How Can You Mend This Purple Heart (28 page)

This morning was the first time we had seen Corporal Brown since that night when he had threatened to kill us all. He took one look at us and his nostrils flared like a blowfish.

“Okay, listen up mothafuckers!” the stocky black corporal from Louisiana hollered. “There ain't gonna be no mothafuckin' pukin' or no mothafuckin' pissin' on my mothafuckin' bus! You piss-ant mothafuckers gonna behave your asses, or I'm gonna bust yo' fuckin' heads!

We couldn't control the laughter. It started by the time he got out the third “mothafucker.” It only enraged him more, and the louder he yelled, the harder we laughed.

“You got that straight? You bunch of piss-ant mothafuckers. Goddamn, I can't believe I got you bunch of pukin'-and-pissin'-out-the-window mothafuckers again! It took me three mothafuckin' hours to clean this mothafuckin' bus the last time I had you mothafuckers to baby-sit! Ain't gonna mothafuckin' happen this time! No mothafuckin' way. I just won't let you mothafuckin' piss-ants on my mothafuckin' bus! No way. Not this time. Mothafucker!” He took a deep breath and fumed at the sight of us. “Now start gettin' on befo' I run over all you mothafuckers.”

The bus pulled out just before noon. A few guys sitting on the concrete steps of the side door to Q Ward were watching as we pulled away, wondering silently if the next time they might say yes and put their names on the clipboard.

The warm August air flowed through the open windows as if to dry laundry hanging on a clothesline. We headed north on South Broad Street toward Walt Whitman Bridge, and the gray hulk, with its vehicle identification stenciled in bold black letters across the bottom right-hand side, became a too-easy target for anyone with a gripe for the military.

We were seven blocks from the hospital, sitting at a red light, when five guys about our ages, with shoulder-length hair, began yelling, “Baby-killers!” Two of them lunged over to the curb and began spitting in the windows.

Big mistake.

Moose was on his feet before the spit landed on Ski's shirtsleeve. “Fuck you, long-hair motherfuckers! Stay right there and I'll baby-kill your fuckin' ass!” He headed toward the front, where Corporal Brown had already jumped through the open door.

“Yeah, you chicken-shit sons-a-bitches!” Roger screamed with his head wedged through the window.

We all charged to their side of the bus screaming out a lot of pride and frustration.

One guy nearly had his face in the window where Earl Ray was kneeling on the seat cushion with his half leg. “Fuck you, man,” the long-hair yelled at Earl. “You baby-killing bastards!”

Another big mistake.

“How 'bout this, motherfucker?” Earl Ray gave a swinging roundhouse with his hook, striking the guy across the forehead and swiping downward with the full intention of gouging his eyeball out.

“What the fuck!” he screamed.

The shock of Earl's hook flying in his face jolted him backwards, and he stumbled over the sidewalk, landing hard on his back. Corporal Brown had lunged through the front doorway, his fist on its third powerful punch to the other guy's head. He dropped the guy to the ground and ran over to the guy Earl had just jabbed with his hook. His forehead was bleeding profusely. Corporal Brown picked him up with one hand and hit him three or four times about the head and face. He stood up facing toward the other three, who were frozen in bewilderment and fear. They weren't sure who or what was on this bus.

“Okay, mothafuckers. Who's next?” Corporal Brown shouted at the three.

“Get off him!” one of them screamed.

Moose and I had squeezed down the aisle and were outside the bus pounding the shit out of the asshole Corporal Brown had left lying and bleeding on the ground next to the doorway.

“Okay, you guys! Get off him!” Tiny yelled as he stepped out of the bus. As Tiny pulled the guy away, Moose beat on him until he was out of reach. Tiny kicked the guy in the ass, and he landed face-first in the grass next to his buddy, who was lying at Corporal Brown's feet.

Corporal Brown turned to the other guys. “Now, you mothafuckers get the fuck out of here!”

“We didn't know, man. I mean…we thought…” They started toward their friends to help them up.

“You take another step, and I'll put your asses on that bus!” Corporal Brown shouted as he reached to open the side door. “That what you want?”

“C'mon, spider gooks!” Bobby Mac howled. “Get on the bus. We'll give you a fuckin' ride you won't forget!”

