How Can You Mend This Purple Heart (26 page)

“Just doing our part,” Roger said as he slid down in his seat below the window and took a slug.

Two new guys, Lance Corporal Jeffrey “Jersey” Jefferson and Corporal Dexter Bagley, shared the seat just in front of me. They had signed up for the trip early in the week ready to go, but now they seemed a little nervous.

“Where did you get the name Jersey?” I asked. “You from New Jersey?”

“Nope,” he said with a low, cautious voice. “Got it in 'Nam.”

“He was in 'Nam only six weeks before he got hit,” Corporal Bagley said. “Those six weeks he clung to his buddy tighter than a jersey. That's how he got that name.”

“That's right, I clung to him like a jersey,” Jersey said. “Didn't do me shit, neither, did it?”

“Got you the fuck out of there, didn't it?”

“Didn't do me shit. Would have been better off clinging to a gook.”

“What happened to your buddy?” I asked.

“He's sittin' right here,” Jersey said as he leaned his arm on Corporal Bagley's shoulder.

“Yeah, and I got you the fuck out, didn't I?” Bagley said.

“I guess you got me the fuck out. But don't do me no more favors.”

“You ungrateful fuck.” The words zipped from Bagley's mouth as he turned and leaned into the window.

Twenty-two-year-old Corporal Dexter Bagley was two months into his second tour when a helicopter set down in the jungle with eighteen-year-old Lance Corporal Jefferson and five other new guys on board. Bagley's unit, nearly two hundred miles from nowhere, had been under constant fire for six days and nights. The casualties were mounting by the hour, and the replacements, even if they hadn't so much as fired a weapon in-country, were breathing, walking bodies with two hands, two legs, and a good trigger finger.

Lance Corporal Jefferson had scrambled from the chopper like a jumped rabbit and slammed into Corporal Bagley. Both of them went sprawling into the tall, swirling grass. Bagley staggered to his feet and pulled Jefferson up by his flak jacket, screaming in his face.

“What the fuck's the matter with you!” Bagley hollered over the hurricane winds of the chopper blades. Lance Corporal Jefferson just jerked his head toward the jungle, up toward the sky, down at Corporal Bagley, and back toward the jungle. His entire body was trembling from the continuous gunfire and sporadic mortar explosions just a few hundred yards away. He stared at the chopper as it floated upward and disappeared into the night sky. The look of fear and abandonment in his eyes was like that of a dog thrown from a car.

The panic leaching from Jefferson's pores churned Corporal Bagley's stomach. He couldn't remember fear like that since he had taken his own first step into Vietnam more than fifteen months before. Corporal Bagley's eyes locked with Jefferson's panic-stricken stare and he put his hands around the kid's throat and pushed him to the ground. “You stick by me! You got that?” Bagley screamed as he straddled over Jefferson.

Corporal Bagley knew he had to keep Jefferson close until the jungle, the gunfire, and the explosions became as routine as the body counts. He didn't want Jefferson getting somebody fucked up or killed; the gooks had been doing a good enough job of it.

“I said, you got that?” he screamed, shaking him. “God dammit! You don't go nowhere without me! You stick to me like flies on shit! You got that!”

Six weeks later, the toe of Lance Corporal “Jersey” Jefferson's right boot nearly scraped Corporal Dexter Bagley's right boot heel. A land mine depressed under Corporal Bagley's weight, released as he stepped off, and it popped up between the two Marines. The explosion blew off the lower half of both their legs.

Waiting for us at the Mt. Pleasant, New Jersey, city limit line was a four-car, four-motorcycle police escort. Our motorcade turned into the double-wide horseshoe drive of the Knights of Columbus a little after four. A local high school band began playing the Marine Corps hymn, and I stepped off the bus to get the formalities out of the way.

I handed a copy of the roster to our host and asked him if he would assist me with the head count and roll call at the end of the evening. Of course, he would be more than happy to. “You get inside and enjoy yourself with everybody else. We'll take care of everything.” It was music to my ears.

And take care of everything they did. It was a wedding reception environment: a five-piece band played polkas and dance music; red, white, and blue banners, flags, and pennants streamed from the walls and ceiling; and a welcoming crowd of about one hundred waited on us every minute of the evening.

