Purple Heart

by Patricia McCormick

  “I HAVE AN IDEA,” WOLF SAID THE NEXT NIGHT AFTER THEY’D finished watching the whole Rambo trilogy. They’d already let the air out of Figueroa’s air mattress while he was taking a nap and eaten everything in the care package, even the Healthy Ways fiber mix. They were bored. And restless. Like kindergarten kids inside on a rainy day. “Let’s play capture the flag,” he said.

  Figueroa glanced up from reading Let God Handle It, the book he called his bible, and groaned. Justin pretended to yawn, opening his mouth and patting it with his hand.

  “No, you guys don’t get it,” Wolf said as he stood up, put on his helmet, and donned his night-vision goggles. “In our NVGs.”

  At that, they all jumped up. All except Charlene.

  “You’ll be in trouble when McNally gets back,” she said.

  “Jeez, Charlene,” Wolf said. “You sound like the fish in that Dr. Seuss book where the things come and mess up the house.” He put his hands on his hips. “‘I do not like this. Not one little bit.’”

  Even Charlene couldn’t help but smile and watch as they put on their NVGs and ran outside to what used to be a large playground when the school was actually a school. They invited some of the guys from Charlie Company to join them so they’d have enough players, divided into two teams, and decided that one “flag” would be Mitchell’s Georgia Tech pennant and the other would be a thong some girl had given Wolf. Then they separated into the pitch-black Iraqi night.

  The last time Matt had worn his NVGs was months ago. He tried to remember which month, but he couldn’t come up with even a clue to help him recall it and quickly dropped the idea. It left him with an uneasy feeling, though, a low-grade anxiety about his memory, something he pushed to a corner of his mind as he joined the game.

  The world, as seen through night-vision goggles, was a spooky, video-game landscape in shades of black and green, where people’s eyes glowed like white pinpricks of light and where moving figures looked like ghosts trailing wisps of bright, fluorescent green. Any sudden light, like the flash of a muzzle or the blowback of an explosion, was blinding—at least for a few seconds.

  It took Matt a little while to get reaccustomed to the murky green view and, as he walked into the playground, he felt slightly dizzy. After a few minutes, though, he was in the flow, playing attacker as he snuck across the border—a line they’d drawn in the dirt dividing the playground in two—and running toward the thong, which he’d seen Wolf hide under an old ammunition crate. He was aware, as he made a dash toward the crate, that his right leg was still not quite keeping up with his left, another thought he quickly disregarded.

  He was just a few feet from the crate when a blinding white light flashed in his eyes. He fell back, stumbled, and landed on his butt. He could hear laughter coming from above and behind him, but he had no idea what had just happened.

  “Private Duffy.” The voice, low and gravelly, belonged to Sergeant McNally.

  “Yes, sir.” Matt struggled to his feet and pulled off his mask.

  “I see you’ve recovered.” McNally had been away at a battalion meeting the day before, so this was their first encounter since Matt’s return. There was a hint of sarcasm in his tone as he extinguished his flashlight, which, Matt realized, had been what had blinded him a second ago.

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said as heartily as he could.

  “And I suppose you think playing games with U.S. government equipment is a good idea.” Matt could see Charlene, just over Sergeant McNally’s shoulder, smirking.

  “No, sir,” Matt said.

  “Private Anderson here”—he gestured toward Wolf—“said this was your idea.”

  Matt caught sight of Wolf grinning like a maniac behind McNally.

  “Well, Private Duffy, I’d like to commend you for your creativity,” McNally said. “This is a terrific little training drill for maintaining battle readiness during the cease-fire.”

  It took Matt a minute to register that McNally was actually okay with them goofing around in their NVGs, that he was basically giving them permission. Behind him, Charlene was rolling her eyes. Wolf was giving Matt the finger.

  “All right then, men,” McNally said. “Get back to the exercise.” He walked away, then stopped and turned around. “Welcome back, Private Duffy.”

  Matt thanked him, then walked to the side of the playground and sat down on the ground. A little while later, Charlene came over and sat next to him. “You okay?”

