Lion's Lair - 22. It's All Coming Together

It’s really just a smaller than normal envelope, with a crisp feel—almost like a fresh piece of currency. Off white, actually almost a cream color. Handwritten address to me in a masculine cursive, at my old address, but with a label attached showing this address. What got my attention was the return address.

“The White House, Washington”. Engraved, with gold foil imprinted over it. All capitals in a block print.

My hands are shaking.

On the back is the shield of the President, also in gold foil. No “Seal of the United States” encircling it like you normally see, just the eagle, with an olive branch in one claw, a quiver of arrows in the other.

“Ryan, are you ok? Ryan? RYAN?”

“Uh … yeah. Just this … uh … letter. It’s from ….”

“From whom?”

“From … the White House.”

“Well, open it!”

Flip the envelope over, and carefully open it. Only the point of the envelope had been sealed, so easy to open without damaging it. Pull out the letter inside. Again, the “eagle” shield, with “The White House”, with “Washington” below it, everything centered between the margins. Again, all capitals. Again, engraved, with a gold foil overlay.

In navy blue ink, there’s more handwriting below the header.

“Well, what does it say?” Clayton’s moved next to me, waiting to see what it says.

Clear my throat, start to read.

Dear Sergeant Gregory,

I’m so very pleased that you are our nation’s newest Medal of Honor recipient! Your service to our nation has been heroic, and I’m honored to be able to present the medal to you.

I look forward to getting to know you at the luncheon and awards ceremony, which will follow.

Congratulations—and thank you for your service.

It’s signed by … the President.

HOLY FUCK! A personal note from the President? A Medal of Honor recipient? What the hell is going on?

Fuckin’ vibrating in the wheelchair. Clayton puts his hand on my shoulder, and it calms me down a little—but his touches always have.

“Ryan, why didn’t you tell me about this? This is obviously a big deal if the President writes you. I don’t even know what the Medal of Honor is.”

“The Medal of Honor is the nation’s highest military award for gallantry in combat. You’re nominated by your service department, hafta meet rigorous standards of verification, and it’s gotta be approved by Congress. I didn’t know anything about it, Clayton. Hell, I don’t know what all this is about—I sure as hell don’t remember being a hero. No clue I’d been nominated for anything, and now a personal letter from the President? ”

“Ok … well, you think the dreams you’ve been having are maybe blocked memories of what happened?”

“Maybe.”

“What’s the envelope in your lap?”

Forgot about that one. Pick it up, look at it. There’s a crisp white envelope with my name and address on it attached to a large manila envelope. The return address reads “Secretary of Defense” and “The Pentagon” with “Washington DC” and the Pentagon’s unique zip code. Open it, start reading. It’s dated this past Wednesday.

Memorandum: Sergeant Ryan Gregory

Re: Medal of Honor Confirmation

I’m pleased to confirm that the Medal of Honor, for which you were nominated by the Secretary of the Navy, has been approved by Congress as of this date.

Attached separately to this memorandum is a copy of the Congressional Resolution authorizing your receipt of this honor, the nomination as submitted by the Secretary of the Navy, and the sworn affidavits of the 23 survivors of the attack on you and your squad outside Fallujah, Iraq. Your actions that day not only saved the lives of your men, but also the lives of countless others due to the information obtained from an informant you were scheduled to pick up. Although you did not remember the events of that day (based on our interviews with you), your men completed your mission on your behalf, inspired by your courage.

The awards ceremony will be held August 10^th. Prior to the ceremony, the President has indicated that he will host a luncheon for you and your guests in your honor.

Your liaison for the ceremony and your trip here will be Maria Schmitt. Please call her at the phone number listed below to coordinate your arrival and schedule your activities during your stay here. I’ve also included her email address for your convenience.

Your bold fighting spirit, your unwavering devotion to duty, and your response despite your own injuries are an inspiration to all of us. They reflect the highest levels of your character and uphold the finest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service.

I look forward to meeting you August 10^th.

It’s signed by the Secretary of Defense.

Open the big envelope; everything is laid out as the Secretary mentioned. The nomination submitted by the Secretary of the Navy summarized the events.

The dreams are real. That’s what really happened!

Start to shake. Start to cry. Clayton grabs me and holds on for the longest time.

I’m really not half nuts. The dreams are real.

Finally calm down enough that Clayton lets go. I pass the Navy’s paperwork to him and let him read for himself. After a few minutes he looks at me. “Well, it sounds like your dreams were ready to let you know what was going on, even if you didn’t think you were ready otherwise. You’re a hero twice over. First for what you did in Iraq, and second for what you did at the bar.” He leans in, kisses me, wipes the damp residue of my crying from my cheeks. “God, I’m so proud of you.”

