How Can You Mend This Purple Heart (9 page)

“Who the fuck are you? And who made you H.M.F.I.C.?” Earl Ray boomed back.

“I'm Moose Johnson, and I made me Head Motherfucker in Charge!” he laughed out loud.

“What the fuck kind of name is Moose?” Earl chuckled sarcastically back.

The ward wasn't so long that a slightly raised voice could be heard from one end to the other, and both Earl and Moose turned down the volume.

“A nickname. Got it my first tour in-country. We were in thick brush following an ambush. I heard rustling in the tall grass, so I opened fire with my M60. Shredded a water buffalo in a thousand pieces. I took shit for a month. Got a tattoo on my left arm with my new name.”

“You got a left arm?” Earl asked with a bit of pride.

“Not all of it. Lost part of it with the bottom half of my left leg,” Moose replied casually, his voice lowering a bit more.

“You mobile?” Earl asked.

“Nope. Won't be for a while,” Moose told him.

Earl spun his three-quarter right leg around, sat on the edge of his bed, and slid into his wheelchair.

“Don't dyou tell me I don't know sheet about it.” Ski told him again.

“Yeah, I know, Ski. Sorry, man.”

“Damn dright.”

Earl Ray rolled down to the south end of the ward to chat with this Marine named Moose. He would deal with his thoughts of Jennifer after lights out.

As he wheeled past my bed, he stared a hard, hating glare, one of eternal disgust. He puffed the air up from the corner of his mouth and squinted at me, as if to swipe me from his memory. I really can't say what Earl was feeling about me just then. I saw a look of hatred, anger, and machismo from a war-hardened, young, proud Marine. The stark reality of our different reasons for being here in this place at the same time was like a punch in the face to me. I thought we had made some progress, but with Earl, it was day by day. I think he felt I didn't deserve to be in the same hospital, let alone on the same ward, with him and his fellow wounded.

I stared back, but certainly not with the same intensity. How could I? I had come from a party with a girl on my lap, and he had come from Hell with a bomb under his feet. Still, the feeling of being looked at with that kind of hate made me want to hate him, too. I blankly rubbed the redness on my neck.

“He'll come around,” Ski said. “He's just being a badass. Eet's what he knows.”

I didn't respond. I felt guilty, ashamed, and pissed. Badass or not, and for whatever reasons, we each had made our own choices.

Moose was a straightforward, no-nonsense Marine with a jovial, Hoss Cartwright-like stature and a broad, easy smile. His left arm was blown off just below the elbow and the word “Moose” was tattooed in a half circle below a green shamrock on his upper arm. His left leg had been blown off about three inches below the knee, and no other shrapnel wounds were visible anywhere. He didn't have a catheter, but it wasn't needed. He could hold the piss pot with his fully functional right hand.

Moose was from a small rural town in central Pennsylvania and never spoke of his mother or dad or any family. No one ever came to visit, and he got no phone calls or mail. He could read a person within the first minute of conversation and decide whether he would spend the next minute talking or just ask him to leave. He could care less what other people thought of him, but he cared very much for his fellow wounded Marines. Moose was the only name we ever knew him by.

He was assigned to a Navy patrol boat unit when they came under mortar fire. A direct hit to the riverboat took his leg and arm.

Moose had a quick laugh and an easy sense of humor. He would jump in feet first at anything he attempted, which included getting back on his feet again.

Earl Ray made his way back down the ward after a long visit with Moose. He paused at the foot of my bed, and the look he gave me wasn't so hateful.

“Hey non-combat motherfucker, Moose agreed with me. I'm Head Motherfucker in Charge.”

“I never doubted it, Earl. At least we've got one thing in common.”

“What's that?” he asked with a curious look.

“We're both motherfuckers.”

Executive Order

IT WAS LATE JUNE
, no new incoming for a few days, and our bodies were healing and slowly ridding themselves of the feel-good chemicals. The free-for-all hypodermic injections of morphine and Demerol were gradually replaced with Darvon capsules in little white cups, chased down with juice or water. Needles were served up only for dressing changes, nightmares, and for Ski, the ratchet adjustments, which were now down to one every other day. Our penises were free of the rubber hoses and plastic bags.

