How Can You Mend This Purple Heart (19 page)

Earl Ray Higgins didn't give a shit.

And he never again blew air up from the corner of his mouth.

Q Ward

AS OUR BODIES
healed and the weakened, atrophied muscles regained strength, each of us would eventually reach full ambulatory status. One by one, we would vacate Ward 2B and transfer out to the rehab wards, making room for the constant flow of wounded incoming.

It was a giant step from Ward 2B to the rehabs. No doctors, nurses, or corpsmen anywhere. You were on your own, but you depended on each other for everything.

Earl Ray and Big Al had set up their transitory home on a rehab ward designated as Q Ward. You could take your pick from any of the six rehab wards as long as a bunk was open, so naturally, as each of us moved out to the rehabs, we found our way to Q.

I had been on L Ward for almost six weeks when Moose, the last of our small group from 2B, joined us in the military limbo of the rehab wards. I couldn't wait to move over to Q to be with my friends.

“You got two good arms, Shoff, so you got the top bunk,” Earl Ray told me. “The one next to the shithouse.” He directed me to my new home with the stump of his left arm. “I got the bottom bunk next to yours, and Big Al has the bottom bunk straight across from me. If you don't like where we put you, then move back to the other ward.”

“This is fine with me, Earl. And the shithouse doesn't bother me, either.”

“We didn't put you there to piss you off,” he said. “We need you close to the shithouse in case one of us needs you to wipe his ass.”

“Don't count on it,” I told him.

“I knew I couldn't count on you, Shoff. Not even to wipe my ass.” He gave me a crooked smile, and for an instant I thought I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

“Okay, Earl. I'll wipe your ass if you need me to. But don't expect me to pull you out of the toilet if you fall in.”

“Fuck you, Shoff,” he said. “Look around you, man. We're all in the shithouse already.”

“This ain't so bad,” I shrugged. “It's better than 2B.”

“Says you. We got no morphine out here.”

“Is the pain that bad, Earl?”

“It's always that bad,” he snarled. “Welcome to Q.”

Q Ward was the farthest ward out from the main hospital and the front gate. It was one of the main reasons Earl Ray had chosen it—that and the fact that all the black guys had taken up bunks on M Ward. Even though Earl Ray swore he wasn't prejudiced, it was another reason he moved to the relative seclusion of Q. The “Right on, brother, right on!” shit was more than he could take.

It was becoming obvious that some of the black guys were more interested in what was happening in the civilian world, and it was becoming a whole lot more important to them than being a Marine. The black handshake, the fist in the air, and the chorus of “Right on, brother! Right on!” were things we didn't understand. For Earl Ray, Ski, Moose, Big Al, Roger, and almost all of the others, you were a Marine first—Semper Fi. With me, it was one more sign of being left out—not because I was white, but because I wasn't black. I knew if Bill Johnson had to make the choice, he would haven chosen Q.

I tossed my small duffle bag up on the top bunk as Moose wheeled toward me from the other side of the ward. Directly across from my bunk on the south wall, a pair of metal double doors gaped open to the warm April afternoon. A flat threshold butted the doorway to a concrete patio, and a short ramp ran down to a narrow parking lot. On the other side of the parking lot, a wide grassy area sloped up to an eight-foot-high chain-link fence with barbed wire along the top. The fence ran parallel to a public sidewalk and South Broad Street.

“Welcome to Q, Shoff!” Moose bellowed. “You got that bunk because we don't want someone we don't know sleeping too close to us. Besides, you can stand watch over this end of the ward from up there.”

“No one gets past that you don't want to get past,” I said. My face beamed with pride knowing they trusted me with such an honor.

“Big Al's straight across the ward, next to my bunk, just inside the doors,” Moose pointed. “Ski has the bunk above him, and Bobby Mac and Roger have the bunk next to Big Al.”

“Just one big happy fucking family!” Bobby Mac laughed. “Maybe we can finally have that by-God family reunion.”

