How Can You Mend This Purple Heart (25 page)

Even as the word got out that these were spectacular events, it wasn't always easy to enlist another ten or so to join in. The first three or four guys beyond our core group always seemed to come easy. They were ready. They shared a give-a-shit optimism that the main group all seemed to have. Life will go on whether or not I do.

Others feared leaving the shelter of the hospital for the first time, especially when it meant “going public.” No amount of coaxing could convince them it was okay. The hospital could wrap you comfortably in its cocoon of septic smells, constant warmth of drugs, and a feeling that home could never be anywhere else but here. For some, leaving this harbor of comfort and security would prove to be harder than combat.

There were those who had already experienced the pain and hurt from the staring and pointing. Usually it was on the visit going home for the first time since leaving for Vietnam. It was a pain far greater than the wounds from the land mine or the shrapnel. This pain pierced the heart and would last the rest of his life. You couldn't skin graft this and wrap it in gauze and put it through enough physical therapy to toughen it up. Life would do that. But the memory of the first stabbing stare at his half legs dangling over the wheelchair or the plastic arm and hook under his shirtsleeve would never go away or ease with time. These were the guys who would eventually give a shrug of “so what” and sign on.

After a few weekends of non-stop partying, we had a permanent roster. It would change a little each week depending on surgeries, attitudes, home leaves, and discharges. For our ever-ready gang of seven, an established group of regulars, and the weekly new acquaintances, the next few months would be extraordinary.

The Clam Bake

THE SPECIAL SERVICES
department was housed in a makeshift concrete block room about the size of a four-car garage. The two-desk office shared the space with a ping-pong table, a small billiards table, a “lounge” area with a color TV, a Coke machine, and a table with chairs for board games—which we properly referred to as the “bored” games.

The office and game room areas were squeezed between L Ward and M Ward, and my desk was jammed into the corner where I sat facing the wall. The assortment of business supplies—clipboards, three-ring binders, Rolodex, pens and pencils, stapler, phone book, and file folders—was everything I needed to keep the fun and entertainment flowing. We reverently referred to it as the Party Desk.

As the newest member to the very small staff of three, it was my great fortune to be reporting to one of the most respected enlisted men in the Navy: eleven-year Navy veteran, Chief Petty Officer Douglas P. Randall.

He stood six feet four inches tall and weighed around 260 pounds. He answered only to the name Tiny. His thick, prematurely silver hair fell forward, partially covering a long, bulging scar across the left side of his forehead. A few tiny bits of shrapnel dotted the left cheek and temple of his otherwise jolly, Captain Kangaroo-like face. He was constantly squeezing his thick mustache between his thumb and forefinger. It, too, was silver.

Tiny was one of the very-early-wounded Navy corpsmen in Vietnam. He had been wearing that scar and shrapnel for more than four years now. Severe headaches, paired with an occasional black-out, could have gotten him a medical discharge. He didn't want it. He had convinced the medical review board at three separate hearings that he was fit to do the job. He was more than fit. He understood the physical and psychological needs of the wounded better than anyone. He was the only combat-wounded Navy corpsman that any of us had ever heard of who was still on active duty. The Bronze and Silver Star he was awarded for saving five wounded Marines on that day more than four years ago weighed high on the board's decision.

His blue eyes, riding above high, rosy cheeks, were a softening contrast to the permanent lacerated frown on his forehead. His eyes reflected a deep compassion for those suffering, the many he had nursed back, and those he felt he had personally failed who had died under his care. Tiny had a comforting, everything-is-okay look—the look you see in Santa Claus in the storybooks.

Tiny was not one to hover over those who were working for him. He gave me lots of room to do my job.

I went at my inaugural assignment with the gusto and blindness of a sixteen-year-old on the day he passes his driving test. After all, a local brewery was the main sponsor, the clam bake was being held on the hospital grounds, and it was being sanctioned by the brass themselves. It would be a great way to encourage guys to get out of the building for longer than it takes to smoke a cigarette. It was also an opportunity for the higher-ups to show they really gave a shit.

My groundbreaking venture into the party and entertainment business was the First Annual Philadelphia Naval Hospital Clam Bake and Concert. It was indeed the first-ever, and as it turned out, probably the last.

