How Can You Mend This Purple Heart (15 page)

“You know you did, Earl,” Moose told him. “All of us did.”

“Yeah, but Jesus, look at me. You know, I still can't believe it. If I could only go back, get another chance, like it never happened.”

“It's okay, Earl. We all feel like that sometimes.”

Earl Ray lit a cigarette and the white plume sucked toward the open windows, sieving through the screens into a thousand raging streamlets. “What the fuck am I going to do? A man with no legs? One arm? You call this a man?”

I gave Moose a look asking if I should leave. He shook his head no.

“You're a whole lot more of a man than most, Earl. You got to be proud of what you did in 'Nam,” Moose said as he wheeled backwards, forcing his chair against the solarium doors. It wasn't meant to keep any of us from getting out; it was meant to keep anyone else from getting in. My chest constricted with the thump of Moose's chair against the doors.

“Fuck the war. And fuck the medals,” Earl broke out. “Big fucking deal. Pieces of cloth and cheap tin that don't mean shit. They can't give me back my arm…my legs, god dammit.”

“Dyou should be proud of dyour medals,” Ski said. “Dyou did…”

“I know what I did. I killed enough fucking gooks to protect this country for a century. And what do I get? Salute the fucking brass. Sit tall in your wheelchair. Be proud of what you did for your country. The Marine Corps builds men. Semper Fi. Bullshit. Simple fucking bullshit.”

“No matter dwhat, Earl, you got us,” Ski tried to assure him.

Earl Ray took a long pull on the Marlboro and never looked up. “It was the right thing to do, right? What else could I have done? It's what I wanted, man…to be a Marine. Now, I just count my blessings. At least I have my cock. Both eyes are perfect, right? No shrapnel to the head or face. Man, how fuckin' lucky can I be? I'm still alive, right? So what's my bitch? Fuck the legs. Fuck the arm. Semper Fi, my ass. The Marine Corps builds stumps.”

“Ain't no way to talk, man,” Moose said. “This is life now. Anything you want, you know we're here.”

“You think it's that easy, huh?”

“No. It ain't easy, Earl. Not for any of us,” Moose told him.

My wheelchair squeaked like a fingernail on a chalkboard as I wrenched backwards trying to disappear.

“It's real easy for the non-combat motherfucker,” Earl said in a low voice. “Ain't that right, Shoff?”

“We all got shit to deal with,” Moose cut in.

“It's okay, Moose,” I said. I took a deep breath and in one nervous splatter spewed out any words I could. “There's nothing I can say. Not to Earl, not to you, not to anybody. But if I had it to do over again, I probably wouldn't be here right now. Who knows what would have happened? What's done is done, Earl. For what it's worth, backing out of the Marines was the most chicken-shit thing I've ever done. But no matter what you think about me, you can count on me anytime.”

I was trying desperately to make everything okay with this one chance. I thought if I could just get the words out, say anything, everything would be okay. It was a meager attempt to sway Earl in the smallest way and to mask over my own guilt and shame.

“I should have beat your ass before I changed my mind about you,” Earl Ray said with the wrought-iron hardness back in his eyes. “Fuck it. Somebody light a Thai stick.”

Traitor

EVERY EVENING, THE
newscasts filled the black-and-white televisions with coverage from Vietnam and around the country—the body counts from both sides, the bullshit demonstrations on campuses, long-hairs burning draft cards, conscientious objectors being interviewed from Canada, Black Panthers threatening to kill anybody that disagreed with them, and something called the Students for a Democratic Society that we thought was just the white equivalent of the Black Panthers.

None of it meant shit to us except the reels from Vietnam. Guys were hoping to see their units or get a glimpse of a buddy left behind. I was still wishing I could be there.

We heard of a Marine who had spent two tours in Vietnam and nearly five months on 2B who was currently in the rehab section. He had earned three Purple Hearts, two Bronze Stars, and a Silver Star during his twenty months in combat, one of the most decorated Marines any of us had heard about. Dozens of tiny specks of shrapnel permanently pocked his face. He was known to us simply as Sgt. Pepper.

Sgt. Pepper had been spending his weekends living with a local college girl. She was a twenty-one-year-old studying social psychology and organizing anti-war demonstrations—along with Sgt. Pepper.

Word got around the hospital that this highly decorated Marine was going to be in the mess hall on Saturday morning and had a very special announcement to make. We were all anxious to see this man that most of the guys in here saw as a legend—and most of us couldn't wait to hear what he had to say.

