He Folded the American Flag — Short Story (2012) —

“Do you hate the United States of America?”

“No. I’m a patriot. I love my country.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Because I had to.”

“You’ve committed the most terrible crime against your country. You’re a traitor! You’ll be executed. And there will be no trial. I think you understand that yourself.”

“I understand.”

“Then why… why did you do it?”

“Are you going to torture me like your colleagues?”

“No, I only want to understand who you really are.”

“You’ve probably read my personal file.”

“Yes, I have. But I want to hear your story. Tell me about yourself. How did you join the army, and who were you before that?”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing to tell. A simple guy from Texas. Not as smart as my peers. I dropped out of school. Then I realized that being a farmer wasn’t for me. I joined the army. I found my place there. Discipline, order, following orders… I was always good at that. My father was proud of me; he said he’d raised a real man… but never mind. The army became my home, and very soon our boys started being sent to war. Some came back without legs or arms, and others came back straight in coffins. As part of our duty, we’d fly back home and, in honor of our fallen brothers-in-arms, perform military funeral rites with full honors. You know: white gloves, “Taps” on the bugle, volleys fired into the sky, the Stars and Stripes, and the coffin… which was, of course, most often empty, since the soldier himself remained scattered in pieces on the battlefield. The burial ritual was rehearsed to perfection... second by second. Our guys never fought as smoothly as we buried one another. And no matter how many farewell ceremonies we performed by the same pattern, each ceremony was special, because there’s always one thing you can’t script or teach at the academy. I mean how to look into the eyes of mothers sobbing with grief. And that was exactly my duty — after the flag was folded with honor, to hand it, with a bow, to the soldier’s mother, then straighten my back and, saluting, solemnly say, ‘On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Army, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of appreciation for the honorable and faithful service of your loved one.’ No more, no less. A few words, a piece of cloth, and a stranger giving a salute — that’s all the relatives receive. After that speech, some women would stand silent in their grief, pressing the flag to their chest; others would rush in hysterics to embrace the coffin; and some would just look me in the eyes and, like soldiers, raise their right hand to their temple in salute. To be honest, that was what I always feared most. And every time I thought only about how my own mother could have been in their place, and that some stranger — someone like me — would salute her the same way. Who’s responsible for all these tears? I kept asking myself that. It seemed to me that the blame truly lay with our enemies, the ones we were taught to hate since childhood. But at yesterday’s parade I finally saw and understood who the real enemies of our nation were. When the President finished his prepared speech and stepped down from the podium, he walked past us — the brave soldiers standing in formation. He walked confidently, smiling and waving to the cheering gawkers and the TV people... and this was right after he had just been talking from the podium about the tragedies of war and our fallen brothers-in-arms. He wasn’t grieving for his people. He walked and smiled... smiled, certain in the righteousness of his policies, and we — the proud soldiers — at that moment were supposed to give him a synchronized salute. Him? The one responsible for it all? No. I grabbed my rifle and… instead of a salute… chose to give him the bullet he truly deserved.”

“Do you regret what you did?”

“I only regret that ceremonial rifles are loaded with blanks.”

“You do understand that there will be no volleys in your honor, no ‘Taps,’ no flags.”

“Yes, I understand. They’ll execute me as a criminal... a traitor. The whole nation will despise me. But for the mothers who wept and were handed a folded flag, I will be a hero.”

“Hm... and what about your mother?”

— May 25, 2012