How Can You Mend This Purple Heart (30 page)

We clambered back onto Q Ward and scattered out to our bunks and lockers. The rest of the afternoon was spent on the patio, drinking New Jersey beer and reliving the past two and a half days.

“You, you, you, you, and you!” Tiny had come up behind us towering in the doorway and pointing at each of us. “All of you but Earl Ray have a date with me one week from tomorrow, 0800, down in sick bay. You're getting squeezed for VD.”

Before we could say anything, he turned and disappeared back into the ward.

“What's he mean, squeezed?” I asked.

“It ain't really squeezed, it's more like poked,” Bobby Mac chuckled.

“The fickle finger of fate,” Roger laughed.

“Dright up dthe old pooper!” Ski howled.

“No big deal!” Moose said. “Just bend over and enjoy it.”

The week passed as usual, and we all nervously kept a close inspection every time we took a piss. The jokes and jabs reached a crescendo by Sunday evening, and the hooker stories from New Jersey to Vietnam had grown even more and more astonishing.

Monday morning, Tiny was on Q Ward at 0745, and we convoyed down to sick bay. One by one, we were introduced to the fickle finger of fate; specimens were taken and put under the microscope. With great relief, we all left with the good news that we were clean.

Back on Q Ward, we were given the news that Doc Miller had been killed in Vietnam.

Feeling Lucky

EARL RAY HIGGINS
sat quietly in the restricted and familiar comfort of his wheelchair. Q Ward lay empty and silent behind him. An early autumn breeze was easing through the wide-open side doors, carrying with it the drone of the Saturday night traffic.

Earl had decided to pass on evening chow, and by the time we returned, he had showered, shaved, put on his legs and arm, and was in full Marine dress uniform. His ribbon rack was on the wool blanket of his bunk, leaning against the small stack of letters from Jennifer. He had taken the Purple Heart medal out of the box and was holding it in his right hand. Sitting side by side on his bunk was a nearly half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels and a bottle of painkillers, announcing his plans for the evening.

“What's up, Earl?” Moose asked.

“The sky.”

“You know what I mean. C'mon, what's going on?”

“Just let it happen. Don't call for help until you know it's too late. Keep your promise.”

Earl put the pill bottle in his left breast pocket, wedged the bottle of Jack Daniels between his right thigh and the side of the wheelchair, and placed Jen's letters between his thighs. He spun around the end of his bunk and rolled down to the double doors onto the concrete patio. We followed in silence, glancing for reassurance from each other of our promise to Earl.

Big Al pulled his chair alongside Earl Ray. Moose, Roger, Ski, Bobby Mac, and I sat down on the cool concrete steps. We were still looking for the nod of reassurance. No one spoke.

Earl sat solemn in his chair, the purple and white striped ribbon of his Purple Heart medal held between the pincers of the hook protruding from his jacket sleeve, the heart-shaped medallion resting on the crease of his pant leg. Jennifer Ann Cooley's letters were squeezed between his legs, their messages sealed in silence, the envelopes never opened, and the pleading messages never read. Their familiar fragrance mottled the cool air and wrenched a memory of Ward 2B, a beautiful girl lying on the floor next to Earl's bed and orthopedic shackles.

“I'm feeling really lucky today,” Earl said as he pulled the pill bottle from his pocket.

“How many did you take?” Moose asked.

“Not enough,” Earl said.

“How many?” Moose asked again.

“Four…maybe five. I'm not sure. It ain't enough.” He tumbled the pills around in the bottle and fingered the cap.

“Then let's call it quits for now. What do you say, my friend?”

“Just let it happen this time,” Earl said, looking at us as though we had given him permission. “You guys promised.”

“Don't let this be the last thing you do with your life, Earl,” Moose said.

“It's not, Moose. The last thing I did with my life was step on a land mine.”

Our promise to Earl was a death sentence. Our commitment “to just let it happen” was giving him permission to die. He had taken our promise as validation to take his own life. We approved it—that made it okay. We looked at each other with a fearful confidence, the silence sealing our loyalty to Earl's wishes.

“I've changed my mind,” I blurted out.

“You can't,” Earl snapped. “You made a promise. All of you.”

