Preface: I was recently visiting a VA hospital and shaking hands with the director, a small, trim man, very sharp in dress and manner, albeit in a civilian way. We were making small talk while we waited for the other members of the meeting to arrive. In the midst of this small talk, he asked me what I did for the Marine Corps, specifically. Usually, I answer that question with a simple, “I help wounded Marines.” But this guy was pretty savvy, and he followed up by asking me how I helped them. At that point, the rest of the meeting members came in and saved me from the spotlight, but I chewed on that question for the rest of my three day TAD. On my last night, sitting in another dingy, southern hotel room, I decided that I would answer that question, so I wrote a letter back to that director, one that I never sent. Sir, You asked me on Tuesday to give you a brief summary of what I do for the Marine Corps, the answer to that question is very simple, I am a coin bearer. That statement doesn’t make sense unless you are familiar with Marine Corps customs and courtesies. Let me explain. In the Marine Corps, it is customary for each unit to make a coin that attempts to both capture that particular unit’s unique identity as well as commemorate a rich history and tradition, often one that spans back over many wars and several decades. These coins are quite valuable to Marines that carry them. There is an expectation that you will always have your unit coin on you at all times, and if you don’t, you are often penalized with the responsibility of buying a round for every Marine that does. Marines will often treat their coin collection with the same amount of pride that they reserve for personal decorations. A coin is a lineage, a history, and an identity all rolled into one. I began my week in Alabama with one coin in particular. This coin is absolutely beautiful. Roughly the size of a silver dollar, it was gold embossed with red enamel. This coin was from 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines. It was presented to me by a young NCO named Pham, as a gift for assisting him in getting his citizenship. Pham had seen some very rough action in Iraq. Ironically, Pham is a Vietnamese national, and had been deployed, and in combat, when he was due to be sworn in for his citizenship. Luckily, we were able to square those issues with immigration, and get Pham sworn in as of the day of this writing. Pham presented his unit coin to me in gratitude for the assistance that the regiment had rendered him. With it, he gave me the story of his time in Iraq, of the future plans that he has for his business and his family, and the quiet struggle he fights with his memories and the friends that did not return with him. In accepting that coin, I explained to Pham that the honor was mine, not his, and that we merely assisted in finishing the paperwork for a citizenship that he had already earned in combat. I carried that coin with me when I left Pham, and drove several hours to meet another Marine. This Marine’s name is Shawn. Shawn is a recent addition to Alabama. Shawn moved here to spare his family from the intense emotional stress that accompanies someone with severe PTSD. After three tours in Iraq as an infantryman, Shawn had seen his share of suffering and death, and he could not rid himself of the memories. They cost him his home, his wife, and his two children. Shawn’s coin came in the form of a request. He relayed to me that his young daughter was very ill. He asked me to send a Marine to his wife’s home in North Carolina, just to make sure that his daughter was alright, because he could not do it himself. I told Shawn that I would do my best to ensure that this got accomplished, and that as soon as I got a Marine to check on his daughter, I would get word to him. While Shawn’s coin was more scratched and dented than Pham’s, I was still deeply honored to carry it. My travels next took me to see a young combat engineer named Trey. Trey had deployed many times in the fleet, only to return home and be paralyzed in a training accident. Despite his injury, Trey remains uncompromisingly positive. He refuses to allow it to become a limitation to him or his family. Trey’s coin, his story to me, can be called inspirational, but that doesn’t do it justice. He proudly showed me where he had widened the doorway to his daughter’s room so that he could quickly come to her side in the night if she had a bad dream. He told me that she is four, and that it is important that she know he will be able to come to her at any time, because as a single parent, he has to be reliable. It goes without saying that his pride, his undaunted courage in the face of an arbitrary wound that will never heal, humbled me deeply. The last coin I collected on my trip to Alabama came from a man named Don. Don has a severe brain disorder, possibly caused by the multiple explosions he endured during his three combat tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. His brain damage is such that he can no longer speak, and he is forced to wear a diaper. The doctors say that Don’s injury is terminal, and yet every day his wife Marie drives to the hospital to be with him, to comb his hair, to bring him the latest pictures his young daughter has drawn, to hold his hand. Don’s son is working his way through an NROTC program and already carries the swagger of a Marine officer, much to Marie’s chagrin. Marie tells me that he wears his father’s cross on his dog tags, and refuses to take them off. As I sat with Marie at the VA today, we discussed future options for Don. Marie told me that she was glad I had come to see Don and that she thought he really appreciated another Marine’s presence, even if he couldn’t say so. She asked that, when the day came, if I could just do the best job I could to make sure that as many Marines as possible showed up at his funeral, because she believes that is what he would want. Before I departed, I handed her Pham’s coin, and I explained to her how I had come to be in possession of it. I told her that I thought it fitting that it pass from one good Marine, through me, to another, and I asked that she hold it for Don and place it with him when he gets buried. She took the coin, and quietly agreed. So you see sir, I am a collector of coins. These coins aren’t made of brass, enamel, or gold. They are made of hope, sadness, courage, and loss. The most important job I hold is to bear witness to these men, to ensure them that no matter what the future holds for them, and no matter how much shame they feel at present circumstance, that one other person recognizes them for the men they once were. They were the guys that proudly wore the eagle, globe, and anchor, and traveled forth, away from home and comfort, to risk their lives for an ideal. These are what I carry as I return home. Semper Fidelis Capt David Brothers WWR, USMC Share your comments on the post at the mcws blog http://milspeakcreativewritingseminars.blogspot.com/shapeimage_2_link_0

LCpl Joshua Bleill, 3/24, was injured in Iraq in October 2006. While learning to walk with prosthetic legs at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C., Bleill said, “I still have my brain and my heart, and I have my family, friends and faith—everything I need to get through this.”.

Photo by Cpl Megan Angel in Leatherneck Magazine