Purple Heart Part 2

"Yeah, Ma, I'm fine...."

"Are you..."

"...Just got a little banged up."

"...all in one piece?"

There was a slight delay in the line, so they talked over each other, then paused and waited for the other one, then started talking again at the same time.

"Go ahead," he said.

"No, you go ahead."

"I'm okay. I just, you know, got a b.u.mp on the head. I'm in, you know, the infirmary, but I'm good," he said.

The female officer who'd given him the phone stood by, listening in, as Matt hemmed and hawed about what had happened. He said it was no big deal, just another day in Iraq.

"Are you sure?" He could hear his mother's voice cracking.

"Ma! If I say I'm fine, I'm fine." He hadn't meant to yell at her. Yelling also made his head throb. "Look," he said, a little more gently, "they told me I'll be back with my squad in a couple days."

"Oh." Her voice sounded little and far away. She was was little and far away, Matt thought. Little and far away and all by herself. His dad had split a long time ago. Which meant there was no money for college for Lizzy, who, unlike Matt, was really good in school. When Matt came home from the recruiter's office, his mom had cried. When he said now she'd have college money for Lizzy, she'd cried even harder. little and far away, Matt thought. Little and far away and all by herself. His dad had split a long time ago. Which meant there was no money for college for Lizzy, who, unlike Matt, was really good in school. When Matt came home from the recruiter's office, his mom had cried. When he said now she'd have college money for Lizzy, she'd cried even harder.

They were quiet for a minute, then they both started talking at the same time.

"How's Caroline?" he said.

"...markers you wanted," she said.

"What did you say?" he said.

"What did you say?" she said.

"I asked if you've seen Caroline lately."

"I said I sent those colored markers you asked for," she said. "For the little Iraqi boy."

"Oh," they both said at the same time.

The officer tapped her watch again, and Matt was actually glad to have an excuse to hang up.

"I gotta go, Ma," Matt said. "I'll write. If you see Caroline, tell her I'm okay. Okay?"

"I also sent you peanut b.u.t.ter," his mom said. "And more socks."

"That's great, Ma. You're the greatest," he said. "So you'll tell Caroline, right?"

"And cookies. Snickerdoodles. The kind you like."

"Ma," he said, "I gotta go."

"...just hope they don't get all broken..."

The last time his mom sent cookies, all that arrived was a box of crumbs. He'd told her they were delicious, that the guys loved them.

"Okay, Ma," he said. He cupped his free hand over the receiver. "I love you, Ma," he whispered.

He looked up and saw the female officer smiling, just a little, despite herself.

Then he heard a tiny sniffling sound, then a few muted beeps as they were disconnected.

THE HEAVY THUMP-THUMP THUMP-THUMP OF A BOOM-BOX BEAT WOKE HIM OF A BOOM-BOX BEAT WOKE HIM up sometime later. Matt looked around, not sure where he was for a moment. It was midmorning, he figured, judging by the slant of the sunlight streaming in through an open window. The music-50 Cent-was blasting from outside. up sometime later. Matt looked around, not sure where he was for a moment. It was midmorning, he figured, judging by the slant of the sunlight streaming in through an open window. The music-50 Cent-was blasting from outside.

He sat up gingerly, his whole body stiff and sore, then eased himself to the side of the bed and looked out his second-story window. He could see the gold dome of a mosque in the distance and the city skyline fringed with palm trees. Directly below his window was a dusty lot where a bunch of Iraqi kids were dancing. A gangly little boy stood in the center of the group, lip-synching and wagging his hands in a spot-on imitation of a rapper.

"I'll take you to the candy shop..." the kid pretended to sing. "I'll let you lick the lollipop."

It was unreal, seeing this skinny, barefoot kid doing a hand glide, and Matt thought about what Justin had said once when they were in the street handing out candy to the scrum of little kids who followed them everywhere: "We're bringing these people America!"

For nearly a month after Matt's squad had first arrived, there'd been a lull in the fighting, so his squad was instructed to establish contacts within the community. He and Justin had pulled a couple Humvees and Bradleys into a circle and made a soccer field. Then they gathered a bunch of kids who'd been picking through the trash heap next to their base, looking for tin cans to sell for salvage, and organized them into two teams: the Weapons of Ma.s.s Destruction and the Shock and Awe. Justin played with the Shock and Awe kids and Matt with the WMDs. The kids ran around barefoot on the hard, littered patch of ground, but they still outmaneuvered the two soldiers.

As he gazed out the window, Matt pictured Ali, a ten-year-old who was one of the WMDs, scoring a goal, running away from the net. Usually Ali celebrated by spreading his arms like a pair of airplane wings, like the great Brazilian forward, Ronaldo. It was a move he'd picked up watching TV in the market, as he knelt on the ground and peeked through the forest of men's legs.