We sat silently for a few minutes, Clayton just holding my hand.

“Look, Clayton, I can’t sleep—too much going on with this day. If you wanna head on to bed, I’ll join ya later.”

“Nope. I’m with you on this.”

“It’s just this whole evening is so surreal. I can’t wrap my head around it. First the stuff at the bar, then all of this.”

“I understand, Ryan. Would you rather be alone?”

“Absolutely positively not. I’m glad you’re here.” And with that, I lean in for a hot sweet kiss.

Damn, can my Clayton kiss or what?

“Ok, well, I gotta share this news with Bubba and Bulldog. As a Marine, Bubba will get how important this shit is. Do you mind if I call ‘em?”

“Not a problem for me—but do you think they’re in bed, Ryan? After all, it’s 3am, and he’d had a long day with Barry getting things done for the bar. By the way, I do want to see that medal the bar gave you.”

“Nah, they’ll be up, probably just finishing cleaning up the bar. Lemme try Bubba’s cell phone. In the meantime, take a look at the medal.” Pass the medal to him in its box while I dial.

“Hi, Ryan … everything ok?” Bubba’s voice is concern. After all, no one calls at this hour unless there’s trouble.

“Bubba, everything’s fine. Just got some news, wanted to share it with you. You sure I didn’t wake ya?”

“Nah, we’re still at the bar, just finished cleaning, ‘bout to head home. What’s up?” I held the phone up, so Clayton knew it was ok that I’d called.

“I just got a letter from the President, and I’ve been awarded the Medal of Honor.”

“Wait … what?” His voice is incredulous as he yells to the others in the bar, Bulldog, Bryant, Cliff, having them come over to his phone. “Ok, I’m putting you on speakerphone so everyone can hear. You really aren’t shitting me, are ya? Repeat what you just said.” I put him on speakerphone, too, so Clayton can hear.

“I just got a letter from the President of the United States, and I’ve been awarded the Medal of Honor.”

The phone is dead silent for a minute. Then all hell breaks loose. Bubba lets out an “ooh RAH” so strong the phone is vibrating on the glass coffee table, damn near falling off. Bulldog is asking, “What the hell did you do to win that?” along with “Put me down, we need to find out everything.” Apparently Bubba picked him up and was spinning around the bar with him. Bryant and Cliff are babbling, “Oh, my God, this is so fuckin’ cool,” and other assorted comments.

Finally the pandemonium dies down, and Bubba dives back into the conversation. “Ok, tell all, Ryan. Just what the fuck did you do to get a Medal of Honor?” He quickly explains what it is to the group in the bar, and its history going back to 1861.

“Honestly, Bubba, I don’t remember any of it. I’ll have dreams every now and then that I thought were kinda like old movie replays, but they were apparently all real. I’ll let you read what all the paperwork says later. I just wanted to share it with ya, ‘cause I knew you’d get what all it meant.”

“Damn, boy, I’m so fuckin’ proud of you. What an accomplishment!”

“Oh, and the other thing—I’m sure I’ll be allowed to take guests with me. I want you and Bulldog to join Clayton and me there.”

“Oh, fuck, Ryan. What an honor! When is this?”

“August 10^th , we’ll probably leave the day before, maybe stay a couple of days there.”

Bulldog dives in. “Well, I dunno, lemme check the calendar … of course we’ll go!” He starts laughing, his attempt at humor lightening the conversation.

I’m chuckling, too, “Well, good. That’s settled. Barry, you and Dave are family, just as much family as Clayton. So I want you there.”

There’s a pause in the conversation before Bubba speaks almost in a whisper—he’s choked up. “Brother, it’d be an honor and privilege to be there with ya.”

“Well, guys, that’s it. Just wanted to share the big news of the medal. And, oh by the way, the President is having a lunch for me, so you’ll get some grub out of the trip.”

“The President is doing a lunch for you? Fuck! Ryan, so very glad you called with such great news. Damn, brother, I’m just fuckin’ proud to call you my friend.” Bubba’s fighting back cryin’—you can hear it in his voice. “We’ll talk tomorrow, and I’d love to see the paperwork that describes what you did, ok?”

“Sure. Give a call tomorrow after lunch, we can get together then.”

“Great! Well, you sleep well, hero; you deserve it. Bye.” Bubba ends the call quickly—it sounds like he’s about to lose it over the phone--and with that, the crew from the bar is gone.

Clayton looks at me. “Did you look at this medal Barry gave you tonight?” Confess I haven’t.

“Take a look.”