The mess hall was buzzing with low chatter from the fifty to sixty patients waiting anxiously for the shrapnel-peppered-faced Marine.

Our small group from 2B sat anxiously in wheelchairs, and the majority of the rest of those gathered here was from the rehab wards. They were crowded in—a mix of wheelchairs, some leaning on crutches with half legs dangling below pajama pant legs, others leaning against canes supporting an array of half- and full-length artificial legs. About six or seven black guys were sitting at the table in front. Four Marine MPs were standing in the back.

Sgt. Pepper came into the chow hall with his girlfriend clutching his arm. He was dressed in faded bell-bottom jeans and a drab green Marine Corps dress coat with red sergeant chevron stripes on each sleeve. A peace symbol, dangling on a rawhide cord, swung like a pendulum against his green and orange paisley shirt. A small duffle bag was bumping against his heels as he dragged it on the floor behind him.

His girlfriend stood by his side, not looking around, but constantly smiling at the man with the shrapnel-peppered face. An American flag bandana was wrapped tightly across her forehead and furled down her back. Her long black hair drooped across her shoulders, and she stood nearly three inches taller than Sgt. Pepper. A large peace sign was embroidered on the upper thigh of her red and white striped bell-bottom pants. They held hands like lovesick juveniles.

Sgt. Pepper opened the drawstring to his duffle bag and pulled out a crisp, neatly folded set of Marine Corps dress blues replete with honors, the Purple Heart, and Silver Star medals. He set the uniform down on the table, reached in the duffle bag, pulled out his Marine Corps-issued 45-caliber pistol, and raised it above his head.

“Holy sheet!” Ski cried out. Every one of us in a wheelchair backed away.

The four MPs raced toward Sgt. Pepper.

“Don't worry, gentlemen. It's not loaded and I don't intend to use it. I've used it enough and for all the wrong reasons,” he pronounced as if he were proclaiming judgment against every Marine in uniform. “I am here to declare in public that I am ashamed of everything that I have done in the name of the government of the United States and for the United States Marine Corps. I denounce the war in Vietnam. Everything we have done there and what we are doing there now is wrong. The Marine Corps cannot discharge me because I am resigning as of today, and I am forfeiting any payment or benefits due me.”

He wrapped the 45-caliber pistol into the uniform and handed the bundle to one of the MPs.

A few guys from the rehab wards applauded and whistled. The black guys shouted, “Right on brother! Right on!” holding a fist straight in the air. We had seen it a few times on TV, but there was a stirring, unexpected resentment about seeing it here. Earl Ray looked at them with the look of hate he had cast upon me weeks ago.

“All of you here. Take a look at the guys around you,” Sgt. Pepper proclaimed. “Take a look at yourself, for Christ's sake. Your government is responsible for all of this. It's a big fucking mistake. A big fucking waste of time!”

Earl Ray looked as if he had stepped on another land mine. “Fuck you, Sgt. Pepper! You traitor son of a bitch!”

Earl grabbed the uniform from the MP and ripped the Silver Star from the jacket. “Take this and shove it up your ass!” Angry puffs of air were percolating from the side of his mouth as he threw the medal, striking Sgt. Pepper in the back. “Get over here, you piece of shit. You ain't getting off this fucking easy!”

Sgt. Pepper spun around and took three steps toward where the MP was standing. When he saw Earl Ray, he backed off. “What I'm doing isn't any of your business.”

“Fuck you. You made it my business. Who the fuck do you think you are, coming in here with that traitor bitch? Acting like you're some kind of fucking hero. Yeah, you just made it my business!”

Earl ripped the Purple Heart from the blue jacket, throwing it like a baseball, hitting the girl in the chest. Earl Ray whirled the tattered blue jacket at Sgt. Pepper, and it crumpled on the floor at the couple's feet.

Sgt. Pepper stepped toward Earl, who was already raging toward the self-proclaimed anti-war ex-Marine. Before Earl could stop, Sgt. Pepper's right fist came out of nowhere and landed against Earl Ray's left jaw. The force knocked Earl off balance, his wheelchair tumbling on its side. Earl Ray's head hit the floor with a snap, and he rolled over and over like a broken doll.

“That's for calling my girlfriend a traitor bitch!” he shouted, standing over Earl Ray as if he was a casualty of war. Sgt. Pepper had gotten just a little too close.