But if it was an especially pretty goal, he'd look over at Matt and make an imaginary pair of gla.s.ses around his eyes with his fingers.

The gesture had two meanings. It meant "Did you see that?" But it was also a reference to Matt's shiny wraparound sungla.s.ses. The ones Ali had stolen the first day they'd met.

He'd come up to Matt one day in the market and tugged on his jacket. "h.e.l.lo, Skittles," he'd said, running the two words together as if Matt's name was Skittles.

Matt had no candy left, but the kid was so skinny-his belly was bloated and he had legs like a stork-that Matt started digging around in his pockets for an energy bar. He gave Ali his sungla.s.ses to hold for a minute. Next thing he knew, the boy had run off with them. The gla.s.ses, which Matt's mom had given him, were absolutely crucial in the brutal Iraqi sun and so Matt had chased after him until he disappeared around a corner.

But he couldn't catch him, something for which Charlene, their civil affairs officer, had given him merciless grief. "How are we gonna find weapons of ma.s.s destruction if you can't even find a pair of shades?" she'd said.

Girls-females, as the army called them-weren't technically allowed in combat, but Charlene had been "attached" to their squad to conduct searches of females after the army found out that some of the enemy soldiers were dressing as women to avoid being searched. For a civil affairs officer, though, she didn't seem to actually like civilians all that much. And she seemed to take some satisfaction in this kid running off with Matt's gla.s.ses. "See?" she said in a schoolteachery tone. "That's what happens when you try to make friends with these people."

Later that day, the chaplain stopped by and said Ma.s.s. It was outside, in the town square, and Matt noticed the same kid standing there, watching as the soldiers went up to receive Communion. Then the boy got in line-he copied the way people folded their hands and bowed their heads-and he stuck his tongue out. The priest didn't bat an eye. And the boy chewed the tiny wafer like he couldn't get it down fast enough. A few minutes later he was back in line, for seconds.

When Ma.s.s ended and Matt stood up from the crate he was sitting on, the sungla.s.ses were on the ground behind him.

Outside, the boom box went silent. One of the kids jiggled it and it stuttered to life again, then died. The group started to disperse, then one of kids ran to a corner of the lot and retrieved a soccer ball. One of the Stars and Stripes soccer b.a.l.l.s the troops handed out.

The kids sorted themselves into two teams and began tearing around the lot. One kid-a barefoot boy in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt-darted in and out, then scored a goal, placing his shot between an empty Gatorade bottle and a rock that served as goalposts. Then he ran away from the net, his arms outstretched.

The boy slowed down, then drifted out of the heat into the shade under Matt's window. He bent over, caught his breath, and then a moment later stepped out into the sunshine to return to the field.

Matt watched, but in his mind, he saw Ali. Ali stepping out from the shade of a doorway and into bright light. The image made his mouth go dry.

LATER, M MATT DECIDED TO SEE IF HE COULD WALK A LITTLE bit. The sooner he could get better, the sooner he'd be back with the guys. bit. The sooner he could get better, the sooner he'd be back with the guys.

He used his arms to push himself off the bed, and he took a few shaky steps. Then his knees wobbled and he felt himself sinking. He leaned back against the bed.

"Easy there, cowboy." It was the pretty black nurse who'd taken his blood pressure.

Matt grabbed the back of his hospital gown to make sure it was tied. Then he took another timid step forward. He teetered there a moment, then his right leg gave out and he had to grab the handrails on the bed to keep from falling down.

"I think maybe that's enough for today," she said, turning him back toward the bed with a strength that surprised him.

Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were practically at eye level as she helped him into bed and he turned his face sideways so she wouldn't think he was taking advantage of the situation. She smelled good, like baby powder.

"Thanks," he said after he was back in bed. "Thanks, Nurse McCrae." Her name tag had also been right at eye level.

She left, then came back a minute later carrying a gray army T-shirt, a pair of black gym shorts, and some rubber flip-flops. "Here," she said. "In case you want to go for another walk."

"SO WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?"

Matt had attempted a second walk. This time, he made it as far as two cots away, where a beefy soldier with broad cheeks, jet-black hair cut in a flattop, and dark, almost crimson skin was scribbling rapidly in a notebook. He hardly glanced up from his writing when Matt stopped at the foot of his bed to rest a moment. Matt stood there, too winded to answer.

"You got any Percocet?" the guy said.

Percocet. Matt didn't know what that was. Or he had known, a long time ago, but couldn't remember.

