The Thirty-Sixth was surprisingly quiet today. Oh, there was mortaring going on—explosions in the jungle past the concertina wire—but no red alert siren yet. She could hear men shouting. They were playing football in the open space in front of the empty stage.
At the helipad, an armed helicopter waited—one of the Seawolves’ choppers. The nurses bent forward and ran toward it. The gunner reached out, helped them all aboard. At the last moment before takeoff, Jamie appeared, in gym shorts and a faded Warlocks T-shirt, and jumped into the chopper.
The pilot gave them a thumbs-up and up they went, the rotors picking up speed. The thwop-thwop became a blur of sound. The bird’s nose did a sharp dive, the tail lifted, and they sped forward, flying low. Gunners stood at fixed machine guns at the open doors.
Frankie sat in a canvas seat in the back of the chopper with Jamie beside her.
Through the open doors, she saw the world flash by: white beaches, turquoise water, red dirt roads that cut like veins through it all as they sped south, toward Saigon. As they neared the capital city, Frankie saw a verdant green landscape, shot through with silver strands; the Mekong Delta appeared like a lace overlay. Far away, flashes of orange flared in the jungle, explosions in the bush.
A few minutes later, the chopper touched down in a flat, treeless field.
The pilot powered down, then took off his flight helmet and turned around. “Another perfect landing for the Seawolves. Ladies, please note it in your diaries.”
Ethel laughed. “Frankie, meet Slim. Smile, but don’t believe a word he says. He thinks he’s James Bond. That’s what happens when a guy can fly jets and choppers. He thinks he’s a god.”
Slim was tall and lanky, with broad shoulders. A bushy mustache and ragged beard somehow enhanced the pretty-boy face underneath, giving him a rakish look. He immediately put on a battered cowboy hat to go with his camo T-shirt and short swim trunks.
“James Bond wishes he was me,” Slim said, touching up his non-regulation mustache. He was a good-looking man. Beyond good-looking, actually, and he knew it. “Howdy, ma’am,” he said to Frankie, who couldn’t help smiling at his southern charm.
“And Slim wishes he was me,” said the copilot, a thin, sinewy guy with red hair and a scraggly mustache. He grinned at Frankie and the other women, showing off a set of crooked teeth. “Call me Coyote,” he said, and let out a wolf howl to go along with his introduction.
He helped the ladies out of the chopper and held on to Frankie’s hand a moment longer than was necessary. She felt him staring at her as he said, in a slow Texas drawl, “Ladies, welcome to Seawolves’ summer camp.”
It was so ridiculous, so back-home, that Frankie couldn’t help laughing.
In front of them, a wide brown river arced lazily past, lapping against a reedy, marshy shore. The skyscape of Saigon rose in the distance, across the opposite shore. A banged-up speedboat hugged the bank, empty but for a man with a machine gun, sitting in the back, eyeing every movement on land and water and in the air.
The land between the helicopter and the river had been turned into Beach Party Central. A banner that read WE WILL MISS YOU, ETHEL, was strung between two bamboo poles. Beneath it, a stocky man in a Rolling Stones T-shirt stood at a barbecue, grilling burgers. A portable generator powered a stereo and “Purple Haze” blared through the speakers, loud enough to drown out the distant whine of the war.
At least thirty people were here—nurses from the Thirty-Sixth and Long Binh and Vung Tau, medics and doctors and corpsmen. Frankie recognized several Dust Off pilots, as well as several Seawolves, and more than a few of the Donut Dollies from the Thirty-Sixth. They all stopped what they were doing at Ethel’s arrival and turned to face the nurse and began clapping and whooping.
“Speech, speech!” someone cried out.
Ethel grinned. “Nurses don’t give speeches,” she said. “We party!”
A roar of approval rose through the crowd. The music changed to “Good Lovin’” and several people started dancing.
Ethel looked up at Slim. “Cool flying, cowboy.”
He put an arm around her, drew her close. Frankie knew that Slim and Ethel had developed a solid friendship over here; they’d bonded over their shared love of southern barbecue and western dancing and horses.
“My boys will miss you,” Slim said.
“I’m one of many, Slim. Barb and Frankie put me to shame.”
He kissed her cheek. “Glad you’re leaving this shithole, pissed you’re leaving us behind.”
“Ha. Like you Seawolves didn’t claw all over each other to join the unit. You’d rather be here than on that farm you grew up on.”
“Some days,” he said.
“Yeah,” Ethel said. “Ain’t that the God’s truth. Best of times, worst of times.”
“If you two get any more philosophical or mushy, I’m gonna puke right on your boots,” Barb said. “We didn’t haul our asses here to watch you feel things. We’re here to say bon voyage to the best damn nurse at the Thirty-Sixth. So, where’s the booze?”
Coyote ducked over to a pyramid of coolers and opened the top one, pulling out four cold beers and bringing them back.
Frankie snapped the cap and took a hesitant sip. Almost before she’d swallowed, Ethel grabbed her hand and said, “Come on, California girl,” and dragged her across the party and onto the speedboat moored at the river bank. How in the hell had they come up with a speedboat?
A tall man with a shaggy mustache and a Rainier Beer T-shirt stood at the wheel. He tipped his ratty straw cowboy hat at her. “Howdy, ma’am.”
Coyote jumped on board, gave another howl, and put an arm around Frankie. “What d’ya say, Frankie McGrath? You game?”
“You know it.” She took a sip of the ice-cold beer. It tasted surprisingly good on this hot day. How long had it been since she’d felt this free and young?
“We got a taker!” Coyote said, untying the mooring line. “Take us out, Renegade.”
The guy at the controls grinned and hit the gas. Frankie stumbled into Ethel, who gave her a raised eyebrow. “What is the most important rule in ’Nam, Frank?”
“Don’t drink the water?”
“That’s number one. Number two: never volunteer.”
The boat sped through the water, a thrilling, heart-stopping ride.
Suddenly they slowed. The boat stopped in the middle of a wide expanse of the river and rolled from side to side.
Coyote tented a hand over his eyes, his gaze scouring both shores. “Don’t see anything to worry about.”
“What, us worry?” Renegade said. Leaning sideways, he pulled up a pair of old, battered wooden water skis.
Frankie laughed.
Then he produced a ratty flotation belt, upon which someone had written KEEP IT UP, BOYS. He tossed the belt to Frankie.
She stopped laughing. “When I said I was game—”
“I knew you were my kind of girl.” Coyote lit a cigarette and gave her a wicked smile.
“I … I’ve never skied before.”
“You will dig it, trust me. Put on the belt.”
Frankie glanced out at the river. She’d heard about bodies floating in this brown water, swollen from death and rigged with explosives. And this was the tropics. Were there poisonous snakes and alligators? What about the VC? Could Charlie be underwater with a plant on his head for camouflage, waiting for an American stupid enough to water-ski in the Saigon River?
Frankie took a deep breath and remembered Jamie’s words.
No fear, McGrath.
She exhaled and stripped down to her two-piece bathing suit and fastened the belt around her waist.
“So,” Ethel said, touching her shoulder. “I started water-skiing when I was a kid at Bible camp. A fun life story for another time. Anyway, hold on and lean back and keep the skis perpendicular to the boat. Let us pull you up, just like getting out of a chair. The rope goes between the skis. If—when—you fall, let go immediately.”
“In case I die, I’ll say goodbye now.”