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 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 black glasses, 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. Mitchell 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.
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 glasses 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.
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 glasses 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 butt 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, 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 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 bum a smoke. “Do you think we should be worried about Mitchell?” 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 Mitchell’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 hit 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 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 butt. 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 hell.
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 sunglasses. 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. We came over here to help these people and instead we’re killing them.
They were both right.
Matt helped McNally to his feet, then took hold of the straps on his vest, just the way McNally had done the day he made Matt clean the latrines. “Sarge,” he said, “it wasn’t your fault.”
McNally gripped the straps on Matt’s vest and looked him in the eye. “And Duffy.” His voice was firm, as if he were giving an order. “What happened in the alley, that wasn’t your fault, either.”
THEIR SQUAD—WHAT WAS LEFT OF IT—WAS ON REST AND recovery that day because of what had happened to them in the market. Sometime around lunchtime, Mitchell had gotten up to pee, then went straight back to sleep. Figueroa was reading Let God Handle It and writing down what he would say at the memorial service later on. And Matt was staring at the bare wall where Wolf’s mementos had been when McNally walked in. He was holding a yellow form of some kind, about to give an order, but he stopped at the doorway at the sight of the empty beds.
Matt got up, went over to him, and gestured to the form. “What’s this, Sarge?”
McNally shook his head slightly, as if he were waking up. “I, uh, I have to go on a supply run,” he said. “Anyone want to go with me?”
Matt grabbed his helmet and stood up. Anything was better than sitting around the barracks and thinking.
MCNALLY DROVE THE HUMVEE AS MATT STARED OUT THE window. They weren’t going far, only to a makeshift warehouse where the army stored spare tires, extra sleeping bags, that sort of thing. They weren’t even going outside the wire, the area of the town that the army had secured months ago and cordoned off with concrete blast walls and razor wire.
It was one of the more peaceful parts of town. There were a handful of restaurants where the men sat at outdoor tables, sipping tea and reading newspapers. The women milled around in the market, gossiping and squeezing the produce. And the children went to school carrying backpacks decorated with American cartoon characters. There was even an ice-cream vendor.
But all Matt saw as they drove along were threats. Every tea seller was an enemy soldier. Every woman was a spy. Every backpack held a bomb.
McNally pulled up in front of the warehouse and cut the engine. “You coming?” he said.
Matt shook his head. “I’ll wait out here.”
He got out, slung his weapon over his shoulder, and leaned against the back of the Humvee. A good place to keep an eye on anyone who went past.
It was a quiet morning, but Matt noticed an Iraqi man with a big belly strolling by on the other side of the street, talking on a cell phone. Slowly, Matt’s finger sought out the trigger pad of the rifle at his side. He squinted at the man, keeping him in view until he turned down a side street. A few minutes later, a gang of young men came by, guys Matt’s own age, wearing Western shirts and sweaters, carrying books. They were arguing in lively, animated voices, jabbing one another now and then to make a point. Matt straightened up, planted his boots on the ground, and glowered at them. One of the boys spotted him and pointed to the others. Their voices fell silent as they scurried past.
Then the door to the school across the street flew open with a clang. Little girls in blue jumpers and crisp white blouses and little boys in navy trousers and white shirts came spilling out into a dusty lot ringed by a tall fence. The everyday sounds of the street faded and the air was filled with the sounds of shrieking and laughing as the kids raced around the lot playing.
Matt pulled a cigarette out of his pack and tried to light it, but it didn’t catch. He tried again with no luck, then tossed the cigarette into the gutter and grabbed another one. His head was bowed, his hand cupped over the flame, when he heard it. The soft pock of someone kicking a soccer ball. He looked up and saw the black-and-white ball as it flew over the fence and bounced into the middle of the road.
He inhaled and narrowed his gaze. Coming down the road, a few hundred yards away, was a bus.
A few of the kids ran to the fence and shouted at him. They pointed to the ball and jumped up and down.
But Matt couldn’t seem to move. The ball had rolled to a stop. And the bus was getting closer. And all he could do was watch the scene unfold as if it were one of Meaghan Finnerty’s test questions: If the bus is going thirty miles an hour, how long will it take to reach the soccer ball?
The teacher came to the fence and yelled angrily at him. The bus driver honked his horn. And all the kids in the yard gathered at the fence, screaming and pointing frantically.
All except one. She was smaller than the others and she’d had to crawl under their legs to get to the fence to see what was going on. Her dark hair hung down in two little braids tied with yellow ribbons.
While all the others were shrieking at him, she’d stuck her arm through the fence to give him the thumbs-up.
When the other kids looked at him, they saw just another American soldier. But the little girl with the yellow ribbons in her hair seemed to be saying I see you.
And so Matt dashed into the street, gave the ball a gentle kick, and watched as it sailed into the crayon-blue sky.
Acknowledgments
My deepest thanks go to the families of Army Sergeant Sherwood Baker, Army Specialist Joshua Justice Henry, Marine Lance Corporal Patrick B. Kenny, Army First Lieutenant Neil Anthony Santoriello, and Marine Lance Corporal William Brett Wightman. These families were generous, kind, and brave in sharing the stories of their sons and brothers with me. The shape of this story changed many times since we sat in their living rooms, looking at scrapbooks and revisiting cherished and sometimes painful memories, but it was in their honor that this book was written.
I would also like to thank Gunnery Sergeant Armando Felciano, Headquarters and Support Company, First Battalion, 25th Marines, for the diligence and attention to detail he brought to this book. He checked and challenged the facts in the story so that the book would be a faithful rendering of life in Iraq.
I would also like to thank Gene McMahon and the volunteers at Vets Journey Home, for allowing me to staff a remarkable workshop that helps returning vets vanquish the ghosts of combat; the American Friends Service Committee, whose exhibit “Eyes Wide Open” moved me to investigate the civilian casualties in the war in Iraq; Veterans Against the War, a group of brave and dedicated soldiers who let me camp out with them on their march to New Orleans; and the staff at the McClellan Memorial Veterans Hospital in Little Rock, Arkansas, for their patience in educating me about posttraumatic stress and traumatic brain injury.
My editor, Alessandra Balzer, once again guided me through tough terrain with intelligence, care, and poise, and my writers group, Mark Millhone and Andrea Chapin, supported and inspired me every step of the way.
Lastly, thanks to my family, who makes it possible for me to do the work I love.
About the Author
PATRICIA MCCORMICK is a former journalist who has won much acclaim for her compassionate approach to hard-hitting subjects. To research PURPLE HEART, she traveled all around the country to interview soldiers as well as the families of soldiers who went to Iraq and never returned. She also took part in a peace demonstration with veterans from the war in Iraq. There was a pair of boots for every soldier who’d died and a pile of shoes to represent the civilian lives that had been lost. “I remember the sight of a pair of little boy’s sneakers in the pile,” she said. “And I instantly had an image of a child being struck by a machine gun bullet. It was an image that has haunted me ever
since.”
Patricia is also the author of the National Book Award Finalist SOLD and the bestseller CUT. She lives in New York City. You can visit her online at www.pattymccormick.com.
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Credits
Jacket art © 2009 by AP Photo/Hasan Sarbakhshian
Jacket design by Number Seventeen, NYC
Copyright
PURPLE HEART. Copyright © 2009 by Patricia McCormick. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Digital Edition August 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-194876-3
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