“Let me have a drink of the Jack. Okay, Earl?”

Earl Ray didn't say anything as he handed the bottle to Moose. The few pills he had taken were beginning to fulfill their promise as the tension in his face slackened and a mild bliss rinsed over his consciousness. Earl was high, but it would take a lot more of the painkillers to take his life.

“Why don't you give me the pills, Earl?” Moose asked.

“Can't do it, Moose,” Earl said. “Even if I don't do it now, I'll need these when the time comes. But like I said, I'm feeling really lucky.”

Earl Ray Higgins sat erect, watching the slow-moving traffic pass under the street lights and kaleidoscope through the diamond shapes of the chain-link fence. A city bus rumbled south toward the shipyard at the end of Broad Street. Behind the bus, a Yellow cab slowed near the curb, a young woman sitting motionless in the backseat. The bus and the cab disappeared beyond our sight, and the space in the street filled and emptied again and again with cars of people going wherever it was they were going.

Earl raised the bundle of envelopes to his face and inhaled their precious fragrance. The Purple Heart slid from his pincer hook and clanged onto the bottom of the concrete steps.

The most recognizable honor of sacrifice on Earth—so majestic in its magnificence and so pure in its simplicity—was lying at my feet. My heart pounded as I sat unable to move, captivated by its power and meaning. With a timid and hesitant purpose, I bent downward toward the precious medal and touched it with my fingertips, fearful it might break. I pulled it into my hands and cupped it gently, as if I were holding Earl Ray's very heart.

The phone on the wall inside the front doors of Q Ward had been ringing relentlessly. A student corpsman passing by lifted the receiver and silenced the clanging blasts. He made his way down the ward, and standing inside the open double doors, he summoned our small group.

“Some girl on the phone wants to talk to an Earl Ray. Says her name is Jennifer. She's calling from the front gate.”

We clambered through the doors and chased behind Earl toward the waiting phone.

“Is this some kind of fucking joke!” Earl yelled into the phone.

“Earl?” the soft voice stammered. “Is that you?”

The receiver fell from Earl's grasp as he swiped at a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. Moose grabbed the swinging phone and placed it on Earl's lap. Earl caressed the black plastic mouthpiece as if he were holding Jennifer in his hand. He squinted three or four times, and a slight wisp of air puffed up from the corner of his mouth.

“Earl?” That single word came through the phone like a chorus of angels' voices.

“Jen…is it really you?”

“Yes, Earl. It's me.”

“Jen…Jen,” Earl stammered.

“I can't do it, Earl,” she cried over the phone. “I can't go on without you.”

“Jen…what are…what are you doing here?”

“Earl,” Jennifer's voice softened. “Earl, I've come to take you home.”

It was a Monday morning two weeks after Jennifer Ann Cooley called from the front gate when Moose and I lifted the permanently borrowed, shiny new wheelchair into the trunk of Jennifer's car. I walked slowly toward the front of the car to say goodbye. Earl Ray Higgins reached through the open passenger-side window and shook my hand.

“You're okay for a non-combat…for an honorary Marine.”

“Thanks, Earl,” I said as I squeezed his hand a little tighter.

“Promise me one thing, Shoff.”

“Anything you want, Earl.”

“Don't ever get that tattoo.”

“You got it.”

Time to Go

THE NAVY BRASS
at the hospital made good on their promise to give the admiral my ass on a platter. The Medical Review Board, headed by one of the biggest egomaniacs in the military, had found me “fit for full duty”—and not one doctor on the Board had bothered to even take my pulse.

I wasn't bitching. It was fitting for me to return to full duty with my friends setting out in life with so many challenges. Even with the wobble in my walk and the two-foot steel rod in my left femur, I was more than happy to finish my enlistment.

Dr. Donnolly told the Board that I needed additional physical therapy and that “he waddles like a pregnant duck.” Evidently, his absence from the Saturday night cocktail parties left him with little influence over his colleagues. They were, after all, covering their own asses against any retaliation the admiral might dish out from his perch in Norfolk.