"Percs, Oxy. Whatever," the guy said. "Bennies, even. I'll give you five bucks. Or three packs of Marlboros."

Matt understood that it was his turn to say something, but he didn't know how to answer. "I don't have those things," he said finally. He was embarra.s.sed at the way he sounded: stilted, almost babyish. The other soldier knotted his thick, dark eyebrows, then went back to writing in his notebook.

Matt considered walking to his bed, but it seemed very far away. He cleared his throat and looked at the other soldier; he was powerfully built, tall-a good foot taller than Matt-and several years older, too.

"What happened to you?" Matt said. "Why are you here?"

The guy looked up, a.s.sessing Matt. "Bad case of CFU."

"CFU?"

"Completely f.u.c.ked up."

Matt nodded as if he understood. The other guy looked him over head to toe, seemed to make a decision about him, then stuck out his hand. "Francis."

Matt nodded again, not quite sure what to do next.

"How 'bout you?" Francis said. "You got a name?"

"Duffy," he said. "Matt."

Francis closed his notebook partway, keeping his finger inside at the page where he'd been writing, and gestured for Matt to sit down. Behind him, on his pillow, was a stuffed animal-a tattered Miss Piggy doll. Francis pushed Miss Piggy aside to make room. "It's my daughter's," he said. "She's five."

Matt eased himself onto the edge of the bed, surprised by how much a relief it was to sit down. Francis was wearing a gray army T-shirt and black basketball shorts just like the ones Nurse McCrae had given Matt. There didn't seem to be a scratch anywhere on him.

"Yup," Francis said. "Absolutely nothing wrong with me."

Matt didn't know what to say.

Francis tapped his temple with his finger. "Head case," he said.

Matt felt himself pull back ever so slightly.

If Francis noticed, he didn't let on. "So what brings you here, Duffy Matt?"

Matt frowned. He couldn't remember the name of the thing that happened to his brain. It was three initials. "My brain got shook up," he said finally.

Francis nodded. "IED?"

Matt shook his head. It wasn't an IED. He knew what that was: an improvised explosive device. A roadside bomb.

Sergeant Benson, their first squad leader, had been killed by an IED. Tore his left leg off. While the rest of the squad covered the body with a blue plastic tarp, Justin had taken off on his own. They were always supposed to travel in pairs and it was standard operating procedure to stick together after an attack, to set up a defensive position in case there was a second attack. But Justin had stormed off to a nearby tea shop to ask questions. He came back, pushing an old man in front of him, his M16 pressed into the man's back. "I found this on him," Justin had said, tossing a cell phone into the dirt.

The insurgents often used cell-phone signals to detonate bombs, but the old man didn't have the hard, defiant look of an enemy fighter. He was crying and plucking at his beard; Matt could see he'd wet his pants.

The old man fell to his knees and started kissing Justin's boots. As Justin stared at the man huddled at his feet, his expression changed slowly from disbelief to disgust. Justin was about to kick the man, Matt realized.

Without thinking, Matt had thrown himself between Justin and the old man, taking Justin to the ground in a flying tackle. The two of them wrestled around in the dirt, throwing furious, clumsy punches at each other until, finally, Matt had him pinned. "I know you loved Benson," Matt said. "And I know you're p.i.s.sed. But this isn't the time to do something stupid."

That night the squad had had to sleep on the floor of an Iraqi home, huddled together to stay warm. Matt woke up in the middle of the night to find Justin covering him with a thin blanket he must have found somewhere in the house. Then Justin lay down next to him, cradling his rifle in his arms, and closed his eyes. They never said a word about what had happened that day, but after that they had become inseparable.

"Kid!" Francis snapped his fingers in front of Matt's eyes. "Was it an IED?"

Matt shook his head. "It was something else," he said. He closed his eyes for a second, concentrating hard. He pictured Justin sitting next to his hospital bed. "I was on the business end of an RPG," he said finally.

Francis whistled. "You in pain?"

Matt shook his head. A dull ache pulsed at the base of his skull. "Some," he said.

Francis reached under his pillow and pulled out a plastic bottle of pills. "I'm out of codeine," he said. "But I got plenty of these." It was Ripped Fuel, a capsule a lot of the guys took before they went out on all-night patrols. It had something in it called ephedra, which Justin said had more caffeine than a hundred packs of Nescafe crystals. But Matt didn't like it; it made him jumpy.

"No thanks," he said.

Francis scanned the ward. Only a few beds were occupied. Down at one end, two guys were playing poker, using cigarettes for chips. Across the aisle, one guy was showing his tattoo to the guy in the next bed. Francis downed a couple of capsules without water, then turned to Matt.