Wound Up

I am sitting at my desk in the cobb shack where my office is located, reading the morning Globe. This was the 15th anniversary of the Exxon Valdes disaster at Prince William Sound in Alaska. 11 Million gallons of crude wasted. I had filled the tank of my Van this morning, noting that gasoline prices were obscene. It makes you wonder how the world would be different if they could figure out how to use seawater for fuel.

Lardass and George were sitting near the stove taking a break. George was unable to talk about anything except politics. He has mellowed somewhat with regard to my recent apostasy on the righteousness of the war in Iraq. He is convinced that I am merely an intellectual weakling who can be swayed from one side to the other based on the most recent piece of culpatory information. He has begun to launch a series of preemptive factoid scuds to soften me up for the main attack.
“Do you know how long Kerry was in Viet Nam?” he smiled, cheshire-like.
“Yeah, I heard it was 4 months. He got wounded and sent home. Army rules. Three Purple hearts. A hero.” George tweaked the tips of his handlebar, his eyes brightened. The hook was set.
“And, do you know the nature of those wounds?” The word ‘wounds’ was drawn out like a Gershwin trombone aria – ebullient with doubt and mockery.
“No. But, I am sure the military would not give out a purple heart for minor scrapes or cuts. You have to be wounded in battle. And it has to be bleeding. You know, something more serious than a cut in a hockey game…” I was sure that I’d have heard about it if the Kerry War Hero legend had these kinds of holes in it. Purple Hearts were not political. They were awarded for real damages, suffering, incapacitating injuries when the bullets were flying.
“Well, “ he intoned with sonorous purpose. “you might want to check it out. I heard that he never even spent a night in the infirmary for those wounds. “ Again the gliding, questioning trombone on the word wounds.

It was time for them to get back to work. “Ok guys. Enough of this rank speculation and innuendo. You guys need to move that compost pile into the North forty before dark. Let’s go!”

As soon as they were gone, I googled “John Kerry purple hearts.”