A smorgasbord of steaks, ham, fried chicken, roast beef, raw oysters, shrimp cocktail, Polish sausage, and just about every imaginable kind of pasta steamed along an entire wall. Homemade pies, cakes, and cookies draped a twenty-foot table. But the most important items on the menu were the bottles of beer soaking in tubs of ice and the top-shelf whiskey, gin, vodka, and tequila stacked double on every table.

We didn't once get up from our seats, except for the occasional trip to the bathroom. Our hosts brought plates of food and made sure a cold beer was at hand at all times. Drinks were mixed at the tables and packs of cigarettes handed out with a souvenir Knights of Columbus lighter.

With the food tables cleared and the band at full volume, the tequila shots started flowing like pills from the hospital pharmacy. Ten, eleven, twelve shots, and who knows how many more, of the salty and lemon wedge throat-burners were downed in the name of manliness. The prized worm at the bottom of each bottle was sought after like a gold medal.

Dexter Bagley and Jersey Jefferson swilled the salty lime shots on top of an hour's worth of rum-and-Cokes. The girls who had joined our table sipped away on vodka and orange juice. It wasn't enough to get them drunk, but it was enough to get their mouths ahead of their brains.

“So what are you going to do when you get out?” one of the girls asked Jersey.

“When I get out of where?” Jersey laughed. Strips of white spit were sticking at each corner of his mouth. “I may never leave here.”

“I mean, you know, when you go home?” she said.

“We ain't going to talk about that right now,” Corporal Bagley told her.

“But haven't you thought about it?” another girl blurted.

“Fuck yeah, we've thought about it. What do you take us for?” Bagley spat.

“I didn't mean anything by it. I just think it's going to be hard, that's all.”

“Yeah, we didn't mean anything bad. We know it must be going to be hard to…”

“You don't know shit,” Dexter butted in. “Just shut up about it.”

“She's right, man,” Jersey said as he looked down at the stumps of his lower legs. “What am I gonna do, man?”

“You're gonna have another drink and shut up about it, that's what.”

“But she's right, man,” Jersey slurred. “What am I gonna do? I got no legs.” Jersey groped at his pant legs pinned just below his knees; his words came out like that of a small child. “What the fuck is a man gonna do with no legs?”

“Don't you go giving me that shit!” Corporal Bagley shouted. “You get a hold of yourself, or I'm gonna bust your ass.”

“But look at me, Dexter…if I had stayed back…if I had just stopped…had that smoke…if you…”

“If you don't shut the fuck up, I'm gonna bust your ass right here!” Bagley yelled.

The girls pushed back from the table and scampered away like scared mice. Our host, sensible and sober, came over to the table and gave me a polite nod to call it a night.

Halfway into to the return trip, Jersey sat up from his slumped position in front of me.

“What the fuck am I gonna do, man?” he wailed. Tears were bubbling down his cheeks. “Look at me. What am I gonna do?”

“Shut up, Jersey. Quit the crying, motherfucker!” Bagley yelled.

“What am I gonna do, man?” he cried. “My fucking legs are gone.”

“I warned you Jersey, god dammit!”

Corporal Bagley swung as hard as he could and slammed his fist into Jersey's right temple, knocking him off the seat and into the aisle. Bagley pounced down onto Jersey's back and the two grappled on the floor like a squirming pretzel. Jersey broke loose and scooted down the aisle on his hands and knees toward the front of the bus. Corporal Bagley was right behind.

“Kill the crybaby motherfucker!” Earl Ray hollered. “He thinks he's got it bad? Let me at him!”

“C'mon, man. Give eet a break, Earl!” Ski yelled.

“I'll give him a break. I'll break his fucking head!” Earl yelled back.

“Just let eet go,” Ski pleaded.

“C'mon, Earl,” Big Al said. “Let it go.”

“We don't need a baby-ass motherfucker crying about his legs!” Earl yelled.

Earl Ray slid onto the floor and pulled himself on his belly toward Bagley and Jersey. “I'll shut your ass up!” he yelled at the floor near his face. Corporal Bagley and Jersey were tangled in a ball in the front stairwell, pressed against the doors.

As Earl Ray made his way past Moose's seat, Moose reached down and grabbed the back of his shirt, holding him tight and keeping him from reaching the wailing Jersey Jefferson.

“C'mon Earl, let it go, man,” Moose grunted as he pulled Earl's heavy body toward him.

