More than 11 years after a bullet grazed by his head in Afghanistan, destroying his eardrum and singing the side of his face, Joe Hardebeck has been awarded the Purple Heart.

But for a long time, the 33-year-old senior Navy corpsman’s pride stood in the way. He hadn’t really been shot or lost a limb. Hardebeck didn’t believe he had been wounded badly enough to deserve the military’s oldest award.

Hardebeck is currently serving with the 1st Battalion, 11th Marine Regiment, an artillery unit at Camp Pendleton in Southern California. But his injuries for which he is being recognized took place in the spring of 2010 in Marjah, Afghanistan — one of the most dangerous cities in the country at the time.

The Marines had been ambushed three or four times that day. Taliban fighters attacked with small arms fire from several hundred yards away, the Marines responded with their own barrage of bullets. Eventually the fighting would come to a stop, only to start up again a short while later after the Marines had become comfortable — but not complacent — with the quiet.

It was Feb. 21, 2010, and the Taliban were battling to retain control of the city of Marjah, their last stronghold in Helmand Province, Afghanistan. They would not go quietly.

Hardebeck, then a 22-year-old Navy hospital corpsman assigned to the 1st Battalion, 6th Marine Regiment, was on his second combat deployment. And while his role, traditionally, was to save lives — not to take them — he was deemed a combatant until the situation dictated, seamlessly transitioning from rifleman to lifesaver in a heartbeat.

Amid the quiet, Hardebeck leaned against a wall, scanning the horizon for indicators of the next attack. The Marines had taken cover behind a small building, bounding from one structure to the next as they advanced through rural farmland.

Next came a deafening crack — a miniature explosion. A bullet bound for his head had missed, striking the wall mere inches away from his face. Hardebeck recoiled behind the wall after the impact peppered him with dirt and debris.

“I think they’re shooting at me,” he told the Marines around him. Everyone laughed, as they always did, before they continued about their business, running and gunning in a country from far from home.

He didn’t know it at the time, but the round had passed so close and at such great speed that the pressure ruptured his ear drum. Hardebeck said it even caused a minor burn along the side of his cheek.

Shortly after, another Marine approached him and said, “You know you have blood coming out of your ear?” Simultaneously, an officer seized Hardebeck and hurried him along. A Marine across the way had been shot; they needed help.

The thought of leaving his men to seek appropriate medical attention never crossed his mind. Hardebeck was the senior corpsman for his company, responsible for the oversight of about a dozen other “docs,” men who looked to him for direction.

Additionally, the Marines were his family. Had something happened to them while he was gone, he later explained, he would never forgive himself. And so, he stayed.

Originally created by George Washington in 1782 as the Badge of Military Merit, the Purple Heart is presented to service members that are killed or wounded in combat. It’s one award most don’t want to pay their pound of flesh for.

There have been more than 1.8 million recipients since its inception, but Hardebeck believes the number for those who qualify for the the award is higher. A handful of his peers were also wounded, to some degree, while serving overseas.

But many service members, like Hardebeck, who qualify for the Purple Heart keep their afflictions to themselves.

“When something that we view as minor, whether it be a small abrasion, a cut, a perforated eardrum, something that didn’t take us out of the fight, it’s hard to, to accept the fact that that it still rates a Purple Heart,” Hardebeck said. “And that was where my mind went with all of that. It wasn’t that I didn’t think I should get it per se, but I didn’t think I deserved it. I wasn’t hurt enough.”

It wasn’t until years later, in 2017, that a tragedy brought Hardebeck and some of the Marines from that deployment back together. And in typical Marine fashion, the men started swapping stories over beers, reminiscing about their time in Afghanistan and the events.