Chapter Thirteen #2
“Hey, Private Brown. Yes, you do have one fine ass, I’d say.
Too bad I’m going to have to pick shrapnel out of it.
” She waved over the male nurse-anesthetist—nicknamed Gasman—who injected a local anesthetic.
When the patient’s buttocks were numb, Frankie bent over his backside and went to work, tweezing out jagged bits of shrapnel.
It would hurt like hell if he could feel it. And he would when the drugs wore off.
“Where are you from, Albert?”
“Kentucky, ma’am. Land of bourbon and good-lookin’ men.”
“With fine asses,” Frankie said.
He laughed. “I’m glad to represent, ma’am.”
When she had finished, cleaned him up, and bandaged his backside, she called for a medic to take him to Post-Op.
“Wait, ma’am,” he said. “Can you take a picture with me for my mama, Shirley? She’d love that.”
Frankie smiled tiredly. It was a common request. “Sure, Albert. But your ass looks like it’s been chewed by wolves and so does my hair.”
Albert grinned. “No way, ma’am. You’re the prettiest girl who has ever touched my butt.”
Frankie couldn’t help but laugh. She leaned down and let the kid’s friend snap a Polaroid picture of them. With a wave, she sent him off to recovery and peeled off her gloves, tossing them away and reaching for a new pair. She was thinking about going for a soda when she heard choppers.
Several of them.
She glanced across the OR, made eye contact with Barb, who looked as exhausted as Frankie felt.
The two nurses ran for the helipad, their feet lost in a cloud of red dirt. They helped offload the wounded and guided them back to triage. There, they moved through the wounded fast, barking out orders, prioritizing treatment.
They were almost done when Frankie heard, “Where do you want him, ma’am?”
Two medics appeared, with a wounded man on a litter between them. She took one look at this casualty’s wound and said, “OR, STAT,” and ran along beside the medics.
In the OR, she pointed to an empty table and called for Sharlene, the newest nurse at the Seventy-First; the poor thing was fresh off the plane from Kansas. This would be her first shift. “Sharlene,” Frankie said, thrusting a pair of scissors at her. “Cut off his clothes.”
The young blond woman stared down at the blood falling from the soldier’s chest and onto her shiny black combat boots.
Frankie saw the woman’s fear and thought, Take a breath, Frankie. She forced her voice to soften as she said, “Look at me… Sharlene.”
Sharlene’s eyes were full of tears. “Yes… ma’am…”
“It’s scary, I know. But you can cut his clothes away and take off his boot. You’re a registered nurse.”
Sharlene took the scissors in shaking hands and went to the end of the table. Staring down at what was left of the soldier’s left leg, she began to cut away the blood-and-mud-soaked pants leg.
The patient sat up suddenly, saw his mangled leg. “Where’s my foot? Where’s my foot?”
“Doc! Over here.” Frankie reached for a shot of morphine and administered it. “This will help. You’ll be okay, Corporal.”
“I’m a bulldogger, ma’am,” he said, starting to slur his words as the morphine took effect. “In Oklahoma. You smell mighty fine, ma’am, like my girl back home.”
“It’s Jean Naté perfume. What’s a bulldogger, Marine?” Frankie said, looking for a surgeon.
“Rodeo, ma’am. I surely need that foot…”
Frankie yelled, “Is there a damn doc here, or am I going to do this kid’s surgery myself?”
On her birthday, after a long shift in the OR, Frankie headed to the Park, where a party was in full swing.
Barb and Slim were standing by the dirty, leaf-infested pool.
A banner had been strung between two dying banana trees: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FRANKIE!
A small, tired-looking group of nurses and doctors whooped and clapped at her arrival.
Coyote saw Frankie. He leaned over the tiki bar, poured a drink, and brought it to her.
In the days since she’d seen him at the O Club in Saigon, he’d shaved his mustache. He looked younger.
“Happy birthday, Frankie. I’m glad I could be here. Dance with me?”
She started to say no, but when she looked in his eyes, and saw how hard he was working to smile, she realized that they were alike: just trying to conceal the pain of every day here, tired of being alone.
“Give me a chance, Frankie. I’m a good man.”
He sounded so earnest, and she knew he meant it, knew that it made sense to do as he asked, so, she let herself be pulled forward.
She wouldn’t sleep with him, wouldn’t even let him kiss her—that would be wrong, to lead him on that way—but just now, she was lonely and tired.
It was the wrong song and the wrong man and the wrong hand in hers, but honestly, it felt good not to be alone. And it was just a dance, after all.
“Say you’ll be my girl.”
“I’m sorry, Coyote,” she said softly. For a moment she almost hoped he hadn’t heard her.
“Yeah,” he whispered back, his breath hot against her ear. “I know. You’re out of my league, Frankie McGrath.”
She tightened her hold on him. “No, Coyote. You’re everything a girl could want.”
He drew back. “Just not you.”
God, she hated this. “Just not me.”
He pulled her close again, resumed their dance. “I love a challenge, Frankie. You should know that about me. But I’m going home soon. Short-timer. So don’t lose your chance.”
He threw his head back and howled, but for the first time, Frankie heard the loneliness in the sound, the sorrow and the heartbreak. She wondered if it had been there all along.