Earl Ray turned toward Moose and grabbed the waistband of Moose's pants and pulled himself up. “Don't ever touch me again!” Earl Ray yelled at the face in the darkened bus. “You got that?”

“It's me, Earl! It's…” Before Moose could let his friend know it was him, Earl Ray kicked with his three-quarter leg at anything he could hit in the darkness. “Let go, motherfucker!” Earl yelled. “I'll kill you for that!”

Moose grabbed Earl under his left half arm, lifted him across the back of the seat, and pushed him against the window. “C'mon, Earl, it's me!”

The long night of drinking had blinded any sense and awareness, and Earl Ray came up with his right fist. He caught Moose with a glancing blow that slid off Moose's shoulder and struck him across the neck. Moose got to his feet and tried to push Earl Ray down against the seat cushion, but Earl Ray, fueled by anger and alcohol, was too strong.

Earl grabbed a handful of Moose's shirt and pulled him down onto the seat. Before Moose could pull back, Earl Ray caught him with a solid, rocking punch across the right side of his head. Moose staggered backwards and fell into the seat across the aisle. “God dammit, Earl, it's me!”

Moose lunged back across the aisle and took a straight punch toward Earl's head. Earl grabbed the back of the seat and tried to pull away from the oncoming blow. Moose's powerful right hand landed square in the middle of Earl's chest.

The breath came out of Earl like a popped bubble. He slid down to the floor between the two seats, gasping for air, his half left leg pointing upward, shaking out of control. Moose grabbed Earl under both armpits and pulled him up from the floor onto the seat cushion. Earl Ray wasn't breathing.

Ski jumped from his seat two rows back and fell to his knees in the aisle. “Breathe, Earl!” he screamed, shaking him. “C'mon, damn eet!”

Earl Ray's chest wasn't moving.

Ski leaned over Earl, put his face against Earl Ray's, and took a deep breath. He put his mouth over Earl's and with one full heave emptied his lungs of the alcohol-tainted air.

“C'mon, damn eet!” Ski yelled at Earl. “Breathe!”

Earl didn't respond.

Ski pulled Earl's mouth open with both hands, put his mouth over Earl Ray's again, and frantically blew five or six deep breaths into Earl. Earl jerked a couple of times, coughed and spit, and rolled off the seat onto the floor, sucking air into his body like a fish out of water.

Ski slid down behind Earl Ray and gently placed Earl's head on the floor. Earl's breathing slowed, and Ski helped him up to a sitting position.

“See what you motherfuckers made us do!” Moose screamed. “This is our friend! Goddamn you! I'll shut you the fuck up myself!”

“Let eet go, Moose,” Ski said. “Eet's over.”

Moose started toward the front of the bus, but Corporal Bagley and Jersey Jefferson were no longer in the stairwell. During the scuffle, the corporal driving the bus had stopped along a city curb, and the two fell from the open doors, wrestling in a tangled brawl on the sidewalk. Several people had stopped and were gaping at the sight of the two squirming on the concrete. Corporal Bagley had his three-quarter legs in a death grip around Jersey's waist, his fists flying like a windmill.

Bobby Mac and I squeezed out through the side door and were trying to get close enough to separate the two.

“C'mon, Dexter,” I yelled. “Let go of him! Let go!”

“On guard, motherfuckers!” Bobby Mac laughed. He tightened the zipper on his plastic hand with his teeth and began slapping the pair across the face. “I'll slap you both shitless!” he howled.

“You're crazy!” Bagley yelled as he loosened his leg lock on Jersey.

“You just finding that out?” he laughed. “Beaucoup fucking dinky dau!” He popped his eye out and tossed it to Jersey. “I'm gonna keep an eye out for you, motherfucker!” he howled.

Jersey caught the wet eyeball and dropped it on the sidewalk. The white marble, with its black-brown lens, rolled two revolutions and stared up at Jersey like an evil headless Cyclops. Jersey rolled over two or three times trying to escape its haunting stare.

“You think that's scary? “Bobby Mac said. “Wait until you see my brains through this hole in my face!” He charged toward Jersey pulling his eyelid away and exposing the empty hole of his eye socket.

“Get that the fuck away from me!” Jersey screamed as he covered his eyes.

“You through with the bullshit?” Bobby Mac hollered. “You gonna get on the bus and shut the fuck up?'