Purple Heart

  It made no sense. Worse than that, it meant that Justin had shot Ali intentionally.

  Matt pushed that idea out of his head. Justin could be a hot dog sometimes, a little too gung ho, but he wouldn’t have killed an innocent person, a little kid, a kid he knew, no less. There was no way.

  Charlene had implied that McNally had known they’d disobeyed orders going into that alley and that he “let it slide.” That didn’t make sense, either. McNally wouldn’t sanction an unauthorized mission that had nearly gotten one of his men killed.

  Now they were in the Stryker, on their way back to base, and Matt was sitting directly across from Justin. No one was in the mood for games now. They never were. The joking all took place on the way to a mission. It kept them from thinking about what you were about to face. On the way home, though, people were always exhausted. Even if it had been an uneventful patrol. It didn’t matter. The sheer tension of walking a street where anything could happen, at any moment, was so grueling that if you lived through it, you just wanted to forget about it and stare into space.

  WHEN THEY GOT BACK TO BASE, MCNALLY PULLED MATT aside, around the corner of the building.

  “You okay, kid?”

  McNally was only a couple years older than Matt—he’d dropped out of college and joined up when his parents kicked him out the house—but Matt didn’t usually mind him referring to him as “kid.” At the moment, though, McNally looked, not angry exactly, but not happy, either.

  “Yeah, sure, Sarge,” he said. “Fine.”

  “No bladder problems I need to know about?”

  Matt gave him a puzzled look.

  McNally moved his tongue around behind his lower lip, adjusting a pinch of tobacco. He spit, then looked Matt over head to toe.

  “I don’t know what the hell you think you were doing today, going off by yourself….” He paused. “But from now on, you and Charlene are Siamese twins. Do you understand?”

  Matt swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

  McNally stepped closer. He took hold of the straps of Matt’s flak jacket, and yanked on them, just hard enough to pull Matt toward him, so close that Matt could see a tiny scar over his left eye.

  “Good,” he said. “Because I wouldn’t want you to end up in that hospital again.”

  He let go, and Matt rocked back on his heels. “Yes, sir.”

  “Now go clean the shitters. I want you to get rid of all that graffiti.”

  As Matt walked away he had that uncomfortable tingling feeling on the back of his neck, as if McNally were still watching him. He went straight to the supply shed and pulled out the mop and cleaning supplies before he turned around to check. He was gone, but Matt still couldn’t shake the feeling.

  He didn’t like being in trouble with McNally. He was a good squad leader, a guy who really cared about his troops. But it was strange that McNally hadn’t actually asked Matt what he’d been doing when he wandered off. Just like Brody. He didn’t want to know because then he might have to do something about it.

  THE WALLS OF THE LATRINES WERE COVERED IN GRAFFITI—most of it angry black scribbling about Osama bin Laden, George Bush, about how hot it was in Iraq or about how bad it smelled in the latrines. But there was also a series of ever-escalating Chuck Norris jokes that had started when they first set up camp.

  They once made a Chuck Norris toilet paper, but it wouldn’t take shit from anybody.

  Chuck Norris is not hung like a horse. Horses are hung like Chuck Norris.

  There is no such thing as a lesbian, there are just girls who’ve never met Chuck Norris.

  Matt always smiled at that last one, no matter how many times he’d seen it.

  But he wasn’t smiling now as he swabbed the floor with a mop and tried to make sense of what he’d seen in the alley, of what Charlene had told him, and of what McNally had said to him a few minutes ago.

  At the moment he was focused on what Charlene said about Justin playing Rambo, about pursuing the insurgents down a dead-end alley. How had they even ended up there, if it was against SOP?

  He was down on his knees, scrubbing away at another Chuck Norris joke in black Magic Marker: 96% of all women lose their virginity to Chuck Norris. The other 4% are fat.

  The stall door swung open. It was Justin.

  “Chuck Norris doesn’t clean latrines,” Justin said.