The late morning sun was beaming through the windows, and a feeling of familiarity, routine, and boredom had settled in.

Doc Miller was in his usual perpetual motion, darting into the back room, reappearing with a bedpan, a couple of urinals, and a handful of washcloths and pillowcases. He made his deliveries with efficiency, but always took time for conversation. He dropped off the last piss pot and placed it on Ski's nightstand and headed into the back room to empty out and sterilize the three he had just retrieved. Back out onto the ward, wiping his freshly washed hands, he now stood between Ski and me.

“Got any special plans for today, Ski?” he asked wryly.

“What do you mean?” Ski said, raising his left eyebrow.

“Oh, nothing really. Just want to know if you have anything going on?”

Doc glanced over at me with a sly grin, and I held back a smile.

“Dwhat are you going to do? You can leef my legs alone,” he told him.

“I'm not going to do anything with your legs. Well, not right now.” Doc gently grabbed the toe-end of the cast on Ski's right leg.

“Thden what do you want weeth me?” Ski was getting nervous.

“He wants you to sing for him,” Earl piped in.

Ski looked at Earl and then swung his head over to look at me. He didn't like being the focus of attention and certainly not the brunt of any joke.

“Don't look at me, Ski. I don't know what he's talking about,” I shrugged.

“Ski, no! Please don't sing,” Doc Miller said. “I've heard you and Shoff before, and believe me, I don't need that. But what I would like is for you to wash your hair and get an extra close shave.”

“Why? Are we going somewhere, or do you want to keese me?” Ski said with a wink.

“You're not my type, Ski,” Doc Miller said. “I prefer American women.”

“You wouldn't go back to Ameridican women once you had a Roosian woman,” Ski bragged.

“Never!” Doc proclaimed. “Roosian women can't come close to American women,” he laughed.

“Just wait. I will set you up with a Roosian woman—a real woman—and she'll take care of your young Ameridican ass.”

“She'll have to wait. Right now, I want you to get washed up.” Doc was off to get a wash bowl, cloth, and towel.

“What the hell eez going on?” Ski demanded.

“I don't know,” I replied. “Better do what Doc says, though; he seems pretty serious about it.”

“Yeah,” Earl said. “Maybe he has an Ameridican woman set up for you.”

“Bring her on, baby!” Ski said, grabbing at his crotch. “I'll show her really good Roosian time.”

“Maybe he can bring me one, too, while he's at it,” Sgt. Bobby Joyce laughed, mimicking Ski's grab. “Ameridican or Roosian, I don't give a shit!”

Doc finished washing Ski's hair, and Ski swirled the disposable razor in a small tub of scummy, lukewarm water. He pushed the portable tray table to the side of his bed and dried his hair with the towel as best he could.

His hair combed, face clean and smooth, fresh pajamas, and the bed cranked as far as his casts would allow, Ski looked like a Marine—handsome face, square jaw, stiff lips, hair tight and close, and a proud posture. Whatever it was anyone had in store for him, he was ready.

“Ski, you look absolutely four-0,” Miss Berry said.

“Thanks,” Ski replied. This was the closest to feeling like he was ready for inspection since boot camp. “Meese Barry, what eeze going on?”

“I really can't say, Ski. Officer's oath,” she said with that ever-present mischievous grin.

Ski began groping at the sheet that covered the upper half of his body as the number of wheelchairs encircling the area around his bed grew to a half-dozen. Several guys from Ward 2B, the rehab wards, and even Doc Miller parked their wheelchairs in a half circle, starting from the foot of my bed, swinging out into the center aisle, and ending near the nurse's station—all facing Ski. No one had noticed Miss Berry slip out through the double doors.

“What the hell eez going on?” Ski said to Doc. “I don't like theese at all.”

“Nothing's going on, Ski,” Doc said.

“Yeah, nothing at all,” one of the guys repeated.

“Bullsheedt!” Ski stammered his accent thickening with anxiety. “Dyou had better tell dme dnow!”

“Better tell him, Doc. He just might make you date that Roosian woman!” Bobby Mac howled.

“Okay. Okay.” Doc Miller jumped out of the wheelchair, went to the double doors, and peeked out into the hallway on the other side. A small, thin, older man with a square face and gold-rim glasses set tight on his narrow nose stood just outside the ward.

