Former President Donald Trump sparked near universal criticism last week when he said that the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the nation’s highest civilian award, was “much better” than the Medal of Honor, the nation’s highest award for military valor. Trump made these comments during an event at his Bedminster, New Jersey, estate about anti-Semitism, in which he was drawing attention to the work of Miriam Adelson—the widow of his friend, the casino magnate and megadonor Sheldon Adelson—who received the Medal of Freedom from Trump in 2018. Trump’s bizarre logic was that many recipients of the Medal of Honor are in “bad shape” because of their wounds or receive the award posthumously, and that the Medal of Freedom is better because a “healthy, beautiful woman” like Miriam Adelson can receive it.
During the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, I wrote numerous citations for valor awards. Discerning whether actions such as rescuing a friend from an ambush or assaulting an enemy position or leading a daring raid are worthy of a Silver Star, Navy Cross, or, possibly, the Medal of Honor is a unique challenge. The first time I had to write up a valor award, I was a 24-year-old Marine second lieutenant in Fallujah. We had been in sustained house-to-house combat for two weeks when a directive came down from our higher headquarters to begin writing up our awards. The battle wasn’t even over. Marines were still getting killed. Nevertheless, the sergeants and corporals in my platoon scribbled their recommendations on pieces of paper and I wrote them up between firefights on our company’s single laptop, a Toughbook we kept charged with a gas-powered generator.
My company commander at the time—a captain who, at the age of 30, seemed infinitely old and wise to me—explained his philosophy of writing awards. He suggested that if I couldn’t figure out whether a Marine deserved a Bronze Star, Silver Star, or something even higher, I should imagine the day in the future when we would all stand in formation at the award’s presentation. He encouraged me to aim for as high a valor award as possible, so long as no one standing in formation would snicker under their breath that the award wasn’t deserved. This proved sound advice, which I hewed to over the years.
Valor awards recognize what was, likely, one of the worst days of someone’s life. This is particularly true if a person is being written up for the highest awards—the Silver Star, Navy Cross, Air Force Cross, Distinguished Service Cross, or Medal of Honor. These are not given after a mission where everything went right and everyone came home.
The process of approving these awards is arduous, and each of the services handles it a little bit differently. The Marine Corps requires a “summary of action,” a lengthy document that outlines in detail what occurred and why it merits the award. This is followed by multiple witness statements from those who saw the actions of the awardee—many a hero has gone unsung because no survivors existed to write these witness statements. Once all of this documentation is gathered, it goes into an awards packet, which then circulates through a labyrinthine bureaucracy; at every level of command, the award is either recommended for approval, downgraded, or, in some cases, upgraded. The nomination first travels to a battalion-level awards board. If approved, it goes to the regiment. The process repeats as it circulates up to division, and, in the case of the Marine Corps, to the Marine Expeditionary Force awards board, and then onward to Headquarters Marine Corps, followed by the Offices of the Secretaries of the Navy and Defense, and then the White House. Awards boards meet only periodically, so this process can take years. Valor awards are not bestowed by fiat.
In the case of the Medal of Honor, recipients enter a special fraternity. They become the embodiment of American valor, living tributes to the heroism that exists deep in our national character. This is a heavy burden, a celebrity that, for many, exacts a cost and becomes a second type of service. Audie Murphy, the most decorated soldier of the Second World War and a Medal of Honor recipient, struggled until his death with his own mental health and with alcoholism. More recently, post-9/11 Medal of Honor recipients such as Kyle Carpenter and Ryan Pitts have become vocal advocates for veterans and their mental health and reintegration.
When confronted with American valor, Trump has a history of making disparaging comments, dating as far back as 2015 when he said of the late Senator John McCain, a recipient of the Silver Star, that he “was only a war hero because he was captured,” adding, “I like people who weren’t captured, OK?” Perhaps Trump thinks the Medal of Freedom is “better” because he, as the president, can award it to whomever he pleases, including friends and donors. The Medal of Honor affords him no such discretion. Also, it seems beyond his comprehension that an award could simply lead to another chapter of service and not become an accolade used for simple personal advantage.
During Trump’s presidency, he presided over 12 presentations of the Medal of Honor. If he wins the White House in November, he’ll likely preside over more. I doubt anyone will be saying at any future White House presentation that an award wasn’t deserved. But they might say, instead, that the man presenting it doesn’t deserve the honor of performing the task.
