Gerry McCarthy left a piece of his brain and all of his peace of mind in Vietnam. He struggled mightily with mental illness for years, eventually finding acceptance, love, and even redemption as he battled the demons who returned from combat with him.
Gerry McCarthy was 19 years old when he left Dorchester for Parris Island, S.C.
The Marines handed him a rifle and Gerry went to Vietnam.
In 1967, he was on his third tour, on a foot patrol, his best friend walking in front of him, when a round fired by the Viet Cong blew his friend’s head off. The same bullet went into Gerry’s forehead, destroying a chunk of his frontal lobe. At the field hospital, they dug the bullet out, stitched him up, then, two days later, sent him back to his unit.
Somehow, he survived the last three weeks of that third tour, but the Gerry McCarthy who came back to Dorchester was a different guy.
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The city and the country were in upheaval. The Boston Police Department was hiring veterans, so Gerry got on the job. But the demons in his head followed him home from Vietnam and it quickly became obvious he couldn’t remain a police officer. The cops found him in a park, holding his service revolver. He told them he was lying in wait for the enemy, the VC.
There were many rough years. He had psychotic breaks. His longtime lawyer and guardian, Betty Dew, met him at the Shattuck Hospital, after he got kicked out of the VA hospital for being disruptive. By the mid-1990s, improvements in medication made Gerry stable enough to move into a group home in Dorchester.
He became a fixture at St. Mark’s on Dorchester Avenue. If there were no altar servers, the pastor, Father Dan Finn, would give the signal and Gerry would join him on the altar. When there was a funeral, Gerry put his police training to good use, directing cars on Dot Ave like a seasoned traffic cop.
Dew recalls that Gerry was always broke because he gave away what little money he had to homeless people.
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While Gerry sometimes was profane, and could occasionally be very difficult, Judy Greeley, the parish secretary at St. Mark’s, believed he was someone who should be held in the highest esteem.
“Gerry gave his life, a normal life, for his country,” Greeley told me. “He couldn’t have a relationship, or kids. He couldn’t hold a job.”
Gerry did odd jobs at various bars along Dot Ave. The Irish immigrant patrons of the Centre Bar loved him and were protective of him. He’d sweep out the Tara, then mosey down to the Ashmont Grill.
“He’d read the paper, have a ginger ale, then move on,” Greeley said. “Everybody knew he was Gerry, the Vietnam vet who got shot in the head, so they looked after him. Once a lot of those bars started closing, he had no place to go.”
But there was always St. Mark’s.
“Gerry did not have a filter, at least with adults,” Greeley said. “In the rectory or the kitchen, he’d say the most outrageous things. But he never swore around children. He was always kind and gentle to children. Even though part of his brain was missing, part of his heart knew what to do around kids.”
Gerry used to buy crayons for the kids at the parish mother and toddlers group. He’d sit in the corner and the kids would go over to him, fascinated by this big, unkempt old man with the omnipresent Red Sox cap. The mothers asked him to play Santa Claus at the kids Christmas party. Greeley bought him a Santa outfit.
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When the party ended, Gerry wouldn’t take the costume off. He wore it home, yelling “Ho! Ho! Ho!” as he walked up Dot Ave.
Gerry was awarded a Purple Heart in Vietnam but never managed to pick it up, so Dew went to Senator Ted Kennedy, and his staff cut through the red tape. In 2008, 41 years after taking a bullet in the head, Gerry McCarthy got his medal. They had a time for Gerry at the Harp & Bard, where his dad used to bring him for a soda when he was a boy. The kids from St. Mark’s made cards for him and showed up at his party with their mothers. Gerry stood next to his brother Dennis, beaming.
Senator Kennedy, who a month before had been diagnosed with brain cancer, sent Gerry a note that Gerry treasured.
“America owes you a debt we can never repay,” Ted Kennedy wrote.
The Sunday after he got his medal, Gerry walked into Mass and the entire congregation at St. Mark’s rose to give him a standing ovation.
Gerry’s mental health deteriorated dramatically right after the high of receiving his Purple Heart. Dew said the voices in his head were unrelenting.
About five years ago, Gerry finally found peace in the Berkshires. He got a placement in the Berkshire Rehabilitation & Skilled Care Center in tiny Sandisfield, where he grew less cantankerous and more at peace. The staff were very kind to him, Dew said.
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Father Dan and Judy Greeley kept in touch, sometimes making the long ride out on the Pike.
Father Dan drove out to see him a little more than a week ago.
“He was in bed, sleeping,” Father Dan said. “Eventually, he opened his eyes and spoke a word or two, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying.”
Father Dan’s gaze drifted above Gerry’s bed, noticing that Gerry had put up a sign that said, “With God, all things are possible.”
On the drive home, Father Dan thought about all the gifts Gerry McCarthy gave those who knew him.
“He made us more compassionate, more empathetic, more patient,” Father Dan said. “More loving.”
Gerry died peacefully Saturday. He was 74.
On Wednesday, Father Dan will say a funeral Mass at St. Mark’s for the repose of the soul of his old friend, in a place where Gerry McCarthy found acceptance, love, and, in that bright red Santa suit, a measure of redemptive joy.
Kevin Cullen is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at kevin.cullen@globe.com.
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