How Can You Mend This Purple Heart (27 page)

“Just get that the fuck away from me!” Jersey said, pointing at the hole in Bobby Mac's face.

Sgt. Bobby Mac Joyce picked the Cyclops eye off the sidewalk and put it in his mouth. He rolled it around a few times, cleaned it off and got it good and wet, and popped it back in his head.

“You sit by me,” Bobby Mac told Jersey as we made our way down the aisle of the bus. “Bagley, you sit right here in front of us.”

“First off, you ain't gonna blame Corporal Bagley for what happened,” Bobby Mac told Jersey. He didn't sound like the laugh-at-anything Bobby Mac we knew. His voice was hard, and his words came stamped out like metal parts. “If it wasn't for Bagley, you'd be a dead motherfucker. Understand what I'm saying? You think we all don't know what happened in 'Nam? We're Marines, we know everything about everybody. He saved your ass from yourself. So you suck it up, and get on with shit. You got that?” He didn't wait for an answer. “Then, you apologize to Bagley. I don't give a shit when you do it, you just do it. You're gonna need him more than you think. When you get out and get home, he's gonna be all you got. And finally, stay the fuck away from Earl Ray,” Bobby Mac warned him. “What you did, he won't ever forget. Just stay off Q Ward, and no one will fuck with you. You come on Q, and your ass belongs to Earl Ray.”

Sgt. Bobby Mac Joyce joined us in the back, squeezed past Big Al, and sat next to the open window. Big Al brought out the promised Thai stick, and Moose lit it with his shiny silver Zippo U.S. Marine Corps logo lighter. The ember glowed orange on our faces as we took turns inhaling its soothing mental massage.

The bus rambled through the streets of Philadelphia toward our home on Q, where we would live another week for another getaway.

The Drowning

OCEAN CITY
,
NEW JERSEY
, was a two-and-a-half-hour journey out of Philly. Monday morning, I made arrangements with the transportation pool to have a bus and driver ready to roll by 0800 on Sunday. Our maximum number for this trip was twelve, which included the driver, so the smaller twenty-passenger model would do fine.

The United States Navy and Marine Corps Retired Officers' Club of Ocean City, New Jersey, was our gracious host. Six truly honorable gentlemen, each owners of magnificent, thirty-foot-plus-long fishing boats stocked with rods, tackle, the best fish-finding equipment available, sandwiches, sodas, bait, and beer.

No clipboard was necessary for these excursions. Along with four or five new guys each week, Earl Ray, Big Al, Moose, Ski, Roger, and Bobby Mac were rubber-stamped onto the roster for the five consecutive Sunday deep-sea fishing trips.

We would take only three boats out at a time—four men to a boat plus the captain and one other retired officer. Our hosts would rotate the boat assignments and skipper their own boats while the other officer fetched sandwiches, baited hooks, released fish, and waited on the guys hand and foot. I got to fish, only because Moose threatened to throw me over if I didn't. It was a great moment for me. I felt proud that I had earned their friendship and trust.

On those floating vessels of enjoyment, we would laugh, joke, share good stories, and let the ocean consume our thoughts. It would be the isolation and emptiness, with the boats surrounded by nothing but water and the boyish sounds of friendship, that I would ultimately miss the most.

“Out to sea” was five hours on the Atlantic Ocean fishing for “blues.” Once back on shore, it was poolside at one of the retired officers' homes, relaxing with a drink and snacks, bragging about the biggest catch. The ride back to Philly would be two and a half hours of sleep, a much-needed recuperation from nearly six hours of sun, ocean swells, and beer.

Only eight of us made trip number four in late July to Ocean City. Most of the others who had made the trip at least once had gotten seasick and didn't want any more to do with it. It was also midsummer, and a lot of guys were spending weekends at home.

The fishing was terrible, and the waves were swelling to eight feet. The skipper decided to call it off a couple of hours early, and we started for shore. The retired Navy captain got on the radio and contacted his home base.

“Sheila, it's Jack. We're coming in early. Could you and the girls get things set up for us?”

“We'd love to. Anything wrong?”

“Just an empty ocean, and it's about to throw us all overboard.”

“How far out are you?”

“We should be there in just over an hour.”