Doc disappeared through the doors, and ten seconds later he was back, guiding the shy-looking man over to Ski's bed.

The man leaned cautiously toward Ski, rolling his hat through his hands, face beaming, tears swelling behind the glasses. Even with all of his Marine toughness, Ski couldn't hold back.

“Poppa,” Ski whispered, his lips trembling.

“Aleex, my dboy. Eet has been so dlong. I love dyou my boy! I love dyou! Dyou are home!” He was sobbing, his head on Ski's chest, Ski embracing his father's neck with both arms, weeping into the man's thinning hair.

“Poppa. Oh, Poppa.”

Ski kissed his father on both sides of his face, his forehead, and the top of his head. Ski patted the bed, and his father sat down cautiously next to his son.

“Look at dyour legs. What eeze all of this? What eeze this thing?” he said as he softly pointed to the shiny metal rods and the plaster casts. His instincts told him not to touch the shiny metal pieces as he pulled his hand away.

Ski looked down toward his legs and explained to his father that it was God's way of bringing him home. The metal rods were there to make sure he could walk again, and Dr. Donnolly was a miracle worker.

“They send me letter telling me you weel be fine. You don't look fine to me,” his father cried. “Oooh, Aleex, this eeze all my fault,” he sobbed. “If I hadn't let you go. If only I had listened to my heart. I knew somethink would be bad. Oh, my boy, I am so sorry.” He turned to Doc Miller, shameful and apologetic. “Look what I have done to my only child,” he cried.

He turned back to Ski. “Theese doesn't look right to me. How can dyou come home like this? Oh, Aleex! Eet eez so goot to see you! You must come home now, Momma eez waiting to see you.”

Ski had not seen his mother since last September. Thanksgiving and Christmas had been spent, not celebrated, somewhere deep in Vietnam. He missed his mother more than any guy would ever admit.

“Poppa, I must wait 'til these are off. Then I can come home.”

“I know dyou can't come home right now, my boy, but your Momma can't wait to see you,” he sighed.

“I know, Poppa. Soon enough, I weel come home.”

“I thdink they have a surprise for you, Aleex,” his father said.

“What do you mean? What else could there be?” Ski said. His suspicion was back.

“I don't know. They just make sure I was here this day.”

The brown double doors burst open, and four little old ladies from the Red Cross, their lips smeared dark red and their wrinkly faces bright pink with thick powder, came prancing onto the ward. They were followed by an upright piano being pulled from one end by Miss Berry and pushed from the other end by Dr. Donnolly.

Wheelchairs scattered like water bugs as the piano careened down the aisle and parked at the foot of Ski's bed. One of the ladies took a seat on the piano bench and began playing the Marine Corps Hymn. The other three ladies belted out the words, and Doc Miller and a couple of others joined in.

“From the halls of Montezuuuma to the shores of Tripoli; we will fight our countries baaattles in the air, on land and sea!”

The second verse was stammered out with a little less gusto, and the singing tapered off, but the piano lady continued pounding out two more stanzas, and everyone clapped and cheered in any way they could. The Red Cross ladies beamed with pride as they hugged each other over and over.

No one had noticed Dr. Donnolly in his full-dress ceremonial uniform, and we weren't really sure it was him until he spoke.

“Outstanding! Outstanding!” he clapped. “Now, let's get down to business.” He stepped around the piano and put his hand on Ski's father.

“What eeze going on here?” Ski demanded. “Dr. Donnolly, you don't look right. You being court-martialed?”

“Not hardly, Ski. I'm here to let your father know he has a new son.”

“Dwhat!” Ski blurted.

His father spun toward Dr. Donnolly with bewilderment.

“That's right.” A smile broke out on his face as he reached inside his crisp white jacket and pulled out a roll of parchment with a blue ribbon tied loosely at its center.

“Ski, it is with the greatest pride and the deepest honor that I have been selected to present this to you.” Dr. Donnolly slid the ribbon off the roll and opened the parchment and began to read aloud:

It is hereby authorized by the President of the United States, Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, that Felix Dante Jamnitzky, Lance Corporal, United States Marine Corps, from this day of June 28, 1969, and all days forward, is entitled to all inalienable rights guaranteed to every citizen under the Constitution of the United States of America.