  He was winded, actually, and still a little unsteady after falling down. “Yeah, fine, no problem.”

  The two of them sat there in silence, watching as the guys kept playing. “I took care of your mangy little pet while you were gone,” Charlene said finally.

  Matt turned and looked at her. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe she was actually trying to say she’d missed him. He leaned over and gave her a gentle shove with his shoulder.

  “It’s not like I like that cat or anything, Duffy,” she said, watching as Figueroa ran by waving Mitchell’s Georgia Tech pennant. “But pets can actually help reduce stress.”

  Matt did a double take. “What’s that from, Charlene, some new field manual?”

  “Yeah,” she said, nudging him back. “Top secret.”

  JUSTIN WAS OUTSIDE THE BARRACKS, SHAVING. HE’D FILLED his helmet with water and was peering in the rearview mirror of a Humvee at his reflection.

  “I am looking mighty fine today,” he said as Matt walked up. “Mighty fine.”

  Matt scratched his head. “What was that word? You know, too much pride?”

  Justin didn’t miss a beat. “Hubris, my man,” he said, drawing the razor across his jawline. “Overbearing pride. Presumption.”

  “Yeah,” Matt said. “That. What you just said.”

  Justin dipped the razor into the water. “No, dog. It isn’t hubris when you’re as good-looking as me.” He flicked the razor in Matt’s direction, splashing his face with a few tepid drops of water.

  Matt stood there, watching him. He squinted at the heat waves rising off the pavement. “Good day to go to the beach,” he said.

  Justin didn’t answer. He was concentrating on his upper lip.

  “So, dude…” Matt couldn’t just start talking about it. He tried to think of a way to ease into the conversation. The worst thing he could do was act like he really needed to talk. “You, uh…you were right about the Green Zone.”

  Justin raised an eyebrow at his reflection in the rearview mirror. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah, dude. Did you see all that marble? How ’bout that chandelier in the…” He couldn’t remember the word. The room where all the cots and Porta Potties were, the giant room with the turquoise dome and the balcony.

  Justin had nearly finished shaving. He smoothed his palm over his cheek, checking for spots he might have missed.

  “Ballroom!” Matt said. “The ballroom.”

  Justin dumped the rinse water out onto the ground, where it evaporated pretty much the minute it hit the dirt. Then he pulled his nerdy black glasses out of his shirt pocket, put them on, and regarded himself in the mirror again. “Damn, I’m even more handsome when I can really see myself.”

  He flicked a few drops of liquid off the razor, then turned and went inside.

  THE SQUAD WAS BACK ON PATROL THE NEXT DAY, WALKING the beat in the market. It was the first time Matt had put all his gear on since he got back and he was sweating before they even left the base.

  “Duffy,” McNally had said, “you pair up with Charlene today. I want you to take it easy.”

  Charlene had huffed a little behind McNally’s back, insulted, as usual, at the implication that her role was somehow easier than everyone else’s. And to prove it, she set an unnecessarily fast pace as they walked the aisles of the market.

  The market was different somehow. There were more people, more stalls, more goods for sale. Crates of shiny yellow lemons, sneakers, bolts of fabric, trays of tea. It was the cease-fire, Matt realized. The people also seem
ed different: The fearful, suspicious looks they often showed the soldiers seemed to be largely gone. Replaced with relief, even indifference. That, to Matt, seemed like the biggest sign of progress—that people were going about their daily lives without looking or even caring about the presence of American soldiers.

  He was lagging well behind Charlene, though, and rather than focus on the sights and smells of the market, Matt found he had to work to keep her in view, not an easy task given that she was shorter than most of the people in the market.

  He spotted her a few stalls away and tried to pick up his pace. He tripped, though, and nearly went down on his knee. Quickly, he looked around to see if anyone had noticed, then jogged a little to catch up to Charlene.

  A scrum of kids ran by, and Matt drew back instinctively. He saw Ali everywhere, in every kid on the street. He heard his voice every time one of the kids yelled, and he found himself flinching every time he heard the soft pock of someone kicking a soccer ball.

  He stopped to catch his breath and decided to watch the kids for a minute; he couldn’t avoid looking at them forever.

