How Can You Mend This Purple Heart (20 page)

We followed Moose and the small beam from his flashlight into the cold pitch-black room. The two-inch band of frost around the edges of the six metal drawers sparkled like white ribbons wrapped around gift boxes. The blue-white cold smoked from our nostrils, and an icy chill covered the bare metal arms and wheels of the four chairs.

“He's in here,” Moose motioned to the fifth drawer down the wall.

“Did you get a name?” Earl Ray asked.

“Yeah,” Moose whispered as he pulled the handle on the drawer. “I got a name.”

A screeching of metal against ice, like the nightmare cries of 2B, shrilled from the black square hole of the horizontal chamber as the sliding tray and its sleeping passenger slowly glided into the waiting beam of light.

“God dammit,” Earl Ray sagged.

The left side of Mike Bower's face cast a bluish moonlight glow from Moose's flashlight. The mangled right side of his face had been packed with cotton, and his right arm had been amputated just below the shoulder.

“God dammit,” Earl Ray said as he reached over and touched Mike Bower on the left cheek.

Moose told us all we would say a prayer, any prayer, or we weren't getting out. “I don't care what you say, just as long as you say something.”

We took turns stumbling through whatever words we could get out. Earl Ray waited until the rest of us had finished. He rolled as close as he could get to the Navy corpsman and leaned into the waxen face of Mike Bower.

“We'll meet again, my friend. Someday soon.”

Pappy the Sailor Man

“HOW'S IT GOING?”
I asked the stranger in the funny uniform who had just appeared on Q Ward through the side doors. He stared at the sight of Q as if he had stumbled into Hell.

“Doing okay,” he half-whispered. His sailor-like uniform was tailored to his small but strong frame. I wasn't sure of the branch of service. His kid-like face contradicted the more than four years in the military denoted by the red stripe on the sleeve of his blue jumper. A funny Donald Duck-like cap shifted restlessly from his right hand to his left. A white plaster cast covered his left thumb and forearm.

“Uh,” he said with a nervous grin. “I'm supposed to bunk here for a couple of weeks. They sent me out here and told me to find an empty bunk. Is this the right place?” He looked from side to side as if he were hoping someone would say no.

“Well, fuck yeah!” Bobby Mac jumped in. “Anybody that's got a four-year stripe on his arm is welcome on Q! You look like you just seen a fucking ghost!” he howled. “C'mon on in. Grab any bunk as long as it ain't mine.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Is anywhere okay?”

“You got two full legs and both arms, you take a top bunk,” Moose said as he coasted his wheelchair over to the stranger.

“That's not a problem,” he said, looking at anything but Moose's left arm stump and three-quarter leg.

“What's your first name?” Moose asked, pointing with his stump to the “Richards” stenciled in white letters on the black name tag.

“Sonny,” he replied.

“Well, Sonny Richards, what kind of uniform is that you're wearing?” Moose asked.

Earl Ray had locked his wheelchair in place about three feet from the intruder.

“It's Coast Guard,” he said, looking back at the side doors as if he were planning an escape.

“You're fucking Coast Guard?” Earl Ray shot. “Jesus Christ, we got us one more non-combat motherfucker. You're in a world of shit. Just ask Shoff.”

“Uh, I don't have to bunk here, guys, if it's going to be a problem.”

“Bullshit!” Bobby Mac howled. “We don't really give a shit what you do. You're in here now, and that's that.”

“Don't mind Earl,” Ski said. “He'll be okay weeth it.”

“You sure it's okay? I can bunk somewhere else,” he said, trying desperately not to look at anyone's stumps.

“You've come to the right place, my friend,” Bobby Mac assured him. “Let me give you a hand with that duffle bag.”

“Sure, uh, thanks,” he stammered.

With that, Bobby Mac took off his plastic hand and tossed it to Sonny Richards. The poor guy just stood there holding Bobby's hand as if it were a ten-legged spider.

“Ain't that some shit!” Bobby Mac howled. “We just fixed you up with a good hand!”

“Here, give me that thing,” Moose said as he grabbed it and tossed it back to Bobby Mac. “What brings you here, anyway?”

“Busted my hand at a training exercise here in Philly. I've got two or three weeks of physical therapy to get out of the way.”

