Purple Heart Part 14

THE FIRING STOPPED. THERE WAS A LONG, EERIE SILENCE. M 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 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 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. 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 pinged against the hood of the car. 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 M 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. 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.

Mitch.e.l.l 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 Mitch.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l was the medic? Where the h.e.l.l were Mitch.e.l.l 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 pinp.r.i.c.ks. 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 seeping 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. Mitch.e.l.l 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." 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. Mitch.e.l.l 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.

But Justin had been pretty coherent. He'd said it was his fault they were in the alley. That it was his fault Matt had gotten pinned down.

Matt thought back to the moment they'd jumped out of the Humvee to chase the guys who ran the roadblock. He pictured Justin running across the alley, his head down. Justin had been so intent on catching them, so intent on being the hero, that he hadn't stopped to realize what a dangerous situation he'd gotten into.

It was was Justin's fault that they'd been in the alley. But that didn't mean the rest of it was true. That Ali was a spy. Justin's fault that they'd been in the alley. But that didn't mean the rest of it was true. That Ali was a spy.

Ali was just a kid. A pest. A tagalong who was always following them around.

Justin had made up the part about Ali being an enemy sympathizer to cover up for what he'd done. To get his Bronze Star.

Matt leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. And he saw the whole thing all over again. The alley. The candy wrapper fluttering on the razor wire. The dog trotting by. Sparks on the pavement. Ali being lifted off his feet, smiling and slowly paddling his arms like a swimmer, floating into the air until finally all Matt could see were the soles of his shoes.

Matt sat up straight and opened his eyes. The boy floating through the air had been wearing shoes. Soccer cleats.

There was only one way a street kid like Ali could have gotten a pair of shoes, especially soccer cleats. From the insurgents.

A SHORT, STOCKY GUY, A MIDDLE-AGED SOLDIER WITH SQUARE SHORT, STOCKY GUY, A MIDDLE-AGED SOLDIER WITH SQUARE black gla.s.ses, showed up at the barracks when they got back that night. "I'm sorry," he said. "But I wonder if any of you fellas can help me with the personal effects." black gla.s.ses, showed up at the barracks when they got back that night. "I'm sorry," he said. "But I wonder if any of you fellas can help me with the personal effects."

Figueroa had been writing to his wife. Mitch.e.l.l was in bed, asleep, still dressed. And Matt had been sitting on the edge of his cot, his head in his hands. Thinking. And thinking and thinking.

"Personal effects," the guy repeated. "Any belongings we might send home to their loved ones."

Figueroa shook his head and looked at Matt. His chin was quivering. "I can't do it, man."

And so Matt got up and walked over to Wolf's cot, carefully taking the picture of his dog that he'd taped on the wall behind his bed, the thong they'd used for capture the flag, and a letter from his kid sister. The letter, in careful elementary school penmanship, started off Dear Meathead. Dear Meathead.

Matt went through the motions of packing up all of Wolf's stuff as if he were observing the process from a distance. As he folded one of Wolf's shirts, he watched his hands smooth the fabric, making precise military folds, and noted with detachment that he was touching something that Wolf had worn just yesterday, something that now belonged to a dead man. The guy with the square gla.s.ses stood next to him with a clipboard, making a list of everything like he was taking inventory.

When they'd packed everything into three hard plastic black boxes and sealed them with duct tape, Matt helped him load them onto a Humvee.

Matt stopped when he saw two other boxes and a guitar case on the back of the Humvee. A tag on the handle of the guitar case said, Charlene Hughes, KIA. 31 Fairview Road, Black Springs, PA. Charlene Hughes, KIA. 31 Fairview Road, Black Springs, PA.

In a few hours, Charlene's mother would open the front door and see an army chaplain on her porch. Right now, though, she was sleeping or maybe watching TV. Her daughter was dead. She just didn't know it yet.

A female officer was in the front seat of the Humvee holding a clipboard. It registered with Matt that she had gone to Charlene's bunk and packed up her stuff. The guy with the square gla.s.ses clapped Matt on the shoulder. "I'm sorry, son," he said. "I really am." Then he got into the front seat and started the engine.

Matt stared at the boxes that held the last possessions of his friends. Stupid stuff, like the Christmas lights Wolf had strung around his bed, Charlene's stuffed animal. Without even realizing it, Matt had grabbed hold of the fender. The car shifted into drive, but Matt was still hanging on. The vehicle suddenly rocked forward, and Matt watched as his hands turned white, then let go, as he fell on his b.u.t.t and watched the Humvee pull away. He sat there, on the ground, sobbing, until long after the taillights disappeared.

