Not the photograph. Not my old rank. Not the letter.”
I leaned forward slightly.
“Remember the moment before you knew who I was. That is the moment that tells you what kind of soldier you are.”
He swallowed.
“I understand.”
“I hope you do.”
Whitaker cleared his throat.
“Ma’am, the commander would like to speak with you. He also wants to discuss a possible correction to the historical display.”
I looked at him.
“What correction?”
He glanced toward the letter.
“We’ve been displaying the photograph for years. But the information
underneath it is incomplete. We’d like to add the story behind the insignia and the people in the photograph.”
I looked down at my coat.
The little brass pin was still attached.
For years, I had worn it without explaining it.
I had worn it to church.
To grocery stores.
To my husband’s funeral.
I had worn it on ordinary days when nobody noticed.
And I had never felt the need to tell anyone what it meant.
But perhaps it was time.
“There’s one condition,” I said.
Whitaker straightened.
“Of
course, ma’am.”
“Don’t make it a monument to me.”
He nodded.
“Then what would you like?”
I looked at the photograph.
“Put the names of everyone in that picture beneath it. All six. And if you can find them, put the names of the people who never came home, too.”
I paused.
“And don’t leave out the nurses.”
Whitaker smiled.
“We can do that.”
Then I looked at Reese.
“One more thing.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Next time you see someone sitting alone, don’t assume they have nothing to teach you.”
He