  They were chasing a stray dog through the rows of stalls, throwing pebbles at it. Matt blinked. It was the dog from the alley, the one who’d been nosing through the trash right before…He blinked again, trying to shut the image out of his mind.

  The dog yelped—one of the stones had hit him—then doubled back in Matt’s direction. The animal came so close that his tail brushed against Matt’s leg. Matt jumped as if he’d been singed by fire. Then he saw that it wasn’t the same dog at all. That this one had a curly tail, a neat curlicue of fur tipped in white.

  Matt sagged against a wall and reached for the plastic straw on his CamelBak, the backpack hydration system all the guys had. He was roasting. And his head had started to ache.

  “What’s the matter with you, Duffy? Am I too much man for you?” It was Charlene. He’d never been so glad to see her.

  Matt took another sip of water, then wiped his hand across his mouth, stalling for time. “Can we just stay here a minute?” he said finally. It was humiliating to have to ask Charlene, of all people, if they could take a break.

  She rolled her eyes, then took a minute to look him over. For just a moment, though, he thought he saw a little hint of warmth in her eyes. Then she put her hands on her hips and sighed. “Roger that.”

  IT WAS UNUSUALLY COOL THAT NIGHT—ANOTHER THING THAT had surprised Matt when he first arrived in Iraq. How it could be sweltering all day, then cold at night. It was something he’d learned in basic training, but not something he’d understood until Justin explained it to him. There was no humidity in the desert, he’d said, so there was nothing to hold the heat; that meant that as soon as the sun set, it turned cold.

  Especially on clear nights. Like tonight. But Wolf’s mom had just sent him a care package with a fresh supply of Skoal and so Matt, Wolf, and Justin were sitting on a ledge outside having a dip. Matt was never a big Skoal man, but he’d decided to join them, mostly just to hang out with Justin.

  “I love my ma,” Wolf said, spitting a stream of tobacco juice into the dirt. “You gotta love a woman who knows her chaw.”

  “Yeah, dog. My ma sends me Grizzly,” Justin said. “She said it’s because they give you free shit, like key chains and beer mugs, but I know it’s because it’s cheap.”

  Matt had only put a small pinch in his mouth, but he was already feeling light-headed the way he had the first time he’d tried it. Must have been because he hadn’t chewed in so long.

  “I can’t believe your mothers even send you this stuff,” Matt said. “Moms are supposed to say that chewing tobacco is like the gateway drug for heroin.”

  Wolf laughed, then coughed and spit. “Yeah, she says it’ll kill me, but she sends it to me, anyway.”

  The three of them sat there a little while, not saying anything.

  “What do you think is worse?” Wolf said at last. “Dying of cancer or getting hit by a car?”

  “You’re a sick shit, Wolf,” Justin said. “Morbid. Obsessed with death.”

  “No, seriously,” Wolf said. “Tell me you haven’t thought about it. We’re out here getting shot at and you don’t think to yourself, you know, ‘What if?”

  “I think about it sometimes,” Matt said after a while. “I thought about it a lot after Benson.”

  Another long silence.

  “Benson died fighting for our country,” Justin finally said. “He died for us. I don’t care how it went down, he died a beautiful death.”

  They were all quiet again. The only noises were the crickets and the occasional pfffft sound of one of them spitting into the dirt.

  “If I’m going to die,” Wolf said, “I want to be doing something important, something where they can say ‘he died doing something for somebody else,’ not in a plane crash or in, like, some drunk-driving accident.”

  The other two nodded. “You know what Johnny Rambo says, boys,” Justin said. “‘Live for nothing or die for something.’”

  Matt had never really understood that line. He’d watched the whole Rambo trilogy a bunch of times, but he never quite got the “live for nothing” part. The whole squad quoted Rambo all the time and that was another thing that seemed weird to Matt: how when things in Iraq got confusing or deep, that the person they turned to was a fake action hero from the ’80s.

  MATT HAD TAKEN JUST ONE OF THE HEADACHE PILLS KWONG had given him, but his head was still pounding when he lay down to go to sleep. He was exhausted, though, and half sick from the chewing tobacco, and eventually he fell asleep.