  “Yeah, he gives them a roundhouse kick.” Matt surprised himself by how easily he was able to fall back into the old routine. But at least Justin was talking to him. And they were alone. This was his chance.

  “I saw you talking to McNally,” Justin said.

  “So?”

  “So, don’t fuck things up.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Just let it go.”

  “Justin—”

  But Justin had already left.

  THEY WERE ON THEIR WAY TO PATROL THE MARKET AGAIN. It was a nice day—by Baghdad standards. Only ninety-two degrees. But Matt’s every move was sluggish and his head was as cloudy as it had been that first day in the hospital. Like having a hangover, except without the good time beforehand.

  The rest of the squad was in high spirits, though. At their morning briefing McNally had announced that the cease-fire had been extended. Supposedly, there were even talks with the Iraqi government about a date for U.S. troops to go home. No one wanted to jinx it, though, so instead of talking about the cease-fire, the other guys were playing the Game.

  “Madonna versus Pink.” Figueroa had a thing for Madonna. He was always throwing her name out.

  “Dude, we’re sick of Madonna,” Wolf said. “You just used her last week against Larry King.”

  “So what? She beat him.”

  Matt popped a piece of Stay Alert Gum in his mouth as he climbed out of the vehicle. He jogged a few steps to loosen up, aware that his leg was dragging again.

  They fanned out in pairs, the way they had every day this week. Wolf and Figueroa went first, then Justin and Mitchell, Matt and Charlene last. Matt took a sip of water from his CamelBak and followed along behind Charlene. McNally stayed with the vehicle to monitor the radio.

  “You look like shit,” Charlene said.

  Matt managed a wan smile. “You know I’m not just eye candy, right?”

  Charlene frowned. “And what’s with your leg? You limping?”

  He didn’t say anything, but he made a note to himself to be sure to walk behind Charlene today so she wouldn’t be able to keep a close eye on him.

  As if she could read his mind, she turned around and walked on, keeping a slower pace than usual.

  The mood in the market was lively, like it was the day of the festival. People took their time shopping, milling around the various stalls, stopping to watch an old man dancing in front of a boom box instead of scurrying from stall to stall as they had before the cease-fire. And a guy who ran a tea shop offered the whole squad free cups of chai.

  “Peace! Peace!” the man said through his missing teeth as he pushed the chai on them.

  Even Charlene seemed to get into the spirit. Matt was leaning against a post watching as she tried to communicate with a man selling rugs.

  “Beautiful,” she said as the man held up one small prayer rug after another.

  Matt could tell—from the polite smile frozen on her face—that Charlene was just trying to be friendly. But he also knew that the man was hoping to make a sale. After Charlene had looked at all the rugs without making an offer, the man snapped his fingers and gestured to his son to get more samples from the back of the stall.

  Charlene shook her head. “Beautiful,” she shouted, as if that would help. “But no, thank you.”

  The man looked confused, then went back to the first pile of rugs. Charlene turned around and waved to Matt. “Duffy,” she shouted out over the din of voices and the squawking of chickens underfoot. “Help me out here.”

  The sounds of the bazaar seemed to fade out as if someone had slowly turned the volume down on the TV, and Mat
t felt a painful pressure in his ears. There was a bright flash of light. Then a piece of metal—it looked strangely like a frying pan—flew through the air and hit Charlene in the chin. Matt watched her head snap back. Then she disappeared behind a cloud of dust.

  MATT HAD BEEN THROWN TO THE GROUND BY THE FORCE OF the blast and he lay facedown in the dirt, gasping for air. He could feel heat on his cheek and registered that something was on fire nearby, but all he could see was a wall of swirling dust and sand. He scrambled to his feet and ran through the smoke toward where Charlene had been standing.

  There was nothing left of the rug seller’s stand except a piece of torn plastic sheeting flapping in the wind, but there was Charlene, lying on one of the rugs she’d been admiring, as if she’d decided to take a nap on it. Her eyes were open and she was staring up at the sky, a blank look on her face. Matt knelt down, grabbed her hand, and started talking to her. “You’re okay,” he said. “You’re going to be fine.”

