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The Purple Heart

He took a long hard look at the piece of silver dangling from the left shirt pocket over his heart. Most soldiers did not wear it in the cold, wet foxhole, but he had not parted with his medal since it was awarded to him. He wore it every day as if it had a power; some magic that made him invinceable--or invisible--to the enemy around him. The Purple Heart clashed wildly with the green shirt covered with earth, sweat and blood where he had cradled the severed head of a man he had once called friend. A ray of sun vainly threatened to break through the endless rain that for days had chilled his flesh and tortured his spirit. The medal caught the beam which penetrated the gray clouds, and he was momentarily blinded as he lay motionless in the soft earth.

He was only twenty-five, but the trauma of war had deepened the lines on his face into rigid canals of fatigue. He had been handsome; his dark hair and eyes attracting the most beautiful of women. Now he looked old and worn, like so many other men who fought for the pride if their country. His chin was squared with serenity. He had not smiled since the day, months before, that he had felt death. He clutched the medal and shut his jaw tightly to keep from crying out as his memories shattered through the sound of the battle.

The noise of war faded around the Private First Class of the United States Army, Division of the Infantry. He lay oblivious to the action going on around him in the blood-green field before him. Death was something he had been trained to deal with. The medal on his breast was his proof that death was also something that could be cheated. The Purple Heart pierced his thoughts.

*****

"Kill those dirty yellow bastards!" His sergeant had ordered. "Kill every goddamn last one of 'em!" It was one of those strange pep-talks that seem a ritual before every battle. Its purpose is to arouse the fighting spirit of the soldiers to ensure them that the fighting is justified. The private had been full of patriotic spirit as he held his bayonet high and rushed onto the field of battle, screaming with all of the enthusiasm of a wildcat going in for the kill.

Kill the Bastards. The yellow bastards.

The skills he had learned raced through his mind as he ran to face his enemy. Basic training. Eight weeks of intensive drills and endless instruction. They taught him to run fast and long. They taught him to take apart an M-16 and put it back together in a matter or seconds. He learned how to dig ditches and how to build a bridge. They showed him how to kill with a gun and how to kill with a knife. But they could never have taught him how to feel when he looked into they eyes of a boy as he took that young life away.

The memory of basic training faded away and was replaced by the image of the puppy he had abandoned many years ago, when he was just a boy. That was twelve years ago, but the memory was sharp and clear as it invaded his thoughts. He was still not sure why he had left the animal on the side of the road. It was not because the dog had given him cause for such an action. He simply did not want the burden of responsibility that the puppy imposed on his world. It was just a mutt, anyway, he had justified. A dirty, yellow mutt. Who needs another mutt in the world? Never since that day had he given that puppy a thought. Today he wondered if it had survived to become a dog.

He had not hesitated long, but in battle, there is no room for hesitation. They taught him that in basic. "Get the bastard, or he'll get you!"

But they were not yellow. Their skin was like his. Just as he was not white, so they were not yellow. Their skin was the color of skin, and the blood of the friends that covered their bodies was the same crimson color that he himself wore. The only different he could see was in their eyes. Not the shape, but the message they gave. Was that hatred he saw? Was it fear? They were so young. Boys. Some mother's son was out here on this bloody battlefield, ready to die...for what? Had this boy given him cause for such an action?

He had not hesitated long, but in battle, there is no room for hesitation.

The soldier had known the agony in the eyes of a dying soldier. He knew the hatred and fear he saw in the eyes of a man who was having his life taken from him so cruelly before his time. But the private knew his eyes own had shown only relief. The relief of a man who would never have to look into another man's eyes again. The relief that his story was over. He had smiled.

Survive.

The bullet had entered his chest. It should have gone into his heart and ended this nightmare forever, but it was averted by a rib and rested in a non-mortal wound. When the battle was over, he was found and medics fought their own battle to save his life. He survived because he was strong. He survived because he was lucky.

The boy who shot him was not as fortunate. His body was found and buried in an enemy grave.

They gave the private The Purple Heart for his strength and courage. They knew nothing of his hesitation.

*****

He began shaking as the rain made the red clay turn to mud. He sank his feet deeper into the earth still holding the prize on his chest, hiding from the noise which he again could hear in the distance. He realized that he was alone with only his empty rifle to keep him warm. He searched his clothing for something--he did not know what. As his hands glided over his hips, he felt the service pistol in his belt where it was sleeping. He knew the gun was loaded, though it had never been used to take a life.

The coldness of the gun in his hand made him shiver uncontrollably as the battle became louder and louder, closer and closer. He heard the explosion of grenades and the roar of tanks. He heard gunfire and screams of brave men who believed in their cause.

He heard death.

The gun lay in his hand and his palms were sweating and his forefinger rested on the trigger and the noise grew louder and louder and his ears began to ring and his heart began to pound in his chest like a Minutman's drum and his handsome brown eyes became misty which made him not see clearly anymore

and the gun was black and cold and heavy

and The Purple Heart caught the blaze

and it blinded him

and he smiled.