  Sometime during the night he heard a gunshot. A single pop from somewhere in the distance. He sat up and looked around to see if the other guys had heard it. But everyone else was asleep. Figueroa was snoring, as usual, and of course Itchy hadn’t even stirred.

  Matt wondered for a moment if he’d imagined it. And so he got up and walked outside to where Mitchell was standing guard.

  “You hear anything?” he asked.

  Mitchell shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Maybe,” he said. “Yeah. Like one shot.” He looked Matt up and down. “Nothing to interrupt your beauty sleep over.”

  Matt went back inside and tried to go back to sleep. But his headache was worse now than before. He fished around in his duffel, gulped down a couple more headache pills, and tried to go back to sleep. Soon, though, he heard the birds starting to twitter, and the pinkish light of dawn crept into the barracks.

  He got up, made some instant coffee, opened up a stick of the Stay Alert Gum that Pete had given him, and put it in his mouth. One piece delivers one hundred milligrams of caffeine five times faster than pills or coffee, the label said. Stay Alert received the Army’s Greatest Invention of the Year Award for 2005. Matt unwrapped another stick and popped it in his mouth.

  MATT INCHED THE DOOR OPEN SLOWLY, NOT WANTING TO wake the other guys, and stepped outside. It wasn’t even seven, but it was already broiling and the sun was so bright, it made him shrink back a little. When his eyes adjusted he saw Charlene, in a wife-beater and gym shorts, over by the truck lifting weights.

  “Need a spotter?” he said as he walked over.

  Charlene didn’t answer. She set the dumbbells down with a sigh. “You know I can bench-press more than half the guys in this platoon?”

  “Yes, Charlene, I think you told me that about a hundred times.” He nearly told her that he also heard she slept with a stuffed animal, but he decided not to piss her off.

  He handed her his water bottle.

  She squeezed some water into her mouth, then handed it back. “You’re different now,” she said, scowling slightly.

  “Well, at least you’re still Miss Congeniality,” he said.

  She looked away, and Matt wondered if maybe he’d hurt her feelings.

  “Kidding,” he said. “Just kidding. You’re, I don’t know, you’re different, too.”

  She shot him a dubious look.

  “You’re…oh, jeez,
Charlene, don’t make me say it. Okay. You’re nicer.”

  She winced. “I don’t exactly aspire to be nice, Duffy.”

  Girls. Like Francis said, they were another species.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, okay?” she said.

  He shrugged.

  “You’re…I don’t know.” She looked off into the distance and Matt followed her gaze. Across the road from the school was an open field. It was littered with garbage. A few goats were grazing on whatever they could find. An old man was bent over at the waist, rifling through the trash.

  Charlene picked up the dumbbells and went back to her routine.

  “I just want to be sure you’re okay.”

  He could tell she was trying to sound casual. But there was nothing casual about Charlene.

  “TODAY WE’RE GOING TO BE PATROLLING A DIFFERENT SECTOR,” McNally had announced at their morning meeting. “The area around the al-Hikma Mosque.”

  That was the sector near the alley. As soon as McNally gave the orders, Matt had felt his throat tighten up. He stole a glance at Justin. If he had any reaction to the news, he wasn’t showing it.

  Now the whole squad was riding in the back of a Stryker, an armored vehicle, en route to their assignment, playing their favorite game. It didn’t have a name and no one remembered quite how it started. But it was simple. One person came up with two names. Celebrities, usually, someone everyone knew. Then someone else predicted which one would win in a fight. There was no winner or loser in the game; it was just a way to kill time.

  “David Spade versus Richard Simmons.” This was Figueroa’s contribution. He was slightly older than the rest of the guys, so his choices were sometimes a little lame.

  “Richard Simmons, for sure,” said Wolf. “The dude works out.” He struck a Saturday Night Fever pose. “Sweating to the Oldies.”

  The vehicle hit a bump, flew up in the air, and landed. They all froze for a second. Then, when nothing happened, when they weren’t blown to smithereens by an IED, they seemed to exhale collectively.