He glanced left to right, looking for a superior who might disagree. The Military Auxiliary Radio System phones were not for personal use. “Short.”
She settled into a chair and picked up the handset. “Call to Vung Tau HAL-3. Lieutenant Commander Joseph Ryerson Walsh. Over.”
Frankie tapped her foot impatiently, listening to static.
“Who is calling? Over.”
“Lieutenant McGrath. Seventy-First Evac. Over.”
“Emergency, ma’am? Over.”
“Yes. Emergency. Over.”
“Hold. Over.”
Frankie knew she shouldn’t be doing this, calling him and saying it was an emergency. But they hadn’t seen each other in more than a month, and she needed him.
“Frankie?” Rye’s voice broke through the static. “Are you okay, over?”
“Hey,” she said, her voice quaking. “Over.”
“What happened? Over.”
“Napalm. Over.”
In the staticky silence, she knew they were both seeing the suffering of tonight.
“Sorry I woke you. I just needed to hear your voice. Over,” she said.
“I get it, babe. I’m sorry. Over.”
“I miss you. Over.”
“Hang tough. Over.”
“Copy that. Over and out.” She hung up. “Thanks, Talkback.”
She headed back to her hooch. The Park was empty now, but she knew that wouldn’t last. When tonight’s push was over, folks would need to unwind. A faint beat of music pulsed through the open door. She almost recognized the song, but not quite. Mostly, she heard the beat of American music, the soundtrack of home.
She took a quick shower, then passed a soldier tossing things into a burn barrel that gave off the stench of charred flesh and human excrement.
In her hooch, she peeled out of her fatigues, shoved them in the laundry bag hanging off the end of her cot. Laundering them wouldn’t remove the blood, but it would soften the smell. She climbed into bed. Knowing she wouldn’t sleep, she picked up her latest letter to Ethel and started to add to it.
Rough night in the OR. Could have used someone with your kick-ass skills, but Margie has really come into her own, and that young doc—Morse—is getting good.
There was a baby, tonight.
Napalm
She put down her pen, unable to write about it. She set the letter aside. Did Ethel need to read this? Turning off the lights, she stretched out, closed her eyes.
She was still awake at 0400 when Margie came home and climbed into bed.
She was still awake at 0524, listening to her hooch mate’s snoring, when she heard the whine of a helicopter nearing the hospital.
Only one.
Releasing a breath, she closed her eyes again. Please, God, let me sleep.
A knock at the door surprised her.
She sat up.
The door opened.
Rye moved into the small hooch, seeming to take up a lot of space. Stepping carefully so as not to waken Margie, he moved to the cot, sat down, and took off his boots.
Frankie still hadn’t spoken. She was afraid that if she did, she’d cry.
He took her in his arms and held her. They barely fit together on the narrow cot. She snuggled up against him, kissed his neck.
“I got here as soon as I could,” he said.
She started to answer, but before she could speak, she was asleep.
* * *
For once, the Seventy-First was quiet. On this hot, dry early November day, not long after Nixon won the election back home, and eight months into her second tour, Frankie sat in a beach chair in the Park, wearing shorts and a T-shirt and her worn huarache sandals. A hot breeze ruffled the drying banana leaves. After a long, wet, muddy monsoon season, the dry air and dust were a welcome relief. At least she didn’t smell like mildew anymore. She kept her boonie hat pulled low to shield her eyes from the sun and wore a pair of big round sunglasses. A warm TaB sat on the ground beside her. Behind her, “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” blasted through the speakers at the tiki bar. She could hear people talking, laughing, singing along. It had been a particularly tough week, but at this moment in the late afternoon, while a bright sun shone down on them without baking them into submission, the Seventy-First wasn’t a bad place to be.
Men played volleyball on the flat red pad of dirt. The Red Cross Donut Dollies were handing out mail and snacks from a cart. Frankie had also brought some letters to reread, while she ate the Pretzel Stix Ethel had sent in her latest care package. Barb and Ethel had both continued to write and send goodies every month. Margie sat in a chair beside Frankie, her hair in pink curlers, reading Rosemary’s Baby.
Frankie took a drink of her warm TaB, then leaned back and closed her eyes.
“Ma’am?” someone said a few moments later.
Frankie sat up. The Park was empty; no men playing volleyball, no Donut Dollies. Had she actually fallen asleep?
The new radio operator—she couldn’t remember the kid’s name—stood there. “There’s an emergency in the mess hall, ma’am. Dr. Morse needs you.”
Frankie got up and followed the kid to the mess hall.
At the closed door, he stopped, allowed her to go in first.
Frankie opened the door and stepped into the mess. A banner hung over the bulletin board wall: CONGRATS 1ST LIEUTENANT MCGRATH!
“Congratulations!”
It took Frankie a second to process. No heart attack. No emergency. A party.
For her.
Major Goldstein from the Thirty-Sixth stepped forward, with Captain Miniver beside her. “This promotion is late in coming, but nothing happens on time in the Army,” Major Goldstein said. “We all know that. Congratulations, Frankie. You’ve come a long way, baby.”
Captain Miniver added, “Thank you for staying. There are men back home because of it.”
“Toast! Toast!” someone yelled.
Ryan Dardis, the new surgeon they called Hollywood because of his good looks, stepped forward with a bottle of gin. “We know how much you love your gin, McGrath. What we wanted to make sure is that you know how much we dig you, too. Even though you can’t dance for shit, and your dancing makes your singing look good.” He held up a bottle of gin and there was a roar of approval.
Someone cranked up the music. Behind her, the doors banged open.
Frankie felt herself being picked up, spun around.
“Sorry I’m late, babe.” Rye grinned, tilted back his black Seawolves cap. “Traffic was a bitch.”
The music changed to “Born to Be Wild,” and people started pushing chairs aside.
Frankie grabbed Rye’s hand and pulled him onto the makeshift dance floor.
“You sure you want to dance with me in public?” he teased.
“I’m the one with two left feet,” she said, smiling up at him.
Sometime later, Margie found them on the dance floor and hip-bumped Frankie. Her face was flushed and dewy from dancing. “I’m going to bunk with Helen tonight,” she said breathlessly. “Or maybe with Jeff. He’s looking better every second.”
“Thanks, Margie,” Frankie said.
Rye took Frankie by the hand and led her out of the party, which was in such full, chaotic swing that no one noticed them leave. They hadn’t seen each other in almost a month.
“I really needed this,” Frankie said, leaning against him as they walked through the compound.
He put an arm around her. “I’ve missed you, too. Another orphanage was bombed last week. St. Anne’s in Saigon.”
Frankie nodded. “I heard rumors of something bad up near My Lai, too,” she said.
“There are a lot of bad stories coming through.”
Outside her hooch, she turned to him, looked up into his eyes, saw his sadness; it was the same look she had seen in her own eyes. The last thing she wanted to talk about was the war. “Love me,” she whispered, pressing up onto her toes.
The kiss was everything: coming home, taking flight, a dream for tomorrow.
When he drew back, she saw something in his eyes that frightened her. Then he said, “I’m afraid I’ll love you till I die, Frankie.”
Love.