Medal of Honor

Author's Note: Prepared for my writing class.

Joe’s fingers traced the outline of the silver star pinned to his shirt.

“I got this one for saving my unit at Khe Sanh.” He said.

Arlene, Joe’s mother, sighed as Joe told about how he was on patrol with his buddies. He described his crew of four slipping through tangles of vines and branches, listening carefully for any sign of the enemy. Then Joe told how they left the jungle to follow a shallow stream. That’s where they stumbled across a platoon of enemy soldiers.

Arlene sat up straight in the cold wood chair, facing Joe. She folded her hands carefully on her lap and tried to be still so that she didn’t startle Joe.

Joe sat on the edge of his bed. He was dressed in blue sweatpants, a gray T-shirt and white tube socks. It was the same outfit he had worn for the past two days. Arlene wondered whether he had worn it to bed as well. She thought about asking him but decided to let it pass.

On the other side of the bed, the navy blue curtains had been drawn and, except for the dim glow of the lamp on the bedside table, the room was dark. Joe liked it best that way.

Arlene could make out a pained expression on Joe’s face as he described hearing shouts in a language he didn’t understand.

“It was the Viet Cong.” Joe explained. He lowered his voice as if saying the name of his enemy might invite them into the room.

Joe continued. He described the popping sounds and explosions as guns were fired and grenades were tossed. He told Arlene how he took cover as best he could and that he had fired back. He described his confusion as his squad leader barked orders. He told how his blood had pumped so hard that all he could really concentrate on was the sound of his own heart beating.

Then, Joe paused as he spoke about his best friend, Elliot, and how he had been shot in the chest. Joe described the pained look on Elliot’s face as he fell to the ground, covered with mud and blood.

“That’s when I knew Elliot wouldn’t be going back to base with the rest of us.” He said.

A tear rolled down Joe’s cheek. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself to forget. Then, after wiping his eyes with the palm of his hands, he continued talking. Arlene pulled a tissue from her purse and handed it towards Joe. He ignored her offer and kept talking.

As Joe talked, Arlene resisted the urge to reach over and brush his unruly black hair away from his face. He had stopped getting his hair cut last month. After that he had stopped combing it too. It was getting messier each day.

She was sure he had lost weight. Too much. At least twenty pounds she guessed. His eyes looked dark and hallow and his complexion was pale.

More than anything, Arlene wanted to pull Joe close and squeeze him until his pain dissolved. She had tried that once last week. It had made Joe furious.

He had jumped to his feet and screamed, “I’m not a baby. Why do you treat me like a baby?”

When he had pounded his fists on the wall and turned over the table in the corner, Arlene had fled from the room.

She had spent over an hour sitting on the floor in the hallway with her head buried in her hands. She could hear the orderlies trying to reason with Joe and then the sounds of him shouting and cursing and struggling with them. Finally, after several tense minutes, the night shift nurse had stepped out of the room and told her that Joe had been given a sedative. The orderlies had been directed to stay with him until they were sure he was asleep.

When the orderlies had gone, Arlene slipped back into the room to watch her son sleep, just like she had done when he was a baby. But even in his rest, his face had been distorted. Arlene had wondered what dreams were haunting him.

Now, as Joe spoke, instead of hugging her son, Arlene sat still and listened. She had heard this story before. She knew how it ended. Eventually, Joe made his way back to base, just in time to warn his troop of the coming attack. The base was saved and Joe received a medal for his bravery.

When Joe finished speaking, his round chestnut colored eyes met Arlene’s. He leaned in closer to her, as if he were expecting her to say something. To congratulate him for his courage. To thank him for serving his country.

But how could she? None of it was true. Joe was a kid, a senior at Rosemont Prep. He had never been in the army. He had never been to Viet Nam. The war he claimed to have fought had ended seventeen years before he was born.

Cautiously, Arlene reached over and touched Joe’s hand. He didn’t jump. That was good.