I picked up the phone and dialed the number at the top of the sponsor page.

“Hello,” the young female voice said.

“Yes. Hello? This is Seaman Shoff with Special Services, Philly Naval hospital. Can I speak with Diane DeMarco please?”

“Oh, we've been expecting your call, Mr. Shoff.”

“Uh, it's not Mister. Just call me Jeremy.”

“Okay, Jeremy. Please hold, I'll get Diane for you.”

“Hello, this is Diane.”

“Yes ma'am, this is Seaman Shoff at the Philly Naval hospital. I was calling about the clam bake for next Sunday.”

“Hello, Mr. Shoff,” the more mature-sounding voice said. “I'm so glad you called. We're getting close, and we have a hundred details on this end to work out. We have about forty volunteers ready. How are things there?”

“I think we have close to a hundred and fifty guys on the sheet, maybe another twenty more to add,” I said with a whole lot of pride. I had limped around the hospital for the past two weeks getting the word out and filling the pages on my clipboard.

“Wow, that's great. Just so you know, we're placing the order today for the chicken, corn, clams, and, of course, the beer.”

“Our guys can't wait. Oh, I forgot to mention how much we appreciate what the Schmitt Brewery is doing. And we can't believe the Bobby Vinton impersonator is actually going to perform here.”

“We're excited, too, and just thrilled that we're able to do this. Let's touch base again on Wednesday or Thursday.”

I spent the rest of the week confirming delivery schedules and drawing up a layout for the band's flatbed, the beer truck, and the food stations. Tiny helped me work out the details with the table and chair company. “I think we'll need at least thirty six-foot-long tables and four chairs for each table,” Tiny told me as he penciled out the rectangles on the layout sheet. “That will leave lots of legroom for those guys wearing their plastic limbs and plenty of elbow room for the guys in wheelchairs.”

Paper plates and plastic spoons and forks were ordered, in addition to a mix of sodas and tubs of ice. Saturday afternoon meant a final round through the wards to sign on any latecomers and post reminder bulletins on all the elevator and ward doors.

My guardian angel was surely watching over me, as the weather that Sunday was even better than perfect. A late morning sun sprayed down on the tables wrapped with white plastic. Not a cloud in the sky, the summer-like temperatures were coupled with near-zero humidity.

A long, flatbed trailer was parked about twenty yards from the first row of tables; amplifiers, drums, and microphones were set between monster-size speaker bookends. A refrigerated truck with those magical words, Schmitt Brewery, sat purring and waiting to release its nectar. Ears of corn crackled in butter, half-chickens baked over fiery charcoal, and giant clams steamed in boilers. The aromas pulled everyone to the outdoor festival.

The party-starved streamed out of the doorways in wheelchairs, on crutches, or leaning on canes. Those with both legs or with one good leg and one artificial leg hobbled to their paper plate settings. Wheelchairs were forced across the grassy landscape and nudged up tight against a table edge. A few guys were rolled out to the rim of the asphalt and grass, lying flat on their backs on gurneys. The First Annual Philadelphia Naval Hospital Clam Bake and Concert was underway.

A warm-up band blasted “Born to be Wild” into the calm afternoon air. Shovelfuls of hot clams, mounds of half-chickens, and baskets of buttery corn cobs, still wrapped in leafy fire-dried sheaths, laden the tables. And the never-ending flow of pitchers of Schmitt's Golden Lager filled the bellies and the brains of the nearly two hundred pleasure-starved partygoers. It was great to be alive.

Animated chatter and unbridled laughter flowed from every table as the all-female volunteer brigade delivered pitchers of beer like buckets down a fire line.

The band and the Bobby Vinton impersonator received a standing ovation (of sorts) with the opening song, “Roses Are Red.” They followed with “Blue Velvet” and a little later, “Blue on Blue” and “Sealed with a Kiss.” The band was great, and if you closed your eyes, you couldn't tell the guy wasn't Bobby Vinton himself.

I can't be sure of the exact moment when things went to Hell in a hand basket, but it happened almost instantly. The songs of lovers past, reminders of love forsaken, and heartaches now burning fresh began to simmer the deep and profound loneliness no one ever talked about.