The only thing we heard was “you and the girls.” That was a new one. No girls had ever been on the boats or at the pool. Our eyes and ears perked up.

“Uh, did you say girls?” Big Al grinned.

“We just thought the pool might look a little better. You don't mind, do you?”

Big Al asked the skipper to slow the boat and radio the other captain and our sister crew.

“Here, you contact him,” he said as he idled the engine down and stretched the stiff spiral cord to Big Al. “And put your life jacket back on, young man.”

Big Al couldn't reach the outstretched mike, so he unbuckled the harness holding him in his seat. He pulled himself onto the back of the deck bench to get a little closer to the radio mike. At that moment, a large wave crashed the side of the boat, and Big Al disappeared over the side—with no life jacket.

“Holy shit!” the captain yelled.

“Get him, Shoff!” Moose yelled.

I grabbed a life jacket and dove over the rocking ledge, pounding my knee against the hard surface. I jumped straight off the side where Big Al had just vanished moments before. The waves were beating against the side of the boat, and by the time I got clear, I couldn't find Big Al.

“Over here! Over here!” the captain screamed, pointing toward the back of the boat and quickly turning the key to shut down the gunning motor.

I put my face in the water and pounded my way in Big Al's direction, the life jacket dragging against the water like an anchor. Big Al seemed to be going farther and farther from the boat.

“Get the gaff hook!” the other captain yelled.

The other boat had pulled up, keeping enough distance so the waves couldn't smash the two boats into one another.

I could hear Big Al yelling for me to hurry.

“C'mon, Shoff! My arms won't last! Hurry, Shoff, I'm not going to make it! Don't let me die in this fucking ocean!”

He disappeared again behind the swelling waves. An eight-foot swale took me high into the air, and Big Al was gone.

“Where are you, Al? God dammit! Where are you!”

It seemed like the ocean had swallowed all sound. A silence hammered my ears.

I swam toward the voice screaming on the other side of the giant wave. Then, I heard someone laughing. Laughing, for God's sake.

It was Big Al. He was four or five feet behind me—laughing.

“Look, Shoff, no legs. I float!”

“You son of a bitch!” I screamed. “You son of a bitch!”

The captain, his retiree buddy, Moose, and Ski were falling over each other, laughing their asses off.

“We got you, man!” Moose howled. “We got you!”

The guys in the other boat were just as proud.

“You should have seen your face, Shoff!” Earl Ray hollered.

I paddled over to Big Al and shoved his head underwater.

We were pulled back on board and the captain cranked up the motor; we buckled down and put our faces to the wind. The hour-long trip back to the dock was spent downing beers as I was saluted for my “bravery.” I raised a can in a salute to Big Al for being alive.

“I'd kick your ass if you had one,” I told him. He just smiled his Big Al smile.

The girls at the pool party were daughters and friends of daughters and nieces and neighbors. Almost all of them had been raised through the rigors of military life. Those that were old enough to drink did, and those who weren't did everything they could to make sure we were never without a beer or snacks.

Earl Ray joined Moose at one of the patio tables. Roger and Bobby Mac had joined Big Al and me on the shady side of the pool. Ski sat on the edge with his stump leg in the water.

One of the younger girls, about seventeen or eighteen, was handing Ski a beer when he suddenly pulled his stump leg out of the water with both hands, screaming “Sharks! Sharks!” The girl just stood there trembling, and the beer ended up in the pool.

Big Al had taken residence in a full-length lounge chair and was making smartass remarks about having so much space.

“Look at me, Shoff. I got the best chair in the house. You got the concrete.”

“Okay, Al. You deserve it.”

“No, Shoff. I mean, look at me, man. This lounge chair could be yours, but I got it first. Oh, man, this feels so good!” he smirked. “I can stretch out and relax. You got nothing but that towel.”

“Okay, Al.” I said. “I've had enough of your shit!” I stood up, threw his towel in the air, grabbed him by his pinned-up swim trunks, and flung him into the deep end of the pool.

Instantly, two of the girls dove in after him. One girl sitting on the other side of the pool gasped and nearly fainted, and another one slapped me upside the head.

Big Al bobbed up and down, grinning from ear to ear, a girl under each arm.