“Open dthe door!” Ski yelled. “Don't dcall me a baby-keeler, modorfowkers!”

The shouts of “Fuck you, long-hairs!”, “C'mon motherfuckers!”, “You want more shit?”, and “Get closer, you chicken shits!” flew from the open windows like shrapnel.

“I'll fuck you up!” Bobby Mac yelled. “I'll kill you, you baby-shit motherfuckers! You don't know who you're fucking with!”

Corporal Brown lunged toward the three. “I said, get the fuck out of here!”

They staggered backwards away from Corporal Brown. One of them raised his arms in the air, his lips trembling like wings on a hummingbird. He just kept repeating, “We're sssssorry, man. We didn't mmmmean no harm. We're sssssorry, man. We didn't mmmmean no harm.”

“Fuck you, mothafuckas!” Corporal Brown yelled as he stepped onto the bus behind Tiny, Moose, and me. “Fuck you, mothafuckas!” he shouted once again as he closed the door and stepped hard on the gas pedal.

It was an unfinished victory, but a victory just the same. We continued with the “fuck you!” out the windows until the bus was three blocks away.

“This is going to be an exceptional trip,” Tiny said as we turned onto Walt Whitman Bridge, the gleam in his eyes as bright as the day.

We pulled into the circular drive of the Brigantine Motor Hotel just around three o'clock. We had a couple of hours to unpack and settle in before the bus would head into Atlantic City for a quick trip to the boardwalk.

The evening was uneventful. Aside from the occasional stares, the unexpected thank-yous, and the ever-present beer, we enjoyed a simple summer's evening on the boardwalk. We stopped at the Pier long enough to catch Kenny Rogers and the First Edition performing “I Just Walked In to See What Condition My Condition Was In.”

Late Saturday morning, we clambered onto the bus for the fifteen-minute ride back into Atlantic City. Fifty Miss America beauty pageant contestants were waiting to meet the boys from the Philadelphia Naval Hospital.

It was probably a good idea on paper, a good public relations highlight: beautiful, young, all-American girls, those chosen as the “most beautiful” in each of their respective states, mingle and chat with a small group of Vietnam veterans, even a few wounded Vietnam veterans. Imagine the photos and the headlines.

It was like a kindergarten class meeting up for play day with Goliath. The delicate flowers, so well-heeled with their social preparedness, had not one clue how to act in this situation. Their privileged and pampered upbringings, in their nurtured eggshell existence, hadn't included real-life people with real-life experiences. Some were so awkward or so pompous (it was hard to tell which) they merely spun on their toes and turned away, as if practicing an evening gown pirouette for tonight's show. A few did manage to stumble out an “Uh, hello there” or “What happened to you?” A couple of them were so socially inept that their staring became uncomfortable even to other contestants. The events handler was sharp enough to head off any embarrassing public relations gaffe and mercifully, for the girls, brought the boardwalk play time to an abrupt halt.

We strolled and rolled and limped along the boardwalk for the rest of the afternoon, dropping in one of the bars for a cold beer and a shot. A few of us stepped around back and passed a joint. The afternoon went lazily by, and we clambered back on board the bus once again to head to the hotel.

“Be ready and out front no later than 1700,” Tiny told us.

We were back on the bus around five-thirty to head over to the pageant pre-show and grab a bite to eat at the host hotel.

Most of the guys were excited about seeing the show live, and none of us really knew what to expect. Our seats were centered just left of the runway, about twenty rows back. We occupied the first ten seats in each of the two rows. Tiny, Corporal Brown, and I wheeled Earl Ray, Big Al, and a couple of the other guys down the carpeted aisle and got them situated in their seats. We took the wheelchairs back up the ramp and stored them out of sight. The rest of the guys found their way into the two rows and placed their crutches and canes down at their feet.

Earl Ray pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels, took a swig, and started passing it around, when Tiny got sight of it.

“What the hell are you guys doing?” He tried to muffle his voice some, but the good folks for three rows forward and back began to chuckle.

“For God's sake, give me that. Where…no, how did you get it in here? What the hell am I saying? You guys could get a whore onto Q Ward if you wanted!” We laughed at that one.