HE WASN'T WHO YOU THOUGHT HE WAS, J JUSTIN HAD SAID.

He was just a kid, Matt had kept telling himself. And it was true. A kid who liked Skittles and American slang. A kid who could score a goal from twenty yards out, barefoot.

He was also an orphan who lived in a drainage pipe, a kid who was so hungry, so desperate, he'd do anything.

He was was a kid-until someone gave him a pair of soccer cleats. After that, he was an enemy sympathizer. A spy. A spotter who had nearly gotten Matt killed. a kid-until someone gave him a pair of soccer cleats. After that, he was an enemy sympathizer. A spy. A spotter who had nearly gotten Matt killed.

And Matt was a fool. He'd thought he was a good guy, the kind of guy who handed out art supplies to little kids and played soccer with them. But it was his friendship with Ali that had gotten the boy killed. He'd thought it was Justin who'd put them in danger. But by befriending Ali, Matt had actually put the whole squad at risk.

Figueroa came over to b.u.m a smoke. "Do you think we should be worried about Mitch.e.l.l?" he said. "He hasn't moved in, like, hours."

Matt shrugged. "I don't know. I know when you have a concussion they wake you up every hour so you don't go into a coma or something."

They just stared at Mitch.e.l.l's big, hulking form under the blanket. Itchy was curled up at the foot of the bed.

"So tell me, did everyone know?" Matt said.

"About what?"

"About what happened the day I got hurt."

Figueroa took a long pull on his cigarette. "We knew something went down. But we didn't know what, exactly." He shrugged. "Justin got kinda weird after that-snapping at people, trying to get out of patrol duty. McNally was going to send him to a headshrinker."

"What do you mean?"

Figueroa took another long drag on his cigarette, exhaled, then studied the smoke pouring out of his nostrils. "He wouldn't want anyone to know this, okay?"

Matt waited.

"Justin couldn't pull the trigger after that."

The words. .h.i.t Matt like a body blow.

Figueroa examined his cigarette. It had burned down so low, he didn't even take another drag. He stamped it out underfoot.

"You won't tell anyone?" he said.

Matt could barely nod.

"Well, today, when that bomb blew up, he freaked. When Wolf got hit, Justin lost it. Went running for McNally, like, I don't know, like a baby running to its mother."

Matt remembered the strange look on Justin's face: he had been terrified.

"Then, all of a sudden, a couple minutes later, he jumps out from behind the car and starts shooting. Instant Rambo." Figueroa headed back to his bed. "Go figure."

Matt sank down onto his cot. What happened in the alley that day had haunted them both-had shaken them up so much that they'd nearly stopped being soldiers. But when it had mattered most, Justin still had his back and he had Justin's.

THE NEXT DAY WAS RIDICULOUSLY BEAUTIFUL. A RARE RARE Baghdad day when there was a slight breeze in the air. The leaves of the palm trees were whispering and the air smelled like fresh-baked bread and cardamom. Even the sun seemed benign. Baghdad day when there was a slight breeze in the air. The leaves of the palm trees were whispering and the air smelled like fresh-baked bread and cardamom. Even the sun seemed benign.

McNally was outside in what used to be the school play yard. He had set up a rifle leaning against a pair of boots, and he was about to put the helmet on top of the rifle b.u.t.t. The traditional setup for a memorial service in the field. Something Matt hadn't seen since Benson was killed. Something he didn't want to see.

He was about to leave when McNally looked up at him. His eyes were red and swollen and he looked like h.e.l.l.

Matt didn't say anything, he just knelt down next to McNally and helped him set up the second rifle and pair of boots. One for Wolf. One for Charlene.

"I'm sorry," McNally whispered. Matt couldn't tell if McNally was talking to him or to the memorial he'd set up. "I let you down."

Matt didn't know what to say.

"I saw this guy with a green backpack," McNally said, turning to face Matt. "Near the chai seller. He looked me right in the eye. Walked up to Wolf and asked for a smoke. Then he did it. Pulled the strap. Blew himself sky high. Wolf never even had a chance."

Matt wanted to yell and curse and punch someone. But he was too sad, and too exhausted, to do anything but sit there.

McNally shook his head. "These people..."

Matt thought about what Charlene had said when Ali stole his sungla.s.ses. That's what happens when you try to make friends with these people. That's what happens when you try to make friends with these people. And he thought about what Wolf had said about being in Iraq. And he thought about what Wolf had said about being in Iraq. We came over here to help these people and instead we're killing them. We came over here to help these people and instead we're killing them.

They were both right.