  Matt felt for her pulse. Nothing. He held his hand near her mouth, checking for breath. Nothing. Then he leaned his head against her chest to listen for a heartbeat.

  Her body was soft. That was all he could think. That Charlene, the little toughy who bragged about bench-pressing more than the guys, was actually soft and girly. He put his arms around her, pulled her toward him, and rocked her back and forth in his arms.

  All around him people were screaming. Things were burning. A fine gray ash was falling, like snow. While Matt burrowed his face into her shoulder and wept.

  A MINUTE OR TWO LATER, HE BECAME AWARE OF GUNFIRE, NOT far away. His training took over then as he realized that a secondary attack was underway. Whoever had set off the bomb was taking advantage of the chaos to fire at the Americans who’d survived. He laid Charlene gently on the rug and turned in the direction of the gunfire.

  The explosion had gone off in the middle of a shopping district and there were buildings all around, so it took Matt a minute to figure out what was going on.

  On the left side of the street he saw a line of smoke and flame. The insurgents had poured oil in a drainage ditch, then set it on fire. They were firing from behind the smoke, making it impossible for them to be seen.

  On the other side of the street, behind a line of parked cars, Matt saw the tip of McNally’s long radio antenna quivering in the air. He couldn’t see the guys in his squad, but he saw muzzle flashes as they fired in the direction of the flaming ditch.

  From the angle where he was, Matt could only see the exchange of fire; he couldn’t really see the men on either side.

  Then the wind shifted for a moment and he saw, from behind the smoking ditch, an enemy fighter—a young bearded guy in a blue track suit—hoisting a grenade launcher on his shoulder. He struggled under the weight of the weapon for a moment, then dropped back down behind the smoke screen.

  Matt propped his M16 on the hood of a nearby car and adjusted the scope. The scene was blurry at first, nothing but flames and debris.

  Then, with one fractional turn on the scope, the guy in the track suit popped into focus. It was a strangely intimate feeling, the way the high-powered lens brought him so close.

  Matt placed his finger on the trigger. But he couldn’t steady it, couldn’t make it bend, couldn’t make it stop shaking.

  He took his eye away from the lens and saw Justin leaning out from behind a car, getting ready to make a run in the direction of McNally’s antenna. He had a weird look on his face, like he was lost or something.

  Matt looked through the scope again. The guy in the track suit was aiming the grenade launcher at Justin. Matt held his breath and tapped his finger against the trigger.

  It was as if the bullet left his weapon in slow motion. Matt could see it boring through the air in front of him, traveling inch by inch by inch past the buildings in the alley, until finally it disappeared into the flames.

  THE FIRING STOPPED. THERE WAS A LONG, EERIE SILENCE. MATT counted to one hundred. Then to one hundred again. He picked up Charlene’s body and started to walk in the direction of McNally’s antenna. But a few seconds after he stepped out into the open, he heard the ching, ching, ching of rounds going by overhead. He ducked behind a flimsy wooden market table that must have been blown into the street by the explosion. He peered around the side of the table and saw Justin crouched behind one of the cars, gesturing to him.

  “C’mon!” he yelled. “Get over here.”

  But Matt couldn’t move.

  Then Justin stepped out from behind the car and started firing, giving cover so Matt would have time to make a run for it. That somehow brought Matt back to his senses. He pulled Charlene’s body close and tried to run. His right leg trembled under the weight, but somehow he made it to the other side of the street just as a bullet pinged against the hood of the car.

  Figueroa took Charlene from him and laid her gently on a tarp that had been spread out on the ground behind them. There was another American soldier lying on the tarp, facedown. Parts of his uniform were burned off—but not the small wolf decal on the back of his helmet. Wolf.

  Matt slumped down, his back against the car, and a minute later he felt Justin sit down next to him, cursing under his breath.

  The firing had stopped. There was an uneasy quiet. Then a deafening roar as a U.S. helicopter came out of nowhere. A barrage of missiles rained on the building behind the ditch. The structure crumbled like a sand castle, and the chopper flew off.