Atlantic City

IT WAS A FRIDAY
, late August, 1970. The scuttlebutt around the mess hall at breakfast was Miss America. Not that any one of us thought much about the whole thing other than the swimsuits, but this weekend's trip was to Atlantic City—to see the pageant live. It was a two-and-a-half-day trip, and our close-knit group, along with a dozen others, was leaving at noon.

Tiny strolled into the mess hall, grabbed only a cup of coffee, and sat down at the table next to ours.

“So, who's gonna win?” he asked. We all gave him blank stares. “Miss America, you bums!”

“Oh!” three of us crooned in unison.

“I don't even know who's in the contest,” Moose snorted.

“For God's sake,” Tiny spat back. “Just name a state!”

“Shit, Moose, you ever heard of Miss America before today?” Roger had just shoved a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth, and half of them came sputtering out like confetti.

“Jesus, Roger, keep your mouth shut 'til you swallow that shit! Weren't you ever taught to keep your mouth shut when you eat? You fuckin' ill-mannered whelp. If I want a second helping, I'll take it off your tray,” Big Al said, tossing a few pieces back at Roger. “God all Friday.”

Roger couldn't control his burst of laughter. The rest of the eggs and the huge gulp of milk he had just taken spewed out like a horizontal geyser, spraying everyone within the line of fire.

Moose was the first to spin around the table and grab a handful of Roger's robe, just at the shoulder. Roger spun his chair backwards and put his arms up to protect his face.

“I'm sorry! I'm sorry!” He was still laughing. “I didn't mean it, for God's sake.”

Before Moose could tighten his grip, Tiny was between them, taking Moose's fading punch to his thigh.

“Okay, okay. Let's not ruin a good weekend before it gets started,” he cautioned.

The two took their places back at the table, and breakfast was finished without any further unwanted sharing of food. We made our way back up the sloping ramp toward Q Ward with a little more optimism and laughter than usual. This was going to be a very special weekend. We could feel it.

I had my clipboard with the list of the truly lucky and made my way around the ward to check off each one as he readied for the trip. We were each given a small Navy-issue duffle bag for the weekend's belongings and a fresh toilet kit provided by the Red Cross. I helped everyone stuff the bags with everything necessary for a weekend escape: one uniform, a couple sets of civvies, underwear, socks, dress shoes, stump wraps, painkillers, a shaving kit, and cigarettes. We checked off the other necessities: a few joints and a couple bottles of Jack Daniels, crutches, canes, wheelchairs, and don't forget your legs or arms or both. We were packed, ready, and waiting for the bus by ten o'clock.

The bus pulled up behind Q Ward just after 11:00 a.m. A Marine driver, his khaki brown uniform with its olive green chevron pressed razor sharp, stepped down from the side door of the bus. As he rounded the front of the familiar battleship-gray hulk, a scowl appeared immediately and his eyes blinked with madness. He approached our waiting group with a distant anger growing on his face. It was Corporal Brown.

Corporal Brown had been our bus driver several weeks ago to the V.F.W. in Lancaster, PA. For him, it was the trip from hell. The fifty-mile return trek from Lancaster back to Philly began around midnight, and most of it traversed a small, S-curved blacktop road. Corporal Brown was anxious to get back, taking the curves as fast as the bus could handle them.

And as usual, and as was necessary, all of us had consumed way too much beer, too much liquor, and too much food. The bus became, literally, a toilet.

Some guys tried to stand on the seat and piss out the windows, wobbling like starched boards on their plastic legs. Some tried to puke and piss out the windows, grasping the half-open metal frame with a hook and holding onto his dick with his good hand. The rest of us were too drunk to even think about a window.

Even with all of the windows down, the bus reeked of urine, rotten alcohol, half-digested pizza and clams, and stomach acids. Corporal Brown had opened the sliding window next to his driver's seat, sick to his stomach from the putrid smell. He kept the bus going as fast as he could, blowing the stench out through the open windows and away from the front of the bus. There was no room on the shoulders to pull the forty-foot-long outhouse off to the side.

The bus sped past the guardhouse onto the hospital grounds, leaned sideways along the route to the back of the hospital, and screeched to a stop at the side doors to Q. We staggered and laughed and puked our way back into the comfort of the ward as Corporal Brown's threats came in jerks and spats. He was leaning against the side of the bus, doubled over, throwing up his “mothafuckers!” along with his evening's food.