The Dog Tags

My name is Raymie Lugosi. I am 15 years old and I am in the tenth grade. My mother died four years ago in the bombing of the World Trade Centers. This is the story of how I also lost my father.

After my mom died, we moved to Washington D.C where my father joined the army. He was deployed several times during the four years leading up to his death. Aunt Louise lived with us; we rarely got along.

You see, my dad had these dog tags. Whenever he was gone in Iraq, or even when he was home, I would wear them on a silver chain. The dog tags were always hidden under my shirt, because people always stared and asked questions.

At 15, you never really think about your parents dying when you are still in school. When Mom died, I was shocked. Your parents aren’t supposed to die while you are young. They are supposed to pass away when they are older, perhaps in their 80s or 90s. That’s what upsets me.

My father’s dog tags are made of silver, like almost everybody else’s. To somebody else, they are just tags that a lot of kids wear. But they are mine, they are important.

During school at lunch, my friend Bela told me something funny her brother had done. I wasn’t paying attention because a line of army trucks were driving past the school. They were packed with soldiers, each wondering if they’d come back alive. I hoped my dad wasn’t on his way to the Middle East.

During Spanish, Aunt Louise came to pick me up early, signing me out of the office. As we got into my dad’s truck, I couldn’t help but notice to frown that creased her forehead. When she glanced at me, she smiled; the smile didn’t reach the depths of her aqua blue eyes. I knew what had happened.
“It’s okay Aunt Louise. We’ll be alright. Robbie will be okay.” I said, reassuring her. The words didn’t keep the knot of worry in my stomach from growing.

Those five weeks were awful. I wore Dad’s dog tags more than ever; even wearing them outside of my clothing. The worry that washed over me was intolerable. Just when I’d convinced myself that Robbie was alright, the dread and panic returned. Aunt Louise left me alone pretty much all of the time. I did my homework, wrote in my diary, and occasionally talked on the phone. That was the first two weeks. He was supposed to be back, but he wasn’t.

Two weeks turned into three, and three into four. I’d heard on the news about a large bomb raid and that only a handful survived. The fourth week he was gone, I lost the dog tags. I took them off during P.E, and then they were gone. I cried when I got home, not allowing Aunt Louise into my room.

It wasn’t until 5 weeks after Robbie’s deployment that I learned anything. There was a letter in the mail for me from the Army. I didn’t open, instead calling Bela to read it first. She read it silently, a few tears gathering in her eyes as she folded the letter back up and slid into the envelope. Bela threw her arms around me, and we both cried for hours, where Aunt Louise eventually found is. Bela left, and I curled up in my bed, hugging one of my father’s pillows. I was no longer aware of time passing no that he was gone forever. Surely there was a mistake. Life wasn’t fair at all. I gave the letter to Aunt Louise who read it with pursed lips.

It wasn’t until after Robbie’s funeral that I actually read the letter.

“December 15, 2004

Dear Miss Raymie Lugosi,

My name is Edward Jackson. I had the privilege of serving with your father in our most recent mission. This news is difficult for me to bear as his partner, and yet even harder to tell a person as young as you, you having already lost your mother. Your father passed away three weeks ago, saving me and several others from a horrible death. He led us to safety in the basement of an old apartment building after the first bomb dropped. I had suffered a broken arm. I tried to convince him to stay, so that he could return home to you, but he said that he would be fine and went back to go help more people. As the rest of the bombs fell, Americans and Iraqis alike huddled for protection. He never came back. While searching for any living, I found your father’s own pair of dog tags, and these I enclose with this letter along with one of mine in gratitude from what your father has done. Robbie was a good man and he really loved you.

Sincerely,

Edward Jackson”
I opened the extra package, dumping the necklace into my hand. They glistened like new, except for a dent in Robbie’s. I wear them now.

Later that month, I was presented my father’s medals: the Medal of Honor, and his Purple Heart. The President pinned them onto my jacket, smiling gravely. That day, I also met Mr. Edward Jackson. He was a man of 23 years, and nodded when our eyes met. I went over to him and shook his hand. He pulled me into a hug, both of us crying.
“He was like a father to me. I know what you are going through Raymie.”

To this day, I occasionally correspond with Edward. He is married now and has a baby named Robbie that is 5 months old. And the dog tags? I wear them everyday, knowing that my father loved me and that I still had something of his to remember him by.