She leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes, hoping to fall asleep. She wanted to dream about Jamie—it had become comforting in a sick kind of way, obsessively remembering him—but now, instead, she thought about Barb’s DEROS, coming up in December.
How could she survive over here without her best friend?
A knock at the hooch door woke her up.
“Come in.”
The door opened. A young private stood there, looking nervous, his knobby Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Lieutenant McGrath?”
“Yeah?”
“Major Goldstein would like to see you.”
“When?”
“Now.”
Frankie nodded and got slowly to her feet. She reached down for her shoes and put them on.
At the admin building, she knocked on the chief nurse’s office door, heard a mumbled, “Come in,” and opened the door.
The major looked up. Frankie saw exhaustion in the slant of her shoulders and the lavender bags under her eyes.
“Are you okay, Major?” Frankie asked.
“Rough few days,” the major said.
Frankie knew the major wouldn’t elaborate. Major Goldstein was old-school. There was a chain of command for a reason. Fraternization was out of the question. In a world where there were very few women to start with, and most were of lower rank and experience, it had to be lonely as hell. Certainly, the men who were of her rank considered themselves superior.
“You’re being transferred to the Seventy-First Evac.”
Frankie’s stomach dropped. “Pleiku?”
“Yep. It’s near the Cambodian border. Central Highlands. Deep jungle.” She paused. “Heavy fighting.”
“I know.”
Major Goldstein sighed heavily. “Losing you is pure shit from my end. I’ll get some newbie nurse to replace you, no doubt, but orders are orders. You’re a hell of a combat nurse.” She sighed again. “So, naturally, I lose you. It’s the Army way. Make sure your will is up-to-date. And write your parents a nice letter before you go.”
Frankie was too stunned—too scared—to say anything except, “Thank you, Major.”
“Believe me, Lieutenant McGrath, you will not thank me for this.”
Frankie left the admin building in a daze.
Pleiku.
Rocket City.
She walked past a group of men playing football on the beach and a pair of uniformed Red Cross workers sitting in portable beach chairs, watching the game. More shirtless men sat in chairs, getting some sun. Someone was setting up the screen and projector for tonight’s movie.
She found Barb in a beach chair, reading a letter from home.
Frankie sat down beside her. “I’ve been transferred to the Seventy-First.”
Barb took a long drink of her gin and tonic. “Man. No one screws a woman like this man’s Army.”
“Yep.”
“So, when do we go?”
Frankie must have misheard. “We?”
“Honey, you know I love to travel. I can get transferred with you. No sweat. God knows they need us both up there.”
“But Barb—”
“No talking, Frankie. For as long as I’m in this godforsaken place, I’m with you.”
* * *
The hooch door banged open. No knocking. A swatch of hot yellow sunlight blasted into the dim interior.
Barb stood there, still dressed in the khaki shorts and T-shirt and combat boots she’d worn to the ER this morning. Her Afro was bigger now; in the past weeks, she’d let it go, called it her private rebellion.
A young woman stood beside Barb, wearing her Class A uniform and carrying her Army-issue handbag and a soft-sided travel bag. Electric-blue eye shadow drew attention to her wide, frightened eyes. Frankie could see how the poor girl was shaking.
“I’m Wilma Cottington from Boise, Idaho,” she said, trying to iron the stutter out of her voice.
Barb said, “Land of potatoes.”
“My husband is in Da Nang,” Wilma said. “I followed him.”
“A husband in-country. How lucky.” Frankie made brief eye contact with Barb. They both knew a husband in-country was potentially lucky. Or extremely unlucky.
“I’m Frankie.” She stood up. “Why don’t you unpack? We’ll show you around when you’re done.”
Wilma looked around the hooch.
Frankie knew exactly what she was thinking and feeling.
They’d all been turtles once, and the Thirty-Sixth was a carousel of people coming and going. Wilma would make it—become a more-than-competent nurse—or she wouldn’t. Most likely she would, even without Frankie or Barb to train her. Major Goldstein would start her in Neuro.
The circle of life in the Thirty-Sixth.
A rat scurried across the floor; Wilma screamed.
Frankie barely noticed the rodent. “That isn’t the worst of what you’ll see, kid.”
Kid.
They were probably the same age, but Frankie felt ancient by comparison.
“Don’t drink water unless it comes from a Lister bag, Wilma,” Frankie said. “That’s as good a place to start as any.”
* * *
October 20, 1967
Dear Mom and Dad,
Hello from hot and humid Vietnam.
I never told you about our beach party. I went waterskiing for the first time. Then we had a mini-American Bandstand dance party on the beach. There are these Naval helicopter pilots—the Seawolves—who really know how to have a good time.
My friend Ethel went home and Barb and I surely miss her. I never knew how intense wartime friendships could be.
I’ve been at the 36th Evac Hospital for six months, and it seems that the brass wants me to move up north, into the Central Highlands, to the 71st. I’ll send you my address when I know what it is. Barb is going, too.
Until then, could you please send some hand lotion, tampons (they sell out in the PX because the men out in the bush use them to clean their rifles), shampoo, crème rinse, and I sure would love some more See’s. And I’m almost out of perfume. The boys love it when I smell like the girls back in the world.
I’ll write again as soon as I’m settled. I’m nervous about the transfer, but excited, too. This will really sharpen my nursing skills.
I’m sorry I haven’t written for a while. I lost a good friend recently, and I’ve been in a bit of a funk. But I’m getting better now. Not much time here for grief, even though there’s plenty of cause. Life isn’t always easy, as you can imagine. People come and go. But I love nursing. It’s important you know that, and that you know I’m happy I came here. Even on bad days, even on the worst days, I believe this is what I’m meant to do and where I’m meant to be. Finley told me once that he’d found himself over here, that his men were important to him, and I know how he felt.
Love to you both,
F
* * *
Frankie’s first sight of Pleiku was from the air, in a supply helicopter, looking down at the dense green jungle below. Barb sat on the other side of the chopper, peering down, too.
A flat pad had been cut into the lush green mountainside—a huge square of red dirt held a ramshackle collection of tents and Quonset huts and temporary buildings. Looking at it, Frankie remembered—or finally understood—that the Seventy-First was a mobile Army surgical hospital. It struck her suddenly what that meant. Mobile. Temporary. In the jungle, near the Cambodian border, where the Viet Cong knew every footpath and clearing, where they planted bombs to blow up their American enemies. Coils of concertina wire protected the compound from the jungle that encroached on all sides.
The chopper dropped down to the helipad. Barb and Frankie jumped down as several soldiers moved in to unload supplies, including the nurses’ footlockers and duffel bags. Everything in, around, or about helicopters had to be done quickly; Charlie had no greater target than a landed bird.
“Lieutenants McGrath and Johnson?” said a short, bulkily built man in faded fatigues. “I’m Sergeant Alvarez. Follow me.”
Frankie clamped her boonie hat onto her head and angled low beneath the whirring rotors. Red dust flew up, swirled, made its way into her eyes, her nose, her mouth.