  IT TOOK MATT A COUPLE MINUTES TO UNDERSTAND THAT the blood on his hands and all over the front of his uniform was Charlene’s. And a few more minutes to realize that the pool of blood on the ground next to him was Justin’s.

  Mitchell and Figueroa and McNally were staring in awe at the wreckage of the building across the street. But Matt was still sitting on the ground looking at his hands. And Justin was sitting next to him and cursing and pawing at his leg, like he was trying to get something out of his pocket.

  Matt turned and looked over at Justin. There was a rip in his pants—and a puddle of blood on the ground beneath his leg.

  Matt got to his knees, put his hand over Justin’s wound, and yelled for a medic. When the other guys realized what was going on, McNally got on the radio and started shouting for a medic. And Mitchell and Figueroa ran off to get help.

  Matt had positioned himself so he was straddling Justin as he sat propped up against the car. He was leaning forward, both hands on the wound, face-to-face with him as he pressed down to stop the bleeding.

  Justin winced, then gritted his teeth.

  “It’s okay, man,” Matt said. “Medic’s on his way.”

  “Dude,” Justin said, “I…”

  “Just take it easy, dude,” Matt said. “Don’t try to talk.”

  Justin shook his head. “I did it, you know,” he said.

  Matt knew exactly what “it” was. “Let’s talk about that later, dude,” Matt said. “Like when you take me fishing at that place near your house.”

  Beads of sweat were running down Justin’s face and he was breathing fast, but he acted like he hadn’t heard. “It was my fault we were in that alley in the first place. It was my fault you got pinned down behind that car.”

  Matt shook his head. “Shut up, man. Forget about it.”

  Matt looked over his shoulder. McNally was shouting into the radio, trying to describe their location. Where the hell was the medic? Where the hell were Mitchell and Figueroa?

  “He wasn’t who you thought he was,” Justin said. “Ali.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Matt looked in Justin’s eyes. His pupils were like black pinpricks. A sign of shock, maybe. Maybe that’s why he was going on about Ali. Or maybe he needed to get it off his chest. Either way, Matt didn’t want to hear what he was saying.

  “Take it easy,” Matt said. “Just stop talking, okay?”

  Justin shook his head. “What do you think he was doing in that alley?”

  Matt looked away, at his fingers, at the blood se
eping out between them.

  “He was a spotter, Matt. He was relaying information about your position so they could adjust their fire.”

  Everything stopped. The sirens. The crackling of the burning building across the street. McNally cursing into the radio.

  Then everything seemed to happen very quickly. A medic was kneeling down next to Matt. He removed Matt’s hands from the wound and started cutting Justin’s pant leg open with scissors. Another medic shouldered his way in between Matt and Justin and started an IV in Justin’s arm. Matt rocked back on his heels and stared at Justin through the crowd that had seemed to gather around him. Mitchell and Figueroa were back. McNally was there. Everyone was talking at once.

  Then Justin was being lifted onto a stretcher. He was cursing and being carried away as Matt knelt on the ground, watching pairs of khaki legs shuffle past him.

  The next thing Matt heard was gravel spraying as the ambulance pulled away.

  MATT WAS IN SOME KIND OF ABANDONED WAREHOUSE, sitting on the floor, his helmet in his lap. A medic had just come by to check him over, then left, telling him to eat something. “Have a drink of water,” he said. “Relax.”

  It was a stupid thing to say. Two of his squad members were dead. Justin was injured. And he was supposed to relax.

  But people were saying all kinds of weird things. Mitchell had said something about Wolf’s little sister sending him Rice Krispie Treats. He was in shock, apparently, curled up on the floor next to Matt in a fetal position, an army blanket around his shoulders. And McNally was in a corner, punching his fist into his thigh, muttering.

  Matt had heard of guys saying crazy things when they were injured; he’d heard of a guy asking about what would happen to his motorcycle if he died. Mainly they called out for their mothers.