Every Sunday, a swap meet takes over the parking lot of the VanBuren Drive-In movie theater in Riverside, California. During one visit, I had wandered away from my friends, who were combing through old dishes, looking for rare midcentury china to add to their collection.
As I strolled through aisles past folding tables and blankets, my eyes roamed over the vast assortment of toasters, empty picture frames, coffee mugs, and well-worn hardcover books. We were in the midst of the Great Recession, when people were losing their homes in droves, and I wondered how much of this stuff was the product of downsizing from houses to apartments or moving in with relatives.
I was pondering this likelihood when one blanket stopped me. Nestled next to an old tea kettle and deck of cards, I saw a plaque tossed on the ground. From a distance, I could tell it was older. Not of this decade, or even of this century. I got closer and picked it up.
It was made of wood, laminated, and had a khaki-colored border. “Department of the Army” was printed at the top with the image of a medal featuring a bald eagle, a shield on its chest, and three arrows in its talons. “This is to certify that the secretary of the Army has awarded the Army Commendation Medal.”
Under the word “to,” the soldier’s name was typed in all caps: SERGEANT WILLIAM R. MERRILL. Under “for,” there was only one simple word: “HEROISM.” Beneath it, the words “In the Republic of Vietnam on 14 September 1970.”
The date of the award and signatures of a major general and the secretary of the Army followed. But I was fixated on that one word: “heroism.”
I looked for the vendor manning the blanket and saw a middle-aged man arranging some men’s shoes and a few knickknacks. I tried to put together the image of this guy with the plaque in my hands, but it just didn’t fit. Why was he selling someone’s Army Commendation?
“How much is this?” I asked him.
“Two dollars,” he said, glancing over at the plaque, then went back to his task. I realized this man had no connection to the plaque or the soldier who earned it.
He was just a seller of things no one wanted.
As I gazed down at the plaque, I wondered about the story behind it. Had this soldier pulled a wounded comrade out of the jungle under heavy enemy fire? Had he held off a group of North Vietnamese soldiers as they fired on his cornered company? Images from Apocalypse Now and Deer Hunter raced across my mind–my most vivid references for the Vietnam War.
The reality of what I held in my hand began to overwhelm me. This soldier might have risked his life to save the lives of others. This plaque represented a sacrifice made. It was given to him to acknowledge that act. And here it was, lying on a blanket of junk, for two dollars.
I tried to put it down, but I couldn’t. Instead, I reached into my wallet and pulled out two dollar bills. I walked away perplexed by how this remembrance of an act of courage could end up here, surrounded by old shoes and books that nobody wanted.
I met up with my friends and tried to explain why I had purchased the plaque, but they gave me a blank look. They didn’t understand why I couldn’t leave it behind.
When I got home, I put the plaque on the desk in my home office, where I was struggling to keep my freelance writing business going in a failing economy. A couple of months before, I had given a friend my resume in the hopes she could recommend me for a job as a staff technical writer at a naval base a couple of miles from my house. It was a long shot since I had no prior experience as a technical writer, was not a veteran, and basically knew nothing about engineering or the military.
Two days later, while sitting at my desk just inches from the plaque, my phone rang. It was the hiring manager for the contractor who employed technical writers at the naval base. Did I want to come in that day for an interview? Yes, of course. Despite sending out scores of resumes, this was the only call back.
Three hours later, after I met many of the government engineers I’d be working with, the contractor offered me a job.
It’s been 16 years since I brought that plaque home and started working with the Navy. I’m now a Department of Defense civilian, and have traveled to Japan, Australia, and around the U.S. in support of Navy missions. And whenever I come home, I go into my home office and see that plaque in its place of honor on my desk.
Before becoming a DOD employee, I was a journalist, which means I have a strong need to know the truth. The internet beckoned to me to find out the story of this soldier and the medal he earned.
It didn’t take long to find out he had passed away in May 2005—four years before I found his plaque. A Google search of his name revealed an obituary. He was only 56 when he died. His cause of death wasn’t included in the San Diego Tribune obit, but the family requested donations be sent to the Multiple Sclerosis Society.
He was a pilot during the war, and among the many outdoor hobbies listed was “amputee skiing.” I imagined he may have lost a leg—maybe both—while earning the three Purple Hearts mentioned in his obituary and was later diagnosed with MS. In my mind, he wasn’t the kind of guy who could spend the rest of his life as an amputee with MS, slowly deteriorating and feeling like a burden to his family.
A few weeks after discovering his obituary, I found myself feeling sadder than usual whenever my eyes landed on the plaque. I wanted to know what the soldier had done in Vietnam that had earned him a medal for heroism and three Purple Hearts. I felt like I owed it to him somehow. To recognize his sacrifice. Because I think 35 years later, that sacrifice ended up costing him his life.
After I reached out to The War Horse to see if they wanted to share my story, I came to learn even more about Sgt. William Merrill. The War Horse fact-checker did some research of her own, and discovered an interview with Sgt. Merrill’s mother in the Ventura County Star-Free Press newspaper on Feb. 15, 1971. Titled “No Brass Bands for Bill Merrill,” the article detailed the wounds Sgt. Merrill had suffered in combat, how he had lost a leg, how he needed 24 blood transfusions to survive his injuries. In the article, his mother described her son as “one of the gentle ones, who couldn’t understand the killing.”
Seeing the photo of Sgt. Merrill in his uniform, learning of the severity of his injuries, and realizing how emotionally painful the war was for this sensitive young man–all of it brought me to tears. The plaque I’d been seeing every day on my desk for 16 years no longer felt anonymous for me. I now knew the man who had earned it.
I have considered trying to track down Sgt. Merrill’s family to let them know I have his plaque, that I am grateful to him for his service, and that I feel that, in some mysterious way, the emotional connection I made to him that day at the swap meet led to my job supporting the Navy just a few days later.
Until I get the courage to reach out to them, I’ll just settle for seeing this experience as a symbol of how easily we discard acts of heroism, alongside old shoes and empty picture frames.
This War Horse reflection was edited by Mike Frankel, fact-checked by Jess Rohan, and copy-edited by Mitchell Hansen-Dewar. Hrisanthi Pickett wrote the headlines.
Editors Note: This article first appeared on The War Horse, an award-winning nonprofit news organization educating the public on military service. Subscribe to their newsletter.
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