One side of the medal has the bar’s new logo cast into it; the other side is engraved with the words, “Our Hero”, my name on the line below that, and on the following line, the date of the bar’s robbery.

“It looks great, Clayton.”

“Yeah, you mean a lot to Dave and Barry … there’s a small sticker inside the jeweler’s box—it’s made of sterling silver.”

Wow! Just … wow! Words fail.

Don’t know how to respond, but emotions do—and I start tearing up again. The bastards kicked me in the feels with their gift and that whole award thing tonight at the bar.

With family like this, who needs more?

A few minutes later, the waves of emotions pass; now I’m just exhausted. “Clayton, let’s hit the sack. I’m pooped.”

He looks at me, nods, then says, “Lead the way, Tonto.” He’s quietly grinning with the flashback to our first date.

“Ok, Kimosabe.” Grinning back, he knows I got the reference to earlier times. Roll to the bedroom, strip off the clothes, leave ‘em in my wheelchair by the bed, crawl in. Swear I’m out as soon as I lie down, and only vaguely aware of Clayton curling up next to me.

Helluva day.

Sunday morning over a late breakfast, Clayton and I agree that all the move in stuff has to be done in top gear. With less than three weeks until I meet the President—“Meet the President”, unreal!—we’ll hafta scramble. And Clayton insists that he take care of all the arrangements for the trip. “My gift to you,” he says. Bubba and Bulldog, Joe and Rex, Clayton and me will go up together.

Got a phone call from Bubba around 12:30pm or so, asking if they could come over—he really wanted to see me and the docs the Pentagon had shipped describing what I’d done. “Of course, we’ll be here. Come on over.”

Decided it’d be a good idea to wear my legs again—my stubs feel ok, and I’ve got a couple of Band-Aids to put over the blisters—so pull ‘em on after a quick shower. A couple of minutes later, Clayton sticks his head in. They’re pulling in the drive.

Clayton meets ‘em at the front door, and they’re just coming in when I walk into the entry. Bulldog looks like he’s about to faint when he sees me on my legs. “What ….”

Bubba’s grinning big and laughing as he pulled Bulldog close. “Forgot to mention when I told ya Ryan came over Friday night that he’d gotten demo legs.” Bulldog’s still stuttering with surprise.

“Yeah, I kinda overdid it Friday, so couldn’t wear ‘em last night. I’ll wear ‘em a little today, just trying to get used to ‘em on a full-time basis. Come on in and sit down. I’ll show ya the stuff I got.”

We move to the den, and I pass it all over to Bubba. He’s holding the documents, and the letter from the President almost reverently. He silently reads the President’s letter, then passes it to Bulldog. Bubba then starts going through the sheath of papers from the Pentagon, first then nomination from the Secretary of the Navy, which summarized what happened, then reading each sworn statement from my squad about the day’s events.

By the second or third of the statements, Bulldog looks up, eyes brimming with tears. “Damn, brother—you did all this, and don’t have a memory of it? You saved their lives.”

“No active memory at all. I kept getting interviewed when I was at the hospitals, and later when I got back to Omaha, but couldn’t remember shit. I didn’t start having the dreams until just before I moved here. Really convinced it was some kind of compilation of old war movies I’d seen, with maybe a kernel of truth buried in there, but apparently they were all flashbacks to the real action.”

Clayton’s nodding as I speak. “Ryan told me about some of the dreams, but he was remarkably calm about it all. I thought maybe some of it was working its way out, and I was concerned about his mental health, but he assured me he’d been cleared of PTSD, and he was relaxed enough about it, I just accepted it and moved on.”

“Gotta admit, it’s kind of a relief to really know what happened, even if it is over two years after the fact. Guess I’m not really nuts at all.”

“Well, off-balance a little, maybe. But not nuts with all of this.” Clayton’s social skills kick in again, and his smiling comment keeps the conversation from getting overwhelming heavy.

“I just can’t believe the President wrote you personally. That’s so amazing.” Bulldog’s holding the letter, looking back at it, then back at us.

Clayton responds back. “Yes, it’s quite the nice touch. I guess that’s part of his charisma—and you have to admit, he does have the ability to be quite charming.”

The conversations stops for a minute and Bulldog has a funny expression as he looks at Clayton. “You sound like you know him.”

“We’ve met.”

“Wait … you know the President?” Bulldog’s totally astounded; hell, we all are.

“I don’t know him well, but we’ve met. Look, guys, I’ve done well in life, and that includes financially. Trust me, every politician knows who’s got a little money, and they’re always looking for support. So the political parties hit on me for contributions, and sometimes that includes pulling out their big guns to ask for help. So yes, I’ve met him, but that’s as far as it goes.”