“Mom?” Joe said “Do you think Elliott will come and visit me tomorrow?”

Arlene shook her head slowly. They had had this conversation before too. The doctor had told her to be honest. To tell Joe the truth. But every time she tried he flew into rage and called her a liar. Right now, Arlene felt too exhausted to go through that again.

“Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe next week” She whispered.

Joe looked past her as if in a daze. He smiled. Maybe he was thinking of the warm summer days swimming in the pool instead of obsessing over Viet Nam.

Arlene’s eyes watered. She didn’t want to tell Joe, again, that Elliott would never visit him in the hospital. And neither would Lonnie or Gregg. They had all died in the plane crash, along with half of the senior class.

Arlene missed Elliot too. He had been Joe’s best friend since kindergarten. They shared a love of soccer, chess and video games.

Elliot was smaller than Joe, but more agile and athletic. He had blonde hair, intense blue eyes and a contagious smile. Everyone liked Elliot. And he brought out the best in Joe, who tended to be more reserved.

It would be two months on Monday since the accident.

Just two months? Arlene thought. It seemed like forever since Joe and Elliot were hanging out in the basement playing Nintendo, eating Doritos and leaving the place a mess.

Joe had planned to be with his friends the day they died. The World Cultures class had been getting ready for the spring break trip to Asia since September. Then Joe’s second quarter report had arrived in the mail. Arlene was furious. Joe had failed both tests on the Viet Nam War.

When Arlene had brought the matter up over dinner Joe just laughed.

“What’s the big deal?” He had said. “I’ve already got my acceptance letter for Princeton. I can just cruise the rest of the year.”

Arlene didn’t agree. Joe needed to be taught a lesson about responsibility. So she had put her foot down and cancelled his reservation for the class trip. He didn’t speak to her for two weeks. But she had held firm.

Charles had tried to intercede for Joe. “He’ll be off to college soon.” He said. “Let him have one last romp with his buddies.”

But Arlene had grown tired of Charles constantly trying to undermine her from across the country in San Diego. The more he argued Joe’s case, the more she had dug in her heals.

After the plane carrying Joe’s classmates went down just after take-off, Arlene had grieved for their lost friends. But inside, she had felt relieved that Joe hadn’t been with them.

Arlene looked up from her thoughts. Joe was talking again. His fingers absently caressed the star on his shirt. It was made of plastic and had the word “sheriff” printed on it in large block letters. One of the orderlies probably gave it to him. Arlene would need to speak with the staff about it before she left.

As Joe continued, Arlene looked into his eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of the boy she used to know. The one who use to wear Spiderman jammies and build snow forts in the back yard. The one who ate pancakes and bacon covered in maple syrup every Saturday morning. The one who would burst out of the school every day at three o’clock and rush to the soccer field. The one who hated history class.

Instead, all Arlene saw were his empty eyes.

Joe kept talking. He started telling her about the village just south of his unit’s home base.

“The locals came in to trade fresh vegetables for cigarettes. They wanted to sell the cigarettes on the black market. We thought we were doing them a favor.” He said. “What we didn’t realize is that the one of them was an enemy spy. That was our big mistake.”

In two weeks, the remaining seniors at Rosemont would graduate. The administration had settled on a small, understated ceremony in the school auditorium. There would be lots of tears but no awards. And no valedictorian.

The underclassmen had collected enough in donations to decorate the entire school with yellow roses. The junior class president would announce plans to build a memorial in the school yard over the summer. The boys and their parents would cry and cling to each other for support.

At the end of the ceremony, Brother Gabriel, the Head Master, would confer honorary degrees on the classmates who had died in the crash. Their parents would walk forward with grave faces and receive the diplomas in honor of their sons. The names of the teachers and chaperones, who died in the crash, would be read. Then there would be a moment of silence.

But Joe wouldn’t be there. Arlene had checked him into St. Paul’s Psychiatric Institute when she realized that he believed the stories he was telling.