She leaned over and kissed his bandaged cheek, felt the heat of his fever, and whispered, “I love you, Jamie.”
Slowly, she drew back, straightened. It took every scrap of strength she possessed to step back while they prepped him to leave and then rushed him out of the OR and toward the helipad.
Halfway to the helipad, Frankie heard the medic yell, “Code,” and saw him begin chest compressions.
Jamie’s heart had stopped.
Frankie screamed, “Save him!”
They lifted Jamie onto the waiting helicopter; the medic jumped aboard, continued chest compressions as the helicopter lifted up slowly.
Frankie stood there, staring up into the Dust Off.
She saw the medic stop compressions, pull his hands back, shake his head.
“Don’t stop! He has a strong heart!” she screamed, but her voice was drowned out by the whir of the rotors. “Don’t stop!”
The helicopter flew up and away, merged into the darkness of the night, and became a distant whir of sound, and then even that was gone.
Gone.
How could his heart stop? His beautiful, beautiful heart …
She closed her eyes, felt tears streak down her cheeks. “Jamie,” she said in a cracked voice. All she wanted was one more minute, just a look, a second to tell him that he hadn’t been alone in what he felt, that in a different world, a different time, they could have come together.
The pounding thud of outgoing mortar shells and rockets was all that remained, steady as the beat of her heart. When she turned away, Barb was there, waiting. She opened her arms wide.
Frankie walked into her friend’s embrace, let herself be held for as long as she dared.
Arms around each other, they headed to the O Club. As always, the smell of smoke wafted outside. Inside, music. “We Gotta Get Out of This Place.” Their newest anthem.
Barb pushed the beaded curtain aside.
Inside, there were probably a dozen people gathered in small groups. No one was laughing or singing or dancing, not on this night, not in the wake of what had happened to Jamie. Some things could be partied away, pushed aside by booze and drugs and momentarily forgotten. Not this.
Barb snagged a bottle of gin from the bar and then led the way to a ratty sofa and sat down. “I imagine you’re ready for a real drink now.”
Frankie sat down next to her friend, leaned against her.
Barb took a big chug of gin and handed Frankie the bottle.
Frankie stared at it for a moment, almost said, No thanks, and then thought: What the hell? She reached for the bottle, took a long, fiery swig, and almost gagged. It tasted like isopropyl alcohol. It was even worse than the whiskey she’d drunk—with Jamie—on her first night here.
You’re safe, McGrath … I’ve got you.
Barb took a drink. “To Jamie,” she said quietly. “He’s tough, Frankie. He could make it.”
To Jamie, Frankie thought, forcing herself to take another drink. She needed something to dull this pain. She closed her eyes, but in the darkness of her mind, all she saw was the medic stopping compressions.
Frankie wanted, just for a moment, not to be a nurse, not to be serving in a war, not to have worked in Neuro, not to know what Jamie’s injuries and stopped compressions meant.
“There’s something else,” Barb said. “I hate to bring it up now…”
“What?” Frankie said tiredly.
“My DEROS came today. I’m outta here on December twenty-sixth.”
Frankie had known this was coming, but still it hurt. “Good for you.”
“I can’t do another tour.”
“I know.”
Finley. Ethel. Jamie. Barb.
“I’m so tired of goodbyes,” Frankie said quietly, squeezing her eyes shut to keep from crying. What good were tears? Gone was gone. Crying didn’t change it. “To Jamie,” she said again, more to herself than to Barb, reaching for the bottle of gin.
* * *
September 30, 1967
Dear Ethel,
I don’t know how to write this letter, but if I don’t say the words to someone, I’ll keep lying to myself. Jamie is gone.
I can’t seem to breathe when I think about losing him. I want to believe he will survive, will make it home to his family, but how can I believe that with what we’ve seen? His wounds were … well, you know what it looks like. And I did my time in Neuro. Anyway, I am tired of losing people.
It’s been three days since he was hurt and it’s all I can do to get out of bed. I’m not crying, not sick to my stomach. I’m just … numb, I guess. Grief tears me apart when I stand.
They need me in the OR. I know that’s what you’ll say. It’s what Barb says. I am trying like hell to care about that. But how can I walk into the OR and know he won’t be there? I’ll reach for him, call out to him, and someone else will answer.
You’d think, after losing my brother, I’d be a little more durable.
He wasn’t even mine. I keep thinking of his wife and his son. I want to reach out to them, ask if he made it, but it wouldn’t be right. It’s not my place. And he’ll reach out to me if he can, won’t he? Maybe not … Like I said, he was never mine.
I miss you, girl. I could use your steadiness now, maybe one of your stories about galloping your horse through autumn leaves … or even one of your lectures on barbecue as a noun.
Hope all is well back in the world.
Love,
F
* * *
October 9, 1967
Dear Frank,
My heart breaks. For Jamie, for his son and his wife, and for you and all of the men he would have saved.
Damn war. I remember how I felt when I lost Georgie. I don’t think there’s a word for that kind of grief. But you know what I’m going to say. It’s ’Nam.
You meet people, you form these bonds that tighten around you, and some of the people you love die. All of them go away, one way or another. You don’t carry them around with you over there, you can’t. There isn’t time, and the memories are too heavy. You’ll always have the piece of him that was yours and your time together. And you can pray for him. One way or another, Frank, he’s gone for you, and you know that. As you said, he was never your guy, no matter how much you loved him.
For now, just keep on keepin’ on, Frank.
Sending peace and love, girlfriend.
E
* * *
October 13, 1967
Dear Ethel,
Today it’s hot enough to roast meat on the hooch floor, I swear to God. I’m sweating so much I have to keep wiping my eyes.
Thanks for your letter about Jamie.
You’re right. I know you’re right.
I can’t keep thinking about him. Wishing, remembering, replaying the choices we both made over and over. Fortunately for me, the 36th has been quiet for the past week. But maybe that’s not good. Too much time to think.
I guess I have to feel lucky to have known him, and to have learned from him. Too damn many lessons to learn over here, but the one that’s for sure is this: life is short. I’m not sure I ever really believed that before.
I do, now.
Thanks for being there for me, even from half a world away. I sure would love another picture from home. I miss you.
Luv ya,
F
Frankie put down her pen, took a sip of warm TaB, and folded up the piece of thin blue stationery. Leaning sideways, she put the letter on her bedside chest, beside the stack of letters from home she’d been rereading.
She should write to her parents, too. She hadn’t written in days, unable to find the words to put a pretty spin on her life over here.
She could write and say she was safe, she supposed. That was what they wanted to hear. Although, in truth, that was what her mom wanted to hear. She had no idea what her dad wanted from her anymore. He hadn’t written a single letter.
According to her mother’s frequent letters, everyone back in the world was talking about music and hippies and the so-called Summer of Love. The Summer of Love. (There wasn’t so much as a mention of it in the Stars and Stripes.) It was vaguely obscene. As if boys weren’t dying by the boatload over here.