In his version, I was a lowly grunt.
A lackey.
Someone who emptied garbage cans on a base and answered phones.
My graduation ceremony happened on a dirt parade ground at Fort Benning when I was twenty-two.
The sun hammered down on five hundred starched uniforms standing in razor-straight formation.
I stood in the third row, receiving my commission as a second lieutenant while a brass band played the same march generations of graduating classes had heard before us.
Around me, squadmates broke ranks to hug crying mothers and salute proud fathers.
Families flooded the field carrying flowers, cameras, and homemade signs.
A private two rows ahead lifted his six-year-old son onto his shoulders, and the boy grabbed his father’s new officer’s cap, placed it on his own head, and laughed.
I scanned the crowd until I spotted Dad.
He had arrived late in a custom navy suit worth more than my first three months of military pay.
