The armed forces hand out medals by the bushel these days, and most of them have nothing to do with heroism. There are medals for doing a noncombat job efficiently, and medals for just being there. When military people meet, they read each other’s chests with professional discernment, assessing the other guy’s career and prospects for promotion, separating at a glance the heroes from the uniformed bureaucrats. Awards for valor are the ultimate status symbol in the military. They bring recognition and respect, and they can contribute to a rapid rise up the chain of command. To military people, especially those who have won awards for heroism, it is simply unthinkable that an experienced officer would wear decorations he is not entitled to, awards that others bled for. There is no greater disgrace.
Boorda was entitled to the navy Commendation Medal and the navy Achievement Medal he earned on board ship during the Vietnam War. He was a good leader, especially beloved by enlisted men, and certainly no coward. But according to navy records, he was cited for things like “peerless managerial competence” and “diligent organizational effort,” not for bravery under fire. He added the “V"s for valor years later. “It’s hard to believe that an honest man would do that,” says retired Lt. Gen. James Hollingsworth, who saw combat in World War II, Korea and Vietnam. “I’ve seen enlisted folks get court-martialed for doctoring their own service records or wearing phony awards,” says retired naval Senior Chief Warrant Officer Glenn Maiers.
Audie Murphy was one of my early heroes, a role model for a scrawny kid in World War II. Murphy lied about his age to enlist (as did both Boorda and I). He won a battlefield commission, the Medal of Honor and a host of other decorations. Murphy seemed to represent all the values and beliefs that were drummed into me as a child: Stand tall, never back down, right will always prevail over wrong. “Death Before Dishonor” meant so much to me that I had the slogan tattooed onto my 13-year-old left arm. I enlisted in 1945 at 14, and years later, in Korea, the tattoo was sliced in half by a shard of hot shrapnel.
After World War II, Murphy left the army, went to Hollywood and played himself on the screen. Mike Boorda, another up-from-the-ranks “mustang,” stayed on in the navy after Vietnam and worked his way to the top of the Pentagon until an old mistake came back to haunt him. His suicide was sad and tragic. His remarkable career needed no embellishment. He should have been as proud of it as the navy was of him.