We’re all blown away. Silence for a few minutes as it sinks in on Bubba and Bulldog that Clayton is at a different level from the rest of us in terms of finances.

Clayton just outed himself as rich.

“Look, it’s not a big deal. I’ve done ok. I am, as they say, ‘well fixed’ financially. So please, don’t make it into something outrageous. I’m just me. And, if you will, keep that to yourselves. I don’t want anyone changing their view of me, or treating me any differently.” Clayton’s giving a firm look at both Bubba and Bulldog as he says it, and they just nod agreement in their surprise.

Clayton’s social skills kick back in as he moves past this revelation. “So, we’ll have a busy week. Ryan’s moving in here this week, so we’ll coordinate all of that. Plus his regular therapy routine. And, now, he’ll have to get the information from his liaison about this awards ceremony. And, just so you know, I’m taking care of the trip’s logistics, and I’ll keep you posted in terms of final dates, and lodging, ok?”

“Sure. Just let us know the details. Now, how about a late lunch? I’m starvin’.” Bubba’s rubbing his belly as he speaks while Bulldog just rolls his eyes in disbelief.

“We just finished breakfast an hour-and-a-half ago. How can you be hungry?”

“I need my strength to keep up with you.” Bubba laughs as he says it—and earns another eye roll from Bulldog.

Head out for lunch at a mom-and-pop diner nearby. Clayton invites ‘em back to swim, gives ‘em some trunks, we all change, and I get to walk down to the pool on my legs. They’re water-resistant, but not waterproof, so take ‘em off in just a few seconds. Can shower in ‘em, but no swimming. Bubba and Bulldog watch, amazed at how quick the process is, and quiz me about it. I’m already in the water answering ‘em—it’s that fast to pull ‘em on and off.

Swim quite a while, just relaxing and cutting up together. It’s a nice break before the work week begins.

Monday, Clayton and I head to the bank, there as the doors open. We happened to bank at the same place, so that makes it easier. Open a joint household account, new debit cards for both of us, along with checks, to be mailed, temporary checks provided immediately. Clayton moves $5,000 into it to allow enough to cover the “buyout” of my lease. Still a little uncomfortable with Clayton doing that, but he’d promised it, and I agreed. Besides, it gets us to what we both want—living together.

That business out of the way, we each head to work. Go to my sales manager’s office, arrange to take off a week of vacation time for the week of the award ceremony. “So are you doing anything fun on your vacation?” Tell him I’m receiving a military award, but don’t go into any other details on it. “Nice. You’ll have to fill me in on it later—I’m meeting with the dealership’s owner in a few minutes, so I’ve got to run.” Worked well; no big questions.

Called the apartment complex, explained my move out, and timing. They gave the amount due, told ‘em I’d be by late in the afternoon with a check.

Call Rex; as a Realtor, figure he could provide a couple of referrals of movers his clients had used. He answers on the first ring, explain what I want, and he immediately provides a couple of names of locals who can both pack and move my stuff. It’s not that much, but it’s on the second floor, so moving alone or with just friends will be a pain in the ass. Let the professionals do it.

“Funny that you called just now, I’d just hung up with Clayton; we’re doing lunch tomorrow. Should be fun, think he’s got some big stuff to tell me.” Rex and his damn Spidey sense.

Clayton’s gonna come out to Rex tomorrow.

“Don’t know about that, but I do have some stuff to fill you and Joe in on. Y’all gonna be home later tonight?” After he confirms they’ll be there after 7pm, tell him I’ll call then, but didn’t give any more details about why I’d call. After I tell him and Joe about the Medal, gonna invite them to the ceremony too. Since we were with Bubba and Bulldog all day Sunday and didn't get the chance then, figure it’s only fair to tell ‘em as soon as possible; hell, they’re family, too.

After the call to Rex, take care of some work, return phone calls from the weekend, answer couple of support questions about the infotainment systems in the Cadillacs. Productive morn; get three sales appointments for later in the week.

Call the movers during my late lunch break, get their packing scheduled for Wednesday and Thursday, with the move set for after lunch on Friday. Take a smoke break; outside behind the building, call Maria, my Pentagon liaison. After initial introductions, we talk about scheduling for the trip, the events occurring during it all. She mentions that she’s also the press liaison for me, and there’ll be some events relating to that. “I’ve got a rough outline so far, can I email that to you?” Give her my email address, and tell her I’ll watch for her address to pop up in my inbox. Also give her Clayton’s name and phone number, tell her he’ll be acting on my behalf to coordinate the trip, and that he’ll follow up with her after we review her email.

It’s all coming together.