“If they're telling you two to three weeks, you may as well plan on two months,” Big Al said, squatting in his wheelchair next to Moose. Sonny Richards stared at the floor.

“Why the hell did you come through the side doors?” Earl Ray demanded.

“Well,” Sonny Richards said, turning away toward the doors. “That's where I parked my car.”

“You fucking what!” we all sang in unison.

“Yeah, I drove. My car's sitting right outside.”

We all scrambled over to the side doors as if a meteor had fallen from the sky.

“Ain't that some shit!” Bobby Mac shouted.

There it was: an old four-door Buick sedan, its faded dark blue paint chipping away from the fenders. It was beautiful; a full-length luxury limousine if we ever saw one.

“Son of a bitch,” Moose said. “Our prayers have been answered. Come on in. We've got just the bunk for you, my friend.”

Sonny Richards sat on the bottom mattress three bunks down from the side doors and emptied the contents of his duffle bag.

“How long you been in the Coast Guard?” Moose asked.

“Just over seven years.”

“Shit, man, you don't look old enough to be out of high school,” Bobby Mac said.

“Yeah, I'll be twenty-eight my next birthday.”

“No shit! You're an old bastard!” Bobby Mac hooted. “By God, we'll just call you Pappy! Pappy the sailor man!”

Pappy settled in and was eager to do anything he could for the guys on Q. He had an easy smile, like Big Al's, and a quirky, naïve innocence for a guy who was almost thirty. He didn't say much and seldom offered conversation unless he was directly asked a question. He stayed as private as anyone could on Q, pretty much kept to himself, and other than breakfast in the mess hall and his early morning physical therapy, we never saw him on the ward during the day. He would get in that old Buick sedan and disappear until evening chow. Occasionally, he would hang around on the ward, but only if we asked him to join a card game or just sit and bullshit awhile. He offered to drive anybody, anywhere, anytime. Pappy, with his old faded blue Buick four-door sedan, became our chauffeur, our taxi, and our official bootlegger for the next several weeks.

Pappy had two important missions. On Sundays, we would take up a collection, and Pappy and a couple of other guys would make a beer run over to New Jersey. Pappy had found a bar that would sell him beer in half-gallon, wide-mouth plastic jugs, packaged in cardboard boxes—four jugs to a box. It was usually a little warm by the time he got it back to the patio off Q Ward, but it made for some great late Sunday afternoon distractions.

Pappy's first—and most important—mission was to carry Earl Ray and the rest of our small group of rabble-rousers away to temporary freedom from the stifling isolation and repetitive monotony of life on Q.

The Hole in the Fence

THE PHILADELPHIA NAVAL
Hospital main gate was guarded twenty-four hours a day by Marine military police and Navy shore patrol, and access was strictly controlled. Military staff and civilian employees required both vehicle and personal identification that was presented at the gate. Visitors were required to sign in and obtain temporary passes.

The Shore Patrol and MPs gave their combat-wounded comrades unrestricted “don't stop, don't look” passage in and out. Once the guards recognized one of the passengers as a patient, a sharp salute, most often accompanied with a smile, waved the car and all occupants through.

To get to the front gate from Q Ward was a real hike. By wheelchair, it could take almost fifteen minutes. On crutches with new legs, it could take more than half an hour, and it would leave a guy nearly exhausted. No one wanted to show up at a bar or a girlfriend's place already tired and with a shirt soaked with sweat.

The entire perimeter of the hospital, like all military facilities, was completely surrounded by cyclone fencing with barbed wire spiraled along its top like a blade-ridden slinky. Only one entrance allowed for patients, civilians, or privately owned vehicles entering or leaving the grounds.

The only way to avoid the strenuous and exhausting maze of getting to the front gate, and the razor wire on top of the fence, was to go through it. Moose commandeered a pair of wire cutters, and under the cover of darkness one night, three of us slipped out the side doors of Q Ward and headed across the grassy area. We squeezed behind one of the large oak trees growing against the fence and cut a hole about four feet high and two feet wide. Leaving the fence links intact at the left side of the hole, we could use it like a door, securing it back in place with a couple of pieces of wire.