The military had a standing policy that allowed enlisted personnel to rebut any decision made by the Medical Review Board. I was given my one opportunity to rebut their decision and filed the proper paperwork. Two hours later, I was summoned to the executive officers' floor, and an enlisted female Navy clerk presented me with the rebuttal to my rebuttal. I just walked away smiling.

Within three days, I was given orders for my next duty assignment, a process that typically would take two to three weeks. I was headed on a tour to Vietnam aboard a Navy aircraft carrier—fly to Oakland, California, pick up a Navy military flight to San Diego, and board the U.S.S. Ranger for a nine-month deployment to Vietnam. They couldn't have given me any better orders unless they had sent me directly to Da Nang or Saigon.

I danced my way to Q Ward with my orders in hand to find anyone who might be around and give them the good news. Moose, Roger, Big Al, and Ski were heavy into a game of Spades.

“Hey man, how's it goin'?” Moose asked.

“Couldn't be better!” I said.

“What are you so happy about?” Moose asked as he poked at me with his cane.

“Got my review board decision,” I smiled.

“You are geeting dthe fuck out?” Ski shouted.

“Oh man, that's great!” Roger said.

“No man, I ain't gettin' out. They got me fit for full duty. Got orders for a carrier.”

“No fuckin' way!” Moose shouted. “They can't do that.”

“They've done it,” I told him. “No big deal, either. I owe you guys at least a trip over there.”

“You don't owe us shit,” Big Al snapped. “You mean the boat you're goin' on is headed to 'Nam?”

“Now, ain't that some shit!” Bobby Mac cried out. “Say hello to that fucking spider for me!”

“I'll have one of those hot-shot pilots drop a bomb on it,” I smiled.

“Shit,” Bobby Mac laughed. “He'll just throw it back at 'em!”

“You guys know it don't mean shit to be on a boat near 'Nam,” I said. “It's no different than a cruise to the West Indies.”

“Well, I'll be a son of a bitch,” Moose groaned. “They got you, didn't they?”

“That's what it's all about,” I said. “They made sure that smartass remark I made to the admiral stayed in my records. And the congressman's phone call didn't help much, either.”

“What congressman?” Roger asked. “What phone call?”

“It wasn't much. I happened to mention to my mom what the admiral had done and she wrote some congressman a letter. I got called down by the legal dudes to explain why I was trying to ruin the reputation of the hospital and the good doctors here. Something about a possible congressional inquiry, too. I signed a couple of forms and never heard shit after that.”

“Holy shit! Your ass is grass, even on that boat!” Roger said.

“They can fuck with me all they want. Don't mean shit,” I shrugged.

“Ain't no way you're gonna go,” Moose commanded. “We'll talk to Dr. Donnolly.”

“He's already talked to the board,” I said. “They don't give a shit what he says. I don't think they'll even put his report in my file.”

“Fuck, man, dthey got us all by dthe balls if they want,” Ski said.

“Shit, you just finding that out?” Bobby Mac laughed. “Be glad you got balls.”

“This calls for a party!” Moose bellowed.

“Got that right! And not just any old party,” Roger said. “We're gonna do it big and do it right.”

“Let's just hit the Rainbow,” I said.

“Sounds okay to me,” Roger agreed.

“Yeah, me too,” Big Al shot in.

“I'm din!” Ski said.

“When you gotta report?” Moose asked.

“I got one week left here.”

“Well, ain't that some shit,” Bobby Mac said. “Then we gotta do it Saturday!”

Around four o'clock on Saturday, everyone was busy getting ready for the big night out. Ski was sitting on the edge of his bunk wrapping his stump a little tighter than usual. It was going to be a long night, and he might even do a little dancing. The extra wrap would help keep the pain and the swelling down. Big Al was a standout in his crisp khaki uniform, the corporal stripes creased dead center of the chevron.

“What the fuck, Big Al?” I said as I gave him a salute. “You're looking good, my man!”

“Thanks, Shoff. Just thought we should do this in style. And I expect you not to wrinkle my duds.”

“Wouldn't think of it. At least not until after the third pitcher. Then you're on your own.”

“Hey, Big Al, how's it hangin'?” Bobby Mac shot in as he pulled the zipper up to tighten the rubber hand.

“You know me. My ass is draggin'!” Big Al laughed.