Earl Ray kicked at Sgt. Pepper with his three-quarter right leg, spinning around far enough to grab the traitor by his pant leg with his right hand.

“You cocksucker, I'll kill you for that!” Earl screamed as he pulled Sgt. Pepper to one knee.

Ski had wheeled over to the two with the speed of a cat and caught Sgt. Pepper across the side of his head with a borrowed cane. One blow wasn't enough. It was as though Ski was back in high school and the “commie” and dirty fucking Jew” slurs were going to stop one more time. “Dyou mowderfocker! Dyou don't heet my friend and get away with eet!” he shouted. Two, three, four more blows to Sgt. Pepper with the curved handle of the cane. Tears of anger erupted from Ski like clear molten lava. “Dyou mowderfucker! Dyou don't ever heet my brother!”

One of the MPs wrapped his arms around Ski and pulled him back away from the bloody and bleeding Sgt. Pepper.

“Okay. I think that's enough,” he said as the bloody cane rattled to the floor.

Earl Ray wasn't finished. He pulled the dazed Sgt. Pepper to the floor and had his death grip around his head, squeezing a flow of blood through his broken nose. It was the same vice grip I was quite familiar with, but this time Earl meant to kill. “Take this, motherfucker!” Earl raged.

Two MPs rushed over and pulled at Earl's arm, lifting Earl and Sgt. Pepper off the floor. “Okay, Earl, let go. It's over. Let this piece of shit go. He's a fucking disgrace.”

Earl Ray released his grip, and Sgt. Pepper plopped to the floor. The MPs lifted Earl Ray off the floor and eased him into his wheelchair.

“Get this piece of shit out of here!” Earl yelled.

The sobbing, frightened girlfriend and the still-bleeding Sgt. Pepper stumbled through the cafeteria doorway.

“Fuck you, traitor!” Earl continued to yell. He spun toward the table of black guys, puffs of air billowing up his face. “You assholes going to join him?”

The MPs stepped between Earl Ray and his new adversaries. Ski and I hurried our hands down to the chrome rings of our wheelchairs, ready to roll in if Earl needed any help. Earl Ray caught the gesture from the corner of his eye.

“What the fuck is this world coming to?” Earl snapped. “C'mon Ski. C'mon, Shoff. Let's get the fuck out of this sewer.”

Sgt. Pepper's betrayal to the Marine Corps, and to his fellow Marines, left a profound and ceaseless anger that nearly consumed Earl Ray and Ski. But their anger was gradually tempered by an unwanted and growing sense of confusion. Sgt. Pepper's betrayal had brought to the surface deeply suppressed and agonizing doubts about the war, doubts that only fueled the anger and hate for Sgt. Pepper's ultimate act of treason.

The protesters, the draft card burners, the campus riots, and the anti-war Congressmen and Senators within our own government—we had seen it all over and over on the nightly news. The constant, repetitive anti-war coverage had slowly, invisibly, and against our own self-protests, seeded the doubts that no one ever spoke about. And now, that fucking Sgt. Pepper.

Walking the Plank

WE SAT QUIETLY
in a half circle of wheelchairs at our end of Ward 2B. For the first time, the solarium doors lay open, exposing a dark mid-morning sky that seemed to swallow the room's very purpose. The room, with its countless hours and nights of sharing, absorbing and reflecting the anguish and torment, looked tired and lonely.

“You get your arm and legs this week, don't you?” Moose asked, breaking the heavy silence.

“That's what they tell me,” Earl Ray shrugged.

“What do you say we go down to PT with you and help out?” Moose suggested.

“Don't give a shit to me.”

“I'd like to go too, Earl. If that's okay?” I asked, hoping he wouldn't knock me out of my chair.

“Like I said, don't give a shit to me.”

Moose, Ski, Bobby Mac, and I followed behind Earl Ray, and the five of us wheeled into PT for Earl's first try at walking with both new legs and arm. Our caravan rolled into the large room of exercise tables, free weights, floor mats, and makeshift steps and walkways. Earl Ray's arm and legs lay side by side on one of the PT tables like parts from an archeological museum display.

“What the fuck happened to the rest of Pinocchio?” Bobby Mac laughed.

“Fuck you, you're looking at him,” Earl snapped.

“C'mon, man, you know I'm full of shit,” Bobby Mac apologized.