“I bunk right here, Shoff,” Earl Ray said as he rolled his wheelchair into the wide space separating my bunk and his. “This locker is yours,” he commanded, thumping the double green doors with his good hand. “The other locker is for the bottom bunk under you. We don't want anyone in that bunk, for now.” Earl climbed from his chair onto the gray wool blanket of the lower bunk about five feet from mine. “May as well make yourself at home, Shoff. We're going to be in this shithole for a while.”

The locker was four times too big for the meager bundle of possessions any one of us would have. The uniform on the rehabs was still the blue and white-striped pajamas, and we stuffed the drawers with as many fresh sets as we could gather. Seldom, if ever, did anyone wear a military uniform, so most of the hangers in the upper closet swung empty. The hanger pipe was one more thing not thought out too clearly; it was too high for most guys to reach. Below the hanger closet was an open shelf about waist-high. It was just the right size for Earl Ray to keep the photograph of Jennifer Ann Cooley. He would look at her photograph often, but never mention her name.

Very little effort was ever made to make the rehab wards “military.” No inspections, no brass, no hospital staff. The only regulation requirement was roll call on Monday mornings. If you needed any medical assistance, you went through sick bay. Q Ward would be the last stop before an honorable discharge and release to a place called home, wherever that might be.

A military code of respect for one another and respect for others' space and personal belongings dictated our conduct. The rules had been engrained in our psyche beginning with the rigors of boot camp, the discipline demanded of living in the confined spaces of barracks, and for everyone but me and Roger, surviving in combat together.

No official duties were assigned except for one's commitment to getting physically fit and physically fitted for artificial limbs.

Physical therapy came as an order from Dr. Donnolly. It was one of the rare times he would mention rank and the possibility of punishment if his orders weren't followed.

Physical therapy and occupational therapy schedules were followed like clockwork, but like everything else, some guys made greater efforts and faster progress than others. For those who might look like slackers, it was really a way to delay the inevitable.

PT and OT were places to learn how to put a pair of pants on over new legs, how to Ace wrap a stump, how to button a shirt with one hand and one hook, how to shave, how to hold a fork and spoon, get out of a wheelchair and sit on a toilet, take a shower with no legs under you, brush your teeth and comb your hair, make your bed and fold your clothes, how to put a shoe on a plastic foot, strap an artificial arm or leg harness to your shoulders, and how to walk again.

The rehab wards gave guys time and personal space to re-learn everything that used to be routine. Frustration could be heard by the crashing of a wooden leg being slammed to the floor or a hooked forearm being smashed against a locker door.

Every evening, the artificial legs and arms were removed and the stump areas were wrapped with elastic bandages to keep the swelling down. A swollen stump meant you couldn't get a leg or an arm back on in the morning for PT or for getting the hell out of that wheelchair for a while.

Legs were usually stored standing upright, “on foot,” at the side of the bed, and the arms were hung over the bottom rail at the foot of the bunk.

Getting up in the morning to shit, shower, and shave could take some guys more than two hours. The shower area was one big open space with ten showerheads, all at a height of about five and half feet. If ten guys were taking a shower at the same time, well, you just took a shower with nine other guys.

Wheelchairs were parked in the open space just inside the bathroom. Those with one or both legs missing would sit in one of the plastic chairs under a showerhead. We helped anyone needing or wanting a lift from his wheelchair into the plastic chair and back into his wheelchair again.

Eight sinks with small mirrors above each one lined a cream-colored tile wall. Guys would roll from the shower up to the sink and shave, comb their hair, and brush their teeth.

Big Al got tired of us having to lift him into and out of the plastic chairs, so we stole a wheelchair from the supply room near the mess hall. He would transfer from his own chair and roll the permanently borrowed chair directly under the showerhead. When he finished, he would climb back into his own chair and leave the other chair next to the toilet wall. It rusted a little around the spokes, but some WD-40 from the maintenance supply closet kept it rolling. We permanently borrowed five more wheelchairs and kept them ready by the toilet wall for the other guys who wanted to take a shower without relying on someone to lift him into the plastic chairs.

“I'm taking a piss today,” Earl Ray said.

“You take a piss every day,” Moose replied.

“This time I'm standing up. I'm tired of sitting down to piss like a girl.”

“Go for it, man,” Bobby Mac laughed.

“I need you guys nearby…just in case.”

