The Officers’ Club at Long Binh was legendary. Frankie had heard stories of epic parties and fall-down-drunk fests, even of the MPs being called on occasion. Captain Smith—who’d been in Long Binh for most of his first tour—still spoke often of the club, and said he wouldn’t want a going-away party to be held anywhere else.
Barb reached the O Club first and opened the door. Frankie moved in beside her. She felt conspicuous in her ridiculously conservative blue dress, with her nails bitten down to the quick and her black pixie cut grown so shaggy she looked like one of the Beatles. The headscarf she’d tied over it did little to help. At least she had sneakers now, instead of just her boots.
The Officers’ Club was not what she’d expected. But what had she expected? White linen tablecloths and waiters in black, like the country club on Coronado Island?
In fact, it was just a dark, seedy bar. The stifling-hot air smelled of cigarette smoke and spilled booze and sweat.
A wooden bar ran the length of the building; a line of men were bellied up to it. More sat clustered around wooden tables in mismatched chairs. There weren’t many women here, but the few that were here were on the dance floor. She saw Kathy Mohr, one of the surgical nurses from the Thirty-Sixth, dancing with Captain Smith. A banner had been strung above the bar. It read BON VOYAGE, CPT SMITH.
Frankie was reminded suddenly of the catered party her parents had thrown to celebrate Finley going to war.
It felt like another world ago, another time.
Appallingly naive.
Barb dragged Frankie through the clot of men, elbowing her way. At the bar, she ordered a gin and tonic and two sodas, yelling to be heard over the din of voices and music. A soldier stood beside her, smiling wolfishly, thrilled to see two American women. Frankie saw the Big Red One patch on his sleeve, for the First Infantry.
Barb ignored the man and carried the three drinks toward an empty table. The music changed, became sexy. A song Frankie hadn’t heard before. “Come on, baby, light my fire.”
Frankie was about to make her way to the table when someone touched her arm.
Dr. Jamie Callahan stood there, smiling. She remembered how he’d helped her through her first red alert, how steadying his voice had been, the kindness he’d shown her, and the night they’d talked by the latrines. She’d seen him once or twice in the mess hall or the O Club since she’d been promoted to days, but they’d not talked much.
Tonight, in his white T-shirt and fatigues and combat boots, he was Robert Redford in This Property Is Condemned good-looking. And he knew it. Dirty-blond hair, grown longer than regulation allowed, blue eyes, square jaw. Anyone would have called him the American boy next door, and yet there was sadness in his eyes, a slight sag to his shoulders. She sensed a despair in him that lay just below the surface. Grief. Perhaps he saw it in her, too.
“It’s a party now that the nurses have arrived,” he said, giving her a strained smile.
She met his gaze. The weeks she’d spent studying comatose patients had sharpened her observation skills. “Are you okay?”
The music changed. Percy Sledge’s soulful “When a Man Loves a Woman” filled the room.
“Dance with me, McGrath,” he said. It wasn’t a cocky, I’m-so-cool-and-you’ll-be-swept-away request, not what she would have expected. That kind of thing she would have laughed at.
This was a man’s plea, tinged with desperation and loneliness.
She knew that feeling well. She felt it during every shift as she moved among her comatose patients, hoping for miracles.
She reached for his hand. He led her out onto the dance floor. She fit up against him, felt the solid strength of him, and realized suddenly, sharply, how lonely she was, too. And not just here in Vietnam, but ever since Finley’s death.
She rested her cheek on his collarbone. They moved in an easy, familiar rhythm, changing their steps only when the music changed.
Finally, she looked up, found him looking down at her. She reached up slowly, eased the hair out of his eyes. “You look tired.”
“Rough day.”
He tried to smile, and the effort touched her. She knew how hard that particular camouflage could be.
“They’re so young,” he said.
“Tell me something good,” she said.
He thought for a minute, smiled. “My seven-year-old niece, Kaylee, lost a tooth. The tooth fairy left her fifty cents and she bought a goldfish. Her brother, Braden, made the soccer team.”
Frankie smiled at the sweetness of it. She was about to ask him something about his life back in the world when the door to the O Club burst open, letting in the sound of a distant mortar attack. A trio of men walked in.
Strode, really. They were noticeable, loud, laughing. They didn’t look military, let alone like officers. All three had hair that was too long to be regulation. Two had mustaches. One wore a cowboy hat and a Warlocks T-shirt. Only one wore the blue fatigues of the Navy. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders and were singing what sounded like a fight song.
They pushed through the crowd and sat at a table that bore a RESERVED sign. One of them raised a hand and a Vietnamese waitress wearing an ao dai rushed over with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and three shot glasses on a tray. A smaller guy with reddish hair and a sparse mustache threw his head back and howled like a wolf.
“Who are they?” Frankie asked. They looked more like Berkeley students or cowboys than naval officers.
“New squadron. The Seawolves. Naval helicopter combat support. The Navy needed bird pilots, so last year they chose a few jet jockeys, asked for volunteers, and taught them to fly choppers. They may look arrogant and unchecked with their hair and clothing, but they’re workhorses. They’ve flown a lot of medevacs for us in their off-hours. You call on one of the Seawolves, and if they aren’t fighting Victor Charlie, they show up.” He fell silent for a moment, then said, “I’ve been thinking about you, McGrath.”
Now he sounded and looked like any other on-the-make surgeon. This man she could laugh at. “Really?”
“You’ve been hiding long enough.”
“Hiding?”
“In Neuro. Your girl squad—Ethel and Barb—tell me you’re ready to move up.”
“Oh.”
“Captain Smith says you did exceptional work. Fastest learner he’s ever had, he said.”
Frankie didn’t quite know how to respond. Captain Smith had never said that to her.
“He also says you are compassionate, which I already knew.”
“Well…”
“The point is this. Did you come to this hellhole to change bandages or to save lives?”
“Well. I don’t think that’s quite fair, sir.”
“Jamie,” he said. “For God’s sake, McGrath. Jamie.”
“So. Jamie. I don’t think that’s quite fair. An opportunistic infection can—”
“Come work in surgery with me. Patty Perkins is a short-timer. I need someone good to replace her.”
“I’m not good enough,” she said. “Take Sara from the burn unit.”
“I want you, McGrath.”
She heard more in that sentence than belonged there, enough heat to set off warning bells. “If this is just a way to sleep with me—”
He gave her an easy smile. “Oh, I’d love to sleep with you, McGrath, but that’s not what this is about.”
“I’m not good enough. Honestly.”
“You will be when I get done with you. Scout’s honor.”
“Were you ever a Scout?”
“Hell, no. I still can’t figure out what I’m doing here. Too much debt and too many war stories, I think. My dad told me I was a fool. But here I am and here I’ll be for another seven months. I need a kick-ass nurse at my side.”
Frankie was afraid of all of it—mass casualties, failing at her job, keeping Jamie at bay—but she’d been here almost two months and, as bad as it was, time was moving fast. She’d learned what she could from Neuro. If she really loved nursing and wanted to be even better, it was time to take the next step.
“Okay, Captain Callahan. I’ll put in for a transfer to surgery.”
“Excellent.” He looked very pleased with himself. There was a glimmer in his eyes that Frankie assumed had seduced plenty of women. She did not intend to fall prey; but the truth was that he tempted her. And she was pretty sure he knew it.
* * *