Paul Watkins

At the age of thirteen, maybe fourteen, when I began to question such things as heroism, sacrifice, or service, I considered more closely my father’s Bronze Star nicely framed and proudly displayed in his office. He won that star during the Battle of Guam in World War II.

My father would talk about the war, but only the funny things that happened, like his parachute jumping. The men who did this were brave souls, but training to parachute into thick jungles on islands barely seen on a map made little practical sense. If the wind took you past the island, your fight would be with sharks, not the enemy. Dad laughed at such folly, but proudly signed up for parachute school. I never believed he saw his service or his star as heroic, but simply his duty to serve.

Once I came of age, another war called my generation to battle. But Vietnam provoked a much different frame around honor and duty. Father, like others, felt proud of his service. I felt disgraced. My ribbons were discarded with all my other memories when I came home. Today, looking at my father’s Bronze Star, I regret my youthful disdain and appreciate more my father’s heroism. I've come to appreciate these small pieces of cloth honoring generations of men and women who earned them, not the politics or grand thinking that put them in harm’s way.