“Oh, for God's sake! Tell me you haven't? Son of a bitch.” He just lowered his chin to his chest and squeezed down the row in front of us toward the bottle of Jack. Roger raised it to salute our past accomplishment.

Tiny took the bottle and tucked it under his arm. It was okay. Between the two dozen of us, we had finished the first bottle on the bus, the one we had started back in the hotel lobby. We were feeling pretty good, and the laughter was coming easy. We were being pretty loud, too, but we didn't much care; the place was still half-empty.

Suddenly the lights went down and this booming voice came over the sound system. It bellowed over the darkened ballroom like the voice of God. It was so loud and abrupt that a few guys tried to head to the floor for cover. Spotlights burst overhead, flashing and crisscrossing back and forth like frantic search lights.

“Ain't this some shit,” Bobby Mac hooted. “It was only a bottle of Jack, for Christ's sake!”

The spotlights stopped overhead and focused directly on our two rows. The overhead lights came on again and relit the room of evening gowns and tuxedos.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice boomed down. “It is my great pleasure and honor to welcome our special guests this evening. Please join me in giving a big round of applause for the group of Vietnam Veterans from the U.S. Naval Hospital in Philadelphia! We are thankful for their service and their individual sacrifices. Welcome, and thank you!”

The room erupted in a standing ovation.

The pride of being recognized, of being a veteran, a Marine, came over the guys with a sudden flush; smiles and tight-lipped grins sliced across stoic faces. That automatic tight-jaw profile stiffened every posture, and for once in a long while, the doubt, the fear, and the anger were gone.

For me, the thought of anyone thinking I had been to Vietnam was an insult to the guys in these two rows, and I just wanted to get as far away from those damn spotlights as I could. If I stood up to leave, it would only look foolish, like I was trying to bring attention to myself. So, I sat there smiling at my Marine Corps combat-wounded friends, clapping as loudly as I could, wishing I had done what they had done, wishing I had never listened to the girl in the photograph, wishing I had that damn bottle of Jack. Tiny was standing in the aisle, that Santa Claus look on his face, clapping like a big circus bear. The bright red scar across his forehead gleamed in the light like a crooked smile.

The pageant itself was a blur. Tiny returned the bottle of Jack Daniels, and the scuffling and gossiping between the commercial time-outs was more interesting than the show itself. Miss America was eventually crowned that night, and I don't think any one of us could name the state she came from. Not that we were drunk. There wasn't enough Jack to get five people drunk, let alone twenty. The uneasiness and bad taste from meeting the girls earlier in the day made this whole event seem out of place and phony.

Tiny shepherded our group back onto the bus, and we sat mostly silent for the return ride to the hotel. Once in the lobby, talk began about finding a good bar and letting loose. Our small group of six landed in the hotel lobby bar and the others called it a night. Except for an older couple and a lone bar hugger, we were the only patrons. One look around and we knew this place wasn't going to do it. We didn't even take the drink offered to us by the guy nursing his gin gimlet.

“Where's a place some guys could have a good time?” I asked.

The bartender looked us over and made a suggestion. “There's a small place in Atlantic City, Reg Morgan's. Not sure what you're looking for, but it's a nice little bar.”

“Sounds good enough,” Moose said. “Let's go.”

“I'll call you guys a cab,” the bartender offered.

The cabs were out front in less than five minutes, and within another fifteen minutes, we had reached our destination somewhere in the darkened side streets of Atlantic City. The cab drivers refused to let us pay. We thanked them and started toward the front door of the bar called Reg Morgan's.

“What the fuck kind of name is Reg Morgan?” Earl Ray said with a grin.

“They can call it Hell for all I care,” Big Al said from atop my back. “Just get me inside.”

Big Al and I went in first to prop the door for the other guys, and they started in single file. Ski had made his way in, and Roger was negotiating Earl Ray and his wheelchair through the narrow opening.

Two men suddenly appeared out of the dimly lit bar and its swirling smoke. They moved as if they were in a hurry—not to leave, but to get somewhere.

The man in front was about five feet eight with black wavy hair and a handsome, slightly rugged face. He wore an expensive-looking green sport coat over a light blue crew neck T-shirt and dark slacks. His dark black shoes had a spotless shine.