Page 83 of Proof Of Life
“I can’t fucking do this,” I say in a panic. “I’m not who they think I am. I’m not a fucking hero. They’re dead because of me. I should have been court martialed, not decorated.”
Brandt clutches my sleeve. “Listen to me,” he hisses. “It doesn’t matter how you feel about it. They don’t give a fuck about your guilt. They don’t really even care that we’re still alive. They care about the ones that died, the ones they lost. The ones they’re here to honor today. They are fallen heroes, and they deserve our respect. I don’t care what it costs you. You’re gonna sit there and you’re gonna keep your fucking shit together and smile. It’s the least we can do for them. That's all these people want to see. We’re just poster boys for fallen heroes. They don’t care that we’re dead inside, they just want to pin medals on our chests and talk about our glory, and our sacrifice, because it brings them closer to the ones they lost. They’ve got rose-colored glasses on because it softens the harsh glare of their grief.”
He lets go of my sleeve and brushes the fabric smooth. I swallow hard, past the lump forming in my throat I will myself not to cry.
“This is fucking bullshit. The whole goddamn fiasco is fucking bullshit. they should be here, accepting these medals themselves. They fucking earned it, not us.”
“You bet it’s bullshit. And when we get home, you can fall apart in my arms and cry. You can bury yourself under the covers and I’ll join you. Or we can sit outside and get higher than the fucking stars, until we forget how much it hurts, but for the next two hours, you’re going to fucking grin and bear it. Got it?”
All I can do is nod. I’m just grateful he’s strong for the both of us, strong enough to afford me the luxury of being a victim to my feelings and my conscience.
“Hey, this is just as hard for me. I need you to help me get through this,” he whispers fiercely, clutching my shoulder. “I’m not okay. Can you help me?”
I’m such a fucking jackass. A piece of fucking shit beneath my shoe. Of course he’s not okay. And I promised I would always show up for him.
“I’ve got you, Reaper. Three legs. You can’t fall with three legs.”
“No, you fucking can’t,” he agrees, bringing me in tight for a hug. “Come on, let’s go smile and wave so we can get the fuck out of here.”
The ballroom is packed with elegantly dressed men and women. Camera crews from local TV stations set their equipment up around the perimeter of the room. Brandt and I are lined up like we’re awaiting a firing squad to take us out as a line of generals, colonels, and admirals stand at the podium, breathing meaningless words into the microphone about valor and honor and bravery and sacrifice, things they know nothing about sitting behind their desks.
“Deep breath,” Brandt reminds me, and I imagine I can feel his hand squeezing mine, although he dare not touch me right now with so many eyes on us. We have to toe the line, pomp and circumstance, and all that bullshit.
Baskin holds a black box in his hand. The purple-and-gold heart lays nestled on a bed of velvet. He pins it to my chest, and I feel the weight of it, the weight of sacrifice and responsibility. The weight of the lives lost that earned me this medal. My heart pounds beneath his fingertips as he pins it to my breast.
This one I earned. As a soldier, it’s my duty to risk my life to protect my country and my team. And I did. I risked it, and I was injured while doing my job honorably. Same as Brandt, who’s also receiving his. Imagine that, two Southern boys who had nothing but stars in their eyes when they met, and some half-cocked notion about making the world a better place, both earning Purple Hearts.
Go fucking figure.
“…a solemn distinction, for those who have sacrificed themselves honorably, or paid the ultimate price with their life,” Baskin recites.
He goes on to list the names of each service member we lost that day as he awards each of them a Purple Heart medal, accepted by their family members. The impact of their names being read aloud feels like a nail being pounded through my chest, straight through my heart. It’s been a year since we lost them and it doesn’t hurt any less.
The next medal hurts almost as bad as their loss. Being recognized and awarded for something I don’t feel I earned. The Bronze Star. My grandfather earned a Silver Star back in World War II. I used to stare at it behind the glass of my grandma‘s china cabinet for hours, imagining the day he earned it, the heat of battle, the danger, and the risk.
My grandfather rescued his buddy, who was shot in the leg. He tied a tourniquet around his thigh and dragged him six miles to safety. They were behind enemy lines, and it took three days. Alone and hungry and dehydrated, separated from their unit, they finally made it to safety.
My grandfather was a true hero. I’ve always dreamed of following in his footsteps someday; I just wish my grandmother was here to see me today. All I ever wanted was to make her proud of me. As proud as I was of her.
Brandt’s mother crouches before the stage to take a picture of her son as Baskin pins the star to his chest.
“…fourth highest military decoration for valor. For heroic or meritorious achievement in battle.”
The only thing I achieved that day was doing my job and not dying, but whatever. I just want to get off the stage and get to the eating part, and then the leaving.
“Just smile and wave,” Brandt reminds me.
I feel like a freak, like an oddity on display for everyone’s amusement. We’re sitting at a banquet table at the front of the room with the big brass from Fort Bragg. Across the room, a sea of round tables decorated with white linen cloths, host smiling faces and clicking cameras.
This is the seventh circle of hell. Achievement unlocked.
I have to bite my tongue, literally bite it, to keep from snapping at Baskin as he ducks between with his arms around our shoulders. As soon as the woman takes the picture, he walks away without a word to either of us, like we don’t even exist. Like we’re nothing more than cardboard cutouts designed specifically for photo ops.
“Fuck this,” I mumble.
“Don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing what they’ve done to you because they don’t give a shit.”
“Can we get out of here?”