The band finished with “Mr. Lonely” and a dedication to their special audience with “Coming Home Soldier.” Somewhere in the middle of the second chorus, a swirl of emotions swept through the festivities like a funeral pyre. My guardian angel had taken a sudden exit.

The fire bucket lines of beer, intended for laughter and temporary escape, only served to pour flammable liquids on the smoldering emotions.

The scuffles and fights broke out like spontaneous combustion. Friends were hitting friends, strangers hitting strangers. Shit started flying everywhere: corn cobs, chicken bones, clam shells, paper plates—everything except the beer.

It was a free-for-all—and it was beginning to be a whole lot of fun.

Tables were overturned, wheelchairs and their owners tipped over from the pushing and pulling of minor skirmishes. Plastic and wooden body parts were strewn on tables and chairs and the grass. People were under the tables, and others covered with the white sheets of plastic. Everyone kept right on drinking through it all.

And just as quickly as it had started, it stopped. Guys started laughing, shaking hands, some embraced. It was one of the coolest things I've ever seen.

The band felt horrible. The Bobby Vinton sound-alike was talking over the microphone about being sorry, but none of us could hear him any longer. He finally stepped from the flatbed trailer, and he and his band disappeared into the building.

Tiny was standing near the sponsor's table with Diane DeMarco, his arms flailing, yanking at his silver mustache. After apologizing over and over, he made his way to our table. We had just refilled our plastic glasses with fresh beer.

“Real nice, Shoff. Real nice,” he said as he looked around at the corn cobs and chicken parts scattered everywhere. He shook his head and a Santa Claus twinkle beamed in his eyes. “What are you going to do for an encore?”

Face to Face

“WHERE WE HEADED
today, Shoff?” Earl Ray said as he handed me the Thai stick.

“Mt. Pleasant, New Jersey,” I said. I took a short hit on the magical herb, and the creamy white smoke drifted away from the patio into the morning air. “It's the Knights of Columbus. The guy there says they have a great party ready.”

“Mt. Pleasant, huh? Sounds like a place I've been to already,” Earl Ray grinned as he reached back for the sparkling twisted herb.

“Can't wait to get there,” Roger said as he put the gift from 'Nam to his lips.

“Eet's not even eleven o'clock,” Ski said. “The bus doesn't leef until four.”

“It's Saturday, ain't it?” Earl Ray said. “We can start the party any time we damn well please. You got another stick, Big Al?”

“Yeah, but let's keep it for later.”

“Later is always right now,” Earl shrugged.

“Don't worry, my friend. I'll have it for the bus ride back.”

The bus pulled up at three o'clock, right on schedule, and we filed out of Q Ward into the warm June afternoon. It felt like one of those perfect days for getting just a little extra high.

It was a lively group with more new guys signed on today than any other time. We had several guys close to being discharged and they took the opportunity to make it a getting-out-and-going-home party.

We clambered onto the bus and Ski, Moose, Roger, and Bobby Mac seemed especially ready to go. Earl Ray had taken his familiar place in the seat just in front of the side doors near the back of the bus. The buzz from the late morning Thai stick had worn off, and we didn't want to wait until we got to Mt. Pleasant to start the fun. A bottle of Jack was passed around and Bobby Mac, Earl Ray, and I downed a couple of Darvon with the warmth of the whiskey.

“You guys keep that bottle down below the windows for me, will you?” the corporal asked from the driver's seat, looking us over in the rearview mirror.

“What are they going to do? Send us to 'Nam?” Moose laughed as he raised the bottle high in the air.

“Hell, no. They'll send me,” the corporal half-chuckled.

“'Nam ain't so bad,” Big Al told him.

“Says you,” the corporal said, turning around. “I hear war is hell.”

“War is hell, but actual combat's a real motherfucker!” Bobby Mac howled.

“Yeah, it's a real motherfucker,” Earl Ray said.

“A real moderfucker,” Ski added.

“Just keep the bottle down low for me, will you guys? It'll keep us all out of trouble.”

“Fair enough,” Moose said. “We'll keep it down to keep you out of 'Nam.”