Earl spent the next half-hour putting his three limbs on, and we followed him to the open entryway toward the waiting urinal.

A full-length mirror fastened to the wall near the entryway glared back the passing reflections like flashes on a camera. Eye contact with the mirror was avoided by everyone, even though the shrinks insisted it was “good therapy.”

Earl Ray showed them what he thought of their therapy. As he wheeled into the head to take that piss—standing up—he glanced over at the mirror. He took a deep breath and slowly turned to face the reflecting glass. He squinted and then opened his eyes wide as he looked straight into the mirror. Looking back was the person he had never seen. He saw himself for the first time, sitting in his skivvies, his body as much plastic as it was flesh.

He spit at the mirror—not at his reflection, but at the mirror.

His determination to stand up and piss in a urinal was not dampened by what he had just seen in the mirror. Earl Ray rolled his chair up to the first urinal and with near flawless execution, he grabbed the support rail with his right hand, lifted himself from the chair, leaned his weight onto his plastic left arm, got his balance on his new legs, pulled his dick out, and took a good, long piss standing up.

“Told you, Shoff,” he said as his body dropped itself into the wheelchair.

“I never doubted it, Earl.”

He didn't look back into the mirror as he rolled passed it on his way back onto Q. He didn't even stop by his bunk to put clothes on. He left the ward wearing only his underwear and plastic limbs and rolled down to physical therapy. He returned a few minutes later with a five-pound dumbbell weight in his lap.

Earl Ray rolled straight over to the mirror where he beat it into a thousand pieces with the cast iron disc.

“Dumb fucking shrinks.”

Say a Little Prayer

WEEKENDS ON Q WARD
were left to do nothing. If you were lucky, your parents or girlfriend lived close enough to get you off the ward for a couple of days. Sometimes a buddy would invite someone else to tag along. You could leave on Friday afternoon and not return until muster on Monday morning.

Getting off the ward and getting out into the real world was encouraged, and being back “on base” for roll call Monday mornings wasn't even mandatory. If you were a no-show, you were listed as AWOL, but nothing ever happened—even if you didn't show up until Wednesday afternoon. It was military limbo, but most guys followed the rules.

We still had open prescriptions, and we never failed to pick up our weekly supply of painkillers. Some guys had broken free of the Darvon hook, but they would continue to pick up their sixty pills in a bottle and sell them to anyone for five bucks or a carton of cigarettes.

Ski, Roger, and I spent a lot of time sitting on the concrete patio while the other guys were at PT. Our own physical therapy certainly was not at the level of Earl Ray's, Moose's, and Bobby Mac's. Ski's left leg had healed completely, and his right leg had healed quicker than most guys. He was walking on the wooden masterpiece as natural as his muscular left leg.

Roger continued to go to the PX and deliver goodies to the new arrivals on 2B. Ski continued to make an occasional trip with Roger, but I never went back after my second trip. Ward 2B seemed like a foreign place, and I couldn't shake the intense guilt waiting for me on the other side of the brown double doors.

On one of his trips to 2B, Roger got word of a Marine on 4A who had died and had no real family. His body was to be held in the morgue until someone could prove he was a relative or authorities from his hometown could arrange for his burial.

“We'll go to the morgue and hold a service for him,” Moose said.

“What's his name?” Big Al asked.

“Don't know,” Roger responded. “All I know is they can't find his family.”

“Shit, he could be a relative,” Bobby Mac laughed. “Maybe my old man could claim him.”

“I know the guys who run the morgue,” Moose said. “We'll go tonight.”

It was around ten o'clock when Moose led us from Q Ward down the dim corridor to the area of the morgue. Big Al leaned forward and grasped the handles of Earl Ray's wheelchair as I grasped the handles of Big Al's chair and pushed the two along. Roger was standing in front of us, holding onto the handles of Ski's chair, with Moose and his chair rolling in front of Ski.

Moose had called the corpsman from the wall phone on Q and made the arrangements for our entry. The lock to the shiny, metallic door had been left open. We pulled cautiously against the heavy barrier as the cold air rushed out onto our faces. It looked and felt like a walk-in freezer, like the one at the old restaurant in Missouri.