“I treat a few vets in my practice. Alcoholics, addicts, mostly. Do you have nightmares, Frankie? Trouble sleeping?”
Before Frankie could answer—deflect—Barb showed up, panting and out of breath. She slid into the booth, bumped Frankie hard. “Did you see us throw the medals? That will make the news.” She raised a hand to the bartender, yelled, “Rum and Coke.”
Henry was already sliding out of the booth, standing. He looked down at Frankie. “It was nice to meet you, Frankie. How do I find you?” he asked too quietly for Barb to hear.
“Sorry, Henry. I don’t think I’m ready to be found.”
He touched her shoulder gently. “Take care of yourself.”
Did he give those words a weight?
“Who was that?” Barb asked, reaching for a potato chip. “One of your dad’s friends?”
“He’s not that old,” Frankie said, staring down at the new silver bracelet she wore. With a fingertip, she traced the engraving. The major had gone missing three months before Frankie landed in Vietnam. While she was at Fort Sam Houston, not learning enough to deploy.
How many prisoners of war were there? And why were they never in the news?
“Frankie?” Barb said, finishing her drink. “What is it? Memories? Do you need to talk?”
Frankie looked up. “I’m glad we marched. You were right.”
Barb smiled. “Girlfriend, I am always right. You know that by now.”
“But I think we can do more.”
Twenty-Four
“You owe me,” Frankie said again.
Barb stood in their small pine-plank-walled living room, wearing only her underpants and a bra. Their old black-and-white television hummed quietly behind them; Hugh Downs saying that the Nixon administration had arrested thirteen thousand anti-war protesters in three days. The footage of the Gold Star Mothers and the medals being thrown filled the oval screen; after that came footage from Kent State, where the National Guard had killed unarmed students. “You’re glad you went to the march.”
“I am. And you’ll be glad we went to a fundraiser to help bring POWs home. I followed your lead. Now you need to follow mine.”
“Why do you even want to go? You’re not a Navy wife.”
“I was supposed to be,” Frankie said gently. “And for Fin. I can’t imagine him stuck in a cage somewhere, forgotten. Why don’t you want to go?”
“Navy wives. And pantyhose. You know I haven’t worn them in years.”
“You can shimmy into pantyhose and eat lunch with other women. I’ll buy you a rum and Coke after.”
“I am going to need one.”
Frankie dressed in a way that would have made her mother proud: in a navy blue knit pantsuit. Beneath the jacket, she wore a bold geometric print blouse with large, pointed lapels. She pulled her hair back from a severe center part and put it in a ponytail.
Frankie knew about Navy wives. Coronado was full of them. She knew they maintained a strict social hierarchy based on their husbands’ rank. Frankie wouldn’t be surprised to learn that they still gave out calling cards to each other. But she didn’t share any of this with Barb.
At 11:50 A.M., she and Barb (who wore a black miniskirt and a black turtleneck and black knee boots) pulled up in front of the Hay Adams Hotel.
A stream of protesters passed the hotel, marching toward the Capitol. Thousands of them, intent on disrupting the government.
Police in riot gear stood behind barricades.
“We should be with them,” Barb said.
“Not today,” Frankie said. “Come on.”
Once inside the hotel, they rode the elevator up to the rooftop, which overlooked the White House and the Washington Monument.
Inside the rooftop restaurant, a giant banner had been strung up: DON’T LET THEM BE FORGOTTEN.
Frankie felt a shiver of emotion. They had been forgotten. Even by her.
At the front entrance, two well-dressed women sold tickets for the luncheon and handed out donation envelopes.
Frankie bought two tickets and led Barb into the luncheon. The room reminded her of the Coronado Golf and Tennis Club: white tablecloths and bone china plates and sterling silverware. In the front of the room stood a podium with a microphone.
Women in dresses and pantsuits drifted into the room, talking to one another. Several moved from table to table. The officers’ wives, probably. She and Barb found two empty seats and sat down. A waiter promptly poured them wine.
“See?” Frankie said. “Not all bad.”
The room filled up slowly. Waiters moved from table to table, serving each guest tuna salad in a scooped-out red bell pepper.
A slim blond woman in a knit cornflower-blue dress took to the podium and said, “Hello, Navy wives and friends. Welcome to our nation’s capital. I’m Anne Jenkins, from San Diego. My husband is Commander Mike Jenkins, who is currently a prisoner of war in Hoa Lo Prison in Hanoi. I am here, along with several of my fellow wives, to seek donations, in both time and money, to help bring our POWs home.”
The room fell silent. Forks were set down.
“As some of you may know, many of us have been fighting this battle for years. The information coming from the Nixon administration is shoddy and incomplete at best. The military’s missing in action and killed in action reports are unreliable. Jane Adon’s husband was shot down in 1966. The government first told her he was killed in action and reported that his remains were ‘unrecoverable.’ She held a funeral for him. We all mourned for him. And then, six months ago, my husband included a mention in his letter of the perfect daylight he’d seen recently. Well, that was the name of Adon’s boat. We think it may mean he is alive and at the Hanoi Hilton. But, I ask you, what is she supposed to tell her children now?
“This is unacceptable. And Jane is not alone. I spoke with Senator Bob Dole last year, who admitted that as of 1970, most senators didn’t even know what MIA or POW meant. Think about that. Last year the people running our country—a country at war—didn’t know what missing in action meant. Thankfully, Mr. Dole—a proud vet himself—is on our side, and we finally hope that the tide is turning our way. Enough of our silence, enough asking for information politely. Enough being ladylike. Being ‘just’ wives. It’s time that we stand up, strong and proud as military families and wives, and demand answers. We’ve set up headquarters in an empty building here in D.C. And we are looking for space in San Diego, where most of us live. It is our goal to find the name of every American POW in Vietnam and put pressure on the government to bring them home. With help from our imprisoned husbands, we have been collecting a list of names. We believe we know all of the prisoners in Hoa Lo now. We intend to become a political machine with one purpose: make everyone in this country aware of the military men in cages in Vietnam.”
“How?” someone asked.
“We start by writing letters and giving interviews. Make our missing husbands a story that needs telling. Who is willing to write letters to bring our brave boys home?”
Applause. Women stood up, clapping.
Anne waited for the noise to die down, then said, “Thank you. Bless you. And if you can’t write letters, please donate generously to our cause. We will make this happen, ladies. No more silence on our watch. We won’t let them be forgotten.”
Anne nodded and left the podium, stopping at each table to say hello. She came at last to Frankie’s table and paused there.
“That was wonderful, Anne,” said one of the women at the table.
“Thank you. Lord, I hate public speaking.” Anne looked at Barb, then at Frankie. “Welcome, ladies. Are you Navy wives?”
“We were Army nurses in Vietnam,” Frankie said. “First Lieutenants Frankie McGrath and Barb Johnson.”
“Bless you,” the women at the table said in quiet tones.
Anne said, “We all know sailors who came home because of the medical aid they received. Are you ladies from D.C.?”
“Georgia,” Barb answered.
“Coronado Island, ma’am,” Frankie said.
“Coronado?” Anne said, looking at her. “Frankie McGrath. You’re Bette and Connor’s daughter?”