Chapter Fifteen #2
She leaned over the dying man, barely older than a boy, and placed a hand on his ruined chest.
His head lolled toward her. One eye looked at her. She knew he recognized her when his eye filled with tears.
“I’m here, Albert. You’re not alone.” She held his hand.
It was all she could do for him in this moment, be the girl back home he’d never had.
“I’ll bet you’re thinking about your family, Albert.
In Kentucky, wasn’t it? Land of bourbon and good-looking men.
I’ll write to your mama…” Frankie couldn’t remember his mother’s name.
She knew it, but couldn’t remember. It felt like another loss, her not remembering.
Albert tried to speak. Whatever he wanted to say, it was too much.
He closed his one eye; his breathing turned as clunky as an old motor.
Frankie felt his last breath expand and empty through her own lungs.
And then he was gone.
Frankie let out a heavy breath and turned to Rye. “God, I’m tired of this.”
Rye picked her up in his arms and carried her through the burning, smoking camp, past people drawn together in groups, grieving for what had been lost. The mess hall was half gone, as were the Red Cross offices. Giant smoking pits spat fire into the falling night.
The door to her hooch lay in pieces in the dirt.
Rye carried her inside and set her down on the narrow cot.
She slumped forward. “We have too many FNGs here. We needed Barb and Ethel and Hap and Jamie tonight…”
Rye sat on the cot’s edge, stroked her back. “Go to sleep, Frankie.”
She leaned against him. “His mama’s name was Shirley,” she whispered, remembering too late.
“Shirley. I’ll write to her…” As exhausted and lonely as she felt, it would have been easy to turn to Rye, to reach for him, to let him hold and soothe her.
Longing came with the thought. She lay down and closed her eyes, almost whispered, Stay until I’m asleep. But what would be the point?
Hours later, when she woke, he was gone.
The Stars and Stripes called it the Tet Offensive: a massive coordinated attack across the country by the North Vietnamese in the early hours of January 31, 1968, the bloodiest day of the Vietnam War so far.
The attack blew the doors off the secret side of the war.
Apparently, when Walter Cronkite reported on the Tet carnage, he’d said—on air—“What the hell is going on? I thought we were winning the war.”
Suddenly everyone in the media was asking the question: What in the hell is going on in Vietnam?
On February 2, LBJ used death as the success matrix of Tet, claiming that 10,000 North Vietnamese had died and only 249 Americans. “I can count,” the President said, implying that hearts stopped were what mattered. (He didn’t even mention the South Vietnamese casualties.)
Two hundred forty-nine American deaths.
A lie, Frankie was sure, given the number of deaths she’d witnessed at the Seventy-First alone, but who knew the truth?
The next morning, Frankie stood at the bedside of a young South Vietnamese woman who’d been brought in late the previous night, burned and in the throes of labor. The team had done everything they could to save the baby, but it hadn’t been possible.
The woman was sitting up in bed, holding her dead newborn in bandaged arms. Beneath those white gauze bandages, the skin had been charred to black, but the woman hadn’t even cried out when Frankie debrided the dead flesh. She’d made a sound only when she tried to take the baby.
Unbearable grief.
So many dead and dying and lost.
Her hooch mate, Margie, approached Frankie, offered her a hot coffee. The cup shook in her unsteady hand. “Are you okay?”
“How could any of us be okay?” Frankie answered.
“Well. You’re on your way out. Just think. You’re going home.”
Frankie nodded. She’d been looking forward to going home, longing for it, dreaming about it, but suddenly she pictured it.
Coronado Island.
Mom and Dad and the country club.
What would it actually be like, being home, living with her parents?
How could she go from red alert sirens and saving lives to butter knives and champagne glasses?
“I don’t know how we’ll manage without you,” Margie said.
Frankie turned to look at Margie, whose eyes were red from crying. The young nurse was nowhere near ready for what was to come. She would be someday—probably—but not yet.
There was no nurse here with the experience Frankie had.
How could she leave this hospital and the casualties—American and South Vietnamese—who needed her? She’d come here to make a difference, to save lives, and God knew lives still needed saving. As much as she sometimes hated the war, she loved nursing more.
February 3, 1968
Dear Mom and Dad,
This is a difficult letter to write, and I am sure it will be difficult to read. I apologize in advance. I wish I could just pick up the phone and call you, but believe me, the MARS phone is not our friend.
It sounds crazy and absurd, but I have found my calling here in Vietnam. I love what I do, and I make a real difference. As you know, the war is heating up. I know the media and the government are lying to the American people, but I’m sure you’ve heard of the Tet Offensive.
More troops arrive every day, and a lot of them end up wounded.
We do our best to save them, and if they can’t be saved—like Finley—I sit with them and hold their hands and let them know they aren’t alone. I write letters to their mothers, their sisters, their wives. Can you imagine what such a letter would have meant to us?
So.
I am not coming home next month. I have signed up for another one-year tour of duty. I simply can’t leave my post when the men need me. We don’t have enough experienced staff here.
There. I can hear you screaming. If you knew me now, you’d understand. I am a combat nurse.
I love you both.
F
February 17, 1968
Dear Frances Grace,
NO. NO. NO.
Change your mind. Come home. Be safe.
You could get hurt over there. Enough. Come home NOW.
Your father is extremely unhappy with this idea, I might add.
Much love,
Your mother
March 1, 1968
Dear Frank,
Of course you’re staying. I never doubted it.
You’re as tough as dried-out rope and the men need you.
God knows it’s strange here, too. Nixon announced that he’s running for president and state troopers used tear gas to stop a protest. Holy crap. Nothing makes sense.
Still, strangely, life goes on. I’m in Veterinary School at long last and working my ass off. I’ve joined the local orchestra and am back to playing the violin. It helps a bit, although I still don’t sleep well.
Come visit me when you’re back in the world. I’m waiting with open arms. We have a new mare that is a dream for beginners. Nothing soothes the soul like a gallop in the sunshine.
Love,
Ethel
On a blisteringly hot day in early March, Frankie began her shift, tired and jittery from a lack of sleep.
The OR hadn’t been especially busy in the past week—there had been lots of time for games and movie nights and writing letters home.
Frankie had even jumped on a slick ship—a Huey stripped down for transport—and gone to Qui Nhon for an afternoon of shopping.
Even so, she was on edge, peevish, demanding too much from the people around her.
It didn’t help that they were short-staffed.
Frankie knew she should reach out to the newer nurses, especially Margie, and mentor them, but she was worn out. And lonely.
“Lieutenant McGrath.”
She turned, saw Captain Miniver, the new, by-the-book chief nurse of the Seventy-First, holding a clipboard close to her chest, her body stiffly upright. “Lieutenant McGrath?”
“Yes, Captain?”
“I’ve been informed that you have failed to take an R and R this tour. And your new tour starts in two weeks.”
“Who ratted me out?”
“Someone who cares about you, obviously. A little bird.”
“Barb.”
“Barb who?” She smiled. “Anyway, I’m ordering you to go. I have your itinerary right here. A beach hotel on Kauai sounds ideal. It’s a farther flight, but there will be fewer soldiers looking for boom-boom there.”
“I’m needed—”
“None of us is irreplaceable, McGrath. I have been watching you. Getting reports on the level of bitchiness you’ve recently achieved. It’s impressive.” Her expression softened. In it, Frankie saw understanding. “You need a break.”
“You think a little hula time will fix me?”
“It won’t hurt. Either way, you leave tomorrow. Here’s your itinerary. Go. Rest. Drink cocktails that come with umbrellas. Sleep. I could be saving your life, McGrath. Trust me. I’ve been where you are. We all can break.”