Washington, D. C. was unbearably hot on that summer day. Jim stood in line, waiting for the ceremonies to begin, his uniform spotless but crumpled in the humid heat, his back and legs oozing sweat which trickled uncomfortably along his skin. Actually, he was scarcely aware of these discomforts, as his mind raced over and over the events which had brought him here to a roll-call of honor, and of other events which would bring him tomorrow to a roll-call of disgrace. He could see the President of the United States there on the platform ahead, standing among other dignitaries of state, and holding the box of medals for valor in combat, one of which would soon be placed on his uniform amid tributes and applause.

Korea, he thought. A dirty, lonely, hungry, cold, miserable word... Korea. He lay in the dark, he and five buddies from his squad, on hard, frozen ground, peering ahead for the attack they knew was coming. Then they could hear a crowd of enemy soldiers running toward them in the dark, shouting... dark little men with slanting eyes who swarmed upon their prey, indifferent to the death, the stench, the horror. They lay there, shivering with cold and fear, waiting. Behind them lay their line of defense, and safety, but who had the nerve to show themselves and run for protection. From the noise and spread of their attack, the enemy must have numbered a hundred, against their six. Yet five of them did run; and he, Jim, stayed there covering them with fire as they retreated.

The next thing he had remembered was the clean white sheets, the antiseptic odors, the dull pain... and his shattered legs. The five of them had escaped, they said, because of his courage. Then the fly boys had come to his aid. They dropped napalm upon the swarming enemy. Now he remembered lying there, hearing their flight, or their screams as they died in the blazing chemical. And because he had lain there after the first attack, fainting at the sight of his own blood, the enemy had thought him dead, and now he lived.

Men called his deed one of unparalleled courage. They did not know what he alone knew, that he had not held the attacking line, that he had fainted at the sight of his own blood. And now, today, the President would pin a medal on his coat, and on the coats of three other men. He wondered briefly about these others. Were they actually men of courage? Or had they been men like him, men who were heroes out of desperation, unthinking, undeserving heroes. He felt like crying out: I AM A COWARD! I AM NO MAN AT ALL!

As the President began his speech, and as he waited there to receive the acclaim of the nation, these thoughts were swept away by the memories of yesterday, when he had arrived in the Capital. He remembered the comparative coolness of the evening in Jackson Square, and then the face of the handsome young man who had smiled at him, followed him, sent the familiar tremors of desire flashing along his nerves. And then the dream of an hour of love... as it had happened so wonderfully so many times before. But this time the dream did not turn real. There had been the badge, the smile of friendship turning into laughing contempt, the brutality, the intolerable, crushing indignity, the silent ride to police headquarters.

"Above and beyond the call of duty..." the President was saying, and the words brought Jim back to the present. He was glad that he had been able to conceal his identity from the vice officer. No one would know tomorrow in court where he had stood today, and no one today could suspect his fate tomorrow. Now it was his turn to approach the President. Jim swayed imperceptibly in a sudden dizziness. "Courage!" he whispered to himself... for not even today, not even this moment of glory, could make him forget tomorrow.

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