We were almost certain, even with the cover of the oak tree and the stopgap wire hinges, that the hole in the fence had been discovered. We saw a couple of MPs walking the perimeter one day, and one of them had motioned in the direction of the tree and the hole. They both smiled and just walked on.

The hole in the fence became more than a shortcut. For those of us who couldn't get home, or didn't want to, it was an escape hatch and a launch point for the temporary freedom waiting in the nearby streets of South Philly.

“C'mon Big Al, let's go out and get a few beers,” I said.

Big Al cringed in his rocking horse and looked at me as if I had lost my mind.

“Yeah, me and you—and this anchor on my ass,” he said.

“You don't need that rocking horse, you got me,” I smiled.

“What do you mean?” he asked as he shifted with his crutches, rocking slightly backward.

“Just what I said.”

Big Al smiled like a kid on a new bicycle as I stood upright, his arms around my neck, his half body dangling just above my waist, and we headed toward the hole in the fence.

I sat on the ground, Big Al slid from my shoulders, and he squirmed through the hole. Once on the other side, and with the wire door secured, I got down on my knees and Big Al grabbed the back of my shirt, pulled himself up around my neck, and we were off.

We went north and turned left at the first street corner. Two short blocks later, we were standing in front of the Rainbow Bar and Grille, just across the street from the back end of the hospital grounds.

“Hell of a name for a bar, ain't it?” I said.

“Doesn't matter to me if they name it Hell,” Big Al laughed. “Just get me inside!”

We went as far as the third booth and Big Al slid from my shoulders onto the soft, green, plastic-covered seat. I limped to the bar and ordered us each a pitcher of beer.

The smoky-brown walls were layered with neon beer signs; a large faded mirror hung on the wall over the two middle booths. A small stage with a brass pole in the center was tucked in the back corner. Red, yellow, blue, and green spotlights flashed onto the thick gold shag carpet on the dance platform. A jukebox set silent next to the empty stage.

“Let me get those for you,” a guy on a bar stool motioned.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Yeah, thanks,” Big Al smiled.

The girl on the stool at the far end of the bar took a sip from her drink, got up, and put a quarter in the jukebox.

“Yummy, Yummy, Yummy, I Got Love in My Tummy” filled the speakers mounted on either side of the flashing lights. The girl stepped onto the stage, removed a loose miniskirt and shawl, and began dancing in her platform shoes, hot pants, and tube top.

The song faded out, and we applauded along with the five or six other patrons. The woman came over to our table and edged in next to Big Al.

She was pretty. Late twenties, blonde hair, nice breasts, great legs, and a sweet, sultry scent floated from her ivory skin.

She touched Big Al's hand and flicked at his plastic hospital ID band with a long pink fingernail. She glanced down at the worn band on my left wrist.

“Nice to have you guys here,” she said.

Big Al squirmed a little, not taking his eyes off of her.

“Al,” he said with a firm handshake. “Everyone calls me Big Al.”

“Eva,” she said. “Not many guys from over there come in here.”

“This is Shoff,” he said, pointing at me.

“Nice to know you,” she replied, not letting go of Big Al's hand. “Did you two walk all the way here? I mean…did you come all the way from the front?” Her eyes had fallen to Big Al's torso and she blushed. “That's a long way to…”

“It's okay,” Big Al said. “We took a shortcut. Actually, we made us a shortcut,” he beamed.

“It's really not that far,” I said. “We're glad we found this place.”

“You two enjoy yourselves,” she said, getting up. “Come in anytime, my bar is open to you whenever you want.” She went back to her perch at the end of the bar and rejoined her waiting glass.

Big Al waved Eva over to our booth and gave her a dollar for the jukebox. She swayed for the next fifteen minutes as if it were our private dance. We finished a third pitcher of beer from an anonymous donor and decided it was time to start back.

“Thanks, Eva, and thanks to everyone for the beer!” Big Al shouted from his crouched position in the booth. “Hey, Shoff, I have to piss,” he whispered, looking at me as if he'd never taken a piss before.

“Well, let's go take a look at the head and see what we can do,” I said.

I sat on the edge of the booth and everyone glanced sideways as Big Al locked his arms around my neck and shoulders. We staggered along the bar and disappeared into the one-stall, one-urinal men's room. It was cramped and musty and reeked of bleach and old piss.