How long had she wanted to hear that word from him? It felt like forever, because time in Vietnam moved in strange ways—sometimes too fast, sometimes too slow. “I love you, too, Rye.”
It wasn’t until hours later, when they lay pressed together on her narrow cot, exhausted by lovemaking, that Frankie realized what he’d said and how he’d said it—I’m afraid I’ll love you till I die—and the promise planted a small and terrible seed in her heart.
I’m afraid.
Till I die.
They were the wrong words for wartime, a gauntlet thrown to an uncaring God.
She wanted to have the moment to do over, to make him say I love you in a different way.
Eighteen
On her last day in-country, March 14, 1969, Frankie woke up well before dawn, listening to Margie’s quiet snores.
She turned on the light beside her bed, reached past the hot plate, picked up the photograph of her and Finley at Disneyland, and stared down at it, thinking of their youth.
Hey, Fin. I’m going home.
She’d joined the Army to find her brother and found herself instead; in war, she’d found out who she really was and who she wanted to be, and as tired as she was of all the death and destruction, she was also more than a little afraid to go home. What would life look like stateside?
She got out of her cot and pulled her footlocker out from underneath. Lifting the lid, she stared down at the belongings she’d be sending home: mementos she’d been given by soldiers, a leather-and-bead bracelet, a small gold elephant charm “for luck,” some silk she’d bought in Saigon, a Kelly clamp and some rubber tubing, the gifts for her friends and family, and her treasured Vietnam photographs, both those she’d taken and others she’d been given, like the one of her and Barb and Ethel, dancing in shorts and T-shirts at the O Club, the one Barb had left her of the three of them standing together, one of Jamie giving her a bright smile and a thumbs-up in front of a deuce and a half, and another of her and Rye. There were at least a dozen photographs of her with soldiers who’d come through her OR. The lucky ones for whom she’d waved goodbye and posed for a picture.
Back in the real world, the so-called Summer of Love had come and gone; in its wake, the protests were getting louder, longer, angrier. Even here, there was anger about the war. Soldiers had begun to draw peace symbols on their helmets, in violation of Army regulations.
At 0600 hours, she packed up her duffel and travel bags and wrote Margie a goodbye note that said in part, I know you’ll wish I’d wakened you for a goodbye. It won’t be long before you’ll know how hard it is. We are professionals at goodbye, and still it hurts. Stay tough. Thanks for sending my footlocker home for me.
She dressed in her Class As, complete with pantyhose and polished black pumps. She didn’t have a full-length mirror, but she imagined she looked nothing like the wide-eyed girl who’d first landed in-country two years ago. And her uniform smelled like mildew.
When she opened her hooch door, she found Rye leaning against a pole, smoking a cigarette.
“Ready?” he said, taking the duffel from her, swinging the big, awkward bag easily over his shoulder.
“Not really.”
They walked through the surprisingly quiet camp, boarded the Huey, and lifted up into the sky.
In Saigon, at the airport, she thanked the pilot, checked her duffel, and let Rye take her to the Freedom Bird that would take her home.
A steady stream of soldiers walked past her on the tarmac at Tan Son Nhut, climbed up the movable stairs, and ducked into the large Braniff jet. They were a quiet bunch; there was no joking or laughing. Not yet, not while they were still in-country.
“Twenty-seven days until you leave, too,” Frankie said, looking up at him. She had to raise her voice to be heard above the rumble of the engines.
Twenty-seven days. An eternity in wartime.
No fear, McGrath.
A jeep rolled past them, full of soldiers with guns, looking for snipers.
More gunfire nearby. Pop-pop-pop. In the distance, a loud explosion. Something burst into flames on one of the runways.
Rye stared down at her. “Frankie … I don’t know how to tell you … I … won’t—”
“I know,” she said, touching his rough, unshaven face. “I love you, too.”
He let out a breath, gazed down at her. “God, I’ll miss you.”
He pulled her into a tight embrace, held her hard against him, and kissed her goodbye. She clung to him for as long as she dared, and then slowly pulled away.
Neither said goodbye. The word carried more than a hint of bad luck.
She straightened her shoulders and forced herself to walk away from him. At the top of the steps, she finally turned back.
Alone, he stood tall and straight in his worn fatigues, with a brimmed Seawolves cap pulled down low on his forehead. From here, he looked solid and steady, the perfect sailor, but she saw the clenched line of his jaw. He raised a single hand, fingers splayed, and held it there, then pressed it to his heart.
Frankie nodded, waved back one last time, and entered the jet. Most of the seats were already filled with men who kept glancing back at the door, as if Charlie might come breaking through any second, rifles drawn. They all knew they weren’t safe in the air until they were out of Vietnamese airspace.
Frankie found a seat on the starboard side, put her travel bag in the overhead bin, and sat at the window, staring out at Rye. She pressed her hand to the glass.
She heard the aircraft door close, clank shut. Moments later, the jet rolled down the runway, bumping over the bomb-pocked ground, and slowly lifted off.
Frankie stared out the window, saw clouds as they flew over the war-torn land, toward the safety of home.
The passengers applauded; someone shouted, “We’re outta there!”
Frankie was surprised to feel a version of sorrow.
As bad as it had been in ’Nam, as frightened and angry and betrayed as she’d often felt by her government and the war, she’d also felt alive. Competent and important. A woman who made a difference in the world.
This place would forever hold a piece of her heart. Here, she had found her place in the world, and she was afraid that “home” was no longer the place she wanted it to be.
* * *
Thirty-four hours later, after a six-hour layover at Travis Air Force Base in Northern California, Frankie stared out the oval window at the busy runways of Los Angeles International Airport.
Full daylight. A sun so bright it hurt one’s eyes. A blue and cloudless sky.
California.
The Golden State.
Home.
She had intended to call her parents from Travis, but when she’d finally made it to her turn in the pay phone line, she had turned away. She didn’t really know why.
The gate area at LAX was crowded. She saw military personnel sleeping on benches, sprawled on the dirty floor, using their duffel bags as pillows. Passing time on their way home. It didn’t seem right: Men who’d been shot at, and in some cases been patched up and sent back into harm’s way, sleeping on the floor between flights. The military paid your way to a base airport; once there, you had to buy your own ticket home. A real thank-you for serving your country.
As she neared baggage claim, she saw a group of protesters holding signs: END THE WAR BEFORE IT ENDS YOU! DROP ACID, NOT BOMBS! GET OUT OF VIETNAM NOW! BOMBING FOR PEACE IS LIKE SCREWING FOR VIRGINITY!
They saw her, coming their way in her skirted Army uniform, and thrust their signs at her, as if to convince her.
Someone spat at her.
“Nazi bitch,” one of the protesters yelled.
Frankie stumbled to a halt in shock. “What the—”
A pair of Marines appeared and flanked Frankie, one on each side of her.
“Don’t listen to those assholes,” one of them said. Bookending her, they made their way to the carousel. “We got nothing to be ashamed of.”
Frankie didn’t understand. Why would someone spit at her?
“Go back to Vietnam!” someone yelled. “We don’t want you baby killers here.”
Baby killers?