flee to the safety of a back room. I’ve made a spectacle of myself again, but I can’t control how I feel.
Gunfire. I hear gunfire in the distance. Shell casings tink … tink … tink … off concrete steps.
My vision narrows, like I’m seeing the world through a tube.
“NO!” I shout fiercely. I will not let this happen to me again. I shake my head and suck air furiously, leaning against a wall for support. I fight this with all the will I have.
Workman, give me a pistol!
Not today. I’m not in Fallujah. I’m at the museum. I’m at the museum.
More deep breaths. My heart rate slows. When I open my eyes, my vision’s clear. I feel suddenly exhausted, though, like all the energy I had stored up for the day just got burned in this effort.
I know what I have to do next.
You are not fit to stand in front of this Marine.
No. We need each other. We need that bond.
He’ll see through the mask you’ve created for yourself.
Mask? What will he see underneath?
He’ll see a Marine still struggling to find his way.
But I’m no longer lost. I know the path, it’s just anything but easy.
True. But come on, who is the real hero here?
There’s no argument there.
I straighten my dress blues and square my shoulders. The righteous path is the most difficult to travel.
I return to the front of the museum. My visitor waits patiently. I see a look of understanding in his eyes. We share the same pain, we know the same effects of trauma.
“Thank you for what you said earlier,” I tell him.
“You are my hero, Sergeant Workman,” he says as he extends his arm again. I clasp his hand with mine. We don’t know each other, but we know enough. We share an experience that most will never understand. And that makes us brothers.
Long into the night, I ponder this encounter. I fought and won today. Six months ago, this meeting would have sent me into a spiral of guilt, shame, and grief. Instead, it has left me shaken and depressed. I won the fight today and First Sergeant Lewis would be proud. Nevertheless, it came at a heavy price. I’m left weakened, exposed, and vulnerable. Tomorrow, the fight will be exponentially harder.