Sir, company policy prohibits unauthorized insignia, that thing that needs to come off. Now, the store clerk, a young man barely out of his teens, said with a sneer, his fingers actually reaching out and tugging at the single tarnished medal pinned to John Mack McTavish’s worn jacket. Mack, 78, recoiled, his hand instinctively flying up to protect the purple heart, his only visible medal, a stark reminder of a day he’d rather forget but felt compelled to honour.
«‘This is not a thing, son,’ Mack growled, his voice low and dangerous. «‘It was earned.’ The clerk, emboldened, ripped the medal from the fabric with a sharp tug. «‘Rules are rules, old man.’ Five minutes later, as Mack stood trembling outside, a shadow fell over the clerk.
A towering figure in full army dress uniform, stars glinting on his shoulders, filled the doorway. «‘You just assaulted my father,’ the officer stated, his voice like ice. «‘If you believe some symbols are sacred, and family honour is absolute, type never forget below.'» John Mack McTavish was a man carved from granite and grit.
His life had been one of service, two tours in Vietnam as a marine infantryman, a life lived by a code of honour that seemed increasingly alien in the modern world. Now at seventy-eight, his shoulders were a little more stooped, his gait slowed by old shrapnel wounds that ached with every change in weather, but his eyes still held the unwavering resolve of a man who had faced down death and lived to tell the tale, though he rarely did. He lived alone in a small government subsidised apartment, his days quiet, punctuated by visits to the VA clinic and solitary walks.
His most prized possession, rarely worn but always close, was the purple heart he’d received after being wounded, while dragging his platoon sergeant to safety under heavy fire. It wasn’t a symbol of heroism to him, but of survival, of sacrifice, of bonds forged in the crucible of combat. Today was the anniversary of that battle.
As he did every year, Mack pinned the actual medal, not a ribbon but the distinct heart-shaped decoration itself, to the lapel of his old clean but undeniably threadbare tweed jacket. It was a private act of remembrance. He needed a new pair of sturdy walking shoes, his old ones having finally given up the ghost.
He headed to Footlocker Emporium, a large chain shoe store in the downtown mall, hoping to find something affordable and durable. He wasn’t looking for trouble, just a decent pair of shoes to ease the pain in his feet. The Footlocker Emporium was bright, loud, and staffed by teenagers and young adults who seemed more interested in their phones than the customers.