In the falling darkness, Frankie couldn’t see much of the place: a row of shacks—the hooches—a large wooden building that housed the mess, the nurses’ latrines, a chapel, a row of Quonset huts that were weakly illuminated, the hospital insignia painted on their exterior walls.
Ethel rounded the corner of a Quonset hut and suddenly they were in a wide-open space, a patch of red dirt surrounded by shadowy structures. All of it looked hastily constructed, temporary. Not far away—close enough to hear the whoosh of the tides—lay the South China Sea.
Pale light glazed a coil of concertina wire that created a perimeter for the camp. Off to the left was a sandbagged bunker, its entrance a gaping black square beneath a wooden arch, upon which someone had spray-painted OFFICERS’ CLUB on the crossbeam. A curtain of multicolored beads shielded the interior from view.
Ethel pushed through the curtains. The beads made a soft clattering sound.
The place was bigger inside than it looked. Against the back there was a plywood bar, with stools in front. A bartender stood behind it, busily making drinks. A Vietnamese woman in pajama-like pants and a long tunic top carried a tray from table to table. A stereo system boasted huge speakers; beside it, there were hundreds of eight track tapes. “Like a Rolling Stone” blared into the space, so loud people had to shout in conversation. A trio of men threw darts at a dartboard on the wall.
Smoke filled the air, stung Frankie’s eyes.
Men and a few women filled the room—sitting at tables, standing along the walls. One guy was standing on his head with his bare legs crossed. Most were smoking and drinking.
When the song ended, there was a beat of silence. In it, Frankie heard snippets of conversation, bits of laughter, someone yelling, No love lost there, man.
Ethel clapped her hands to get attention. “Hey, all, this is Frankie McGrath. She’s from…” Ethel turned. “Where are you from?”
“California.”
“Sunny California!” Ethel said. She pulled Frankie forward, introducing her to the other officers. Patty was near the bar, smoking a cigarette, playing cards with a captain. She smiled and waved.
Suddenly the music changed. Out came “East Coast girls are hip…”
People clapped, yelled out, “Welcome, Frankie!”
A man pulled her into his arms, started dancing with her.
He was tall and lanky, good-looking, in a white T-shirt and worn Levi’s. His beach-sand-blond hair was regulation short, but the smile on his face—and the marijuana cigarette in his mouth—told her that he was the kind of guy her father had told her to stay away from. Well, really, that was all men. (“War bachelors, Frankie. Married men who think love’s a free-for-all when bombs are falling. Don’t you go all that way and shame us.”)
He exhaled the sweet smoke in a rush and offered her the joint. “You want a hit?”
Frankie’s eyes widened. It wasn’t the first time she’d been offered marijuana (she had gone to college, albeit a Catholic one), but this was Vietnam. War. Serious times. She hadn’t smoked marijuana at the San Diego College for Women and she sure as heck wouldn’t do drugs here.
“No, thanks, but I’ll take a—”
Before she could say Coke, an explosion rocked the O Club. The walls rattled, dirt rained down from the ceiling, a footlocker crashed to the floor, someone shouted, Not now, Charlie! I’m drinking—
Another explosion. Red light flashed through the beaded curtain. A red-alert siren blared across camp.
A voice came out over the loudspeaker: Attention all personnel, take cover. Security Alert condition red. We are under rocket attack. Repeat: condition red. Take cover.
Rocket attack?
Another explosion. Closer. The beads swayed and clattered.
Frankie wrenched out of whoever-he-was’s arms and headed for the door.
He grabbed her, pulled her back.
She panicked, screamed, tried to wrench free. He held her close.
Someone cranked up the music as dirt rained down on them all.
“You’re safe, McGrath,” the man whispered in her ear. She felt his breath on her neck. “At least as safe as anywhere in the damned country. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”
She heard the rockets flare and explode, felt the ground shimmy under her feet.
Frankie flinched at every explosion. Oh God. What have I done? She thought of Finley.
Regret to inform you …
No remains.
“I’ve got you,” the man said again as her breathing sped up. He tightened his hold. “Don’t worry.”
The siren sounded again.
She felt the man’s hold on her ease, felt his tension soften.
“That’s the all clear,” he said. And when another explosion sounded, he laughed and said, “That’s us. Giving it back to them.”
She looked up, embarrassed by her fear. What kind of soldier was she? Standing here, shaking and ready to cry on her first day? “But … the bunkers … shouldn’t we go…”
“What kind of host would I be if I shoved you out of your own party because of a little mortar attack? I’m Jamie Callahan. Chest cutter. From Jackson Hole. Just look at me, McGrath. Close out the rest.”
Frankie tried to focus on her breathing, on his kind, sad blue eyes, tried to pretend she wasn’t terrified. “You’re a d-doctor?” she made herself say.
He smiled, and it showed her at last that he was young, or at least not old. Maybe thirty. “Yep. Ward Five. Surgical.” He leaned close. “Maybe you’ll work under me.”
She heard the sexy slur of his voice and smelled the alcohol and marijuana on his breath and the strange, shifting, exploding world righted for a moment, became as familiar as a doctor hitting on a nurse. “My dad warned me about guys like you.”
The explosions stopped.
“That’s it,” Jamie said with a smile, but something about it was wrong, as if maybe he’d been scared, too.
Someone cranked up the music. “These boots are made for walkin’…”
The crowd joined in, sang along, paired up and started dancing.
Just like that, the party was back in full swing, with people smoking and drinking and laughing as if they hadn’t just been bombed.
Jamie smiled. “How about a shot of whiskey, California girl?”
Frankie had trouble finding her voice. “I don’t know…” She’d turned twenty-one a few months before, but she’d never drunk hard alcohol.
He leaned close. “It’ll stop the trembling.”
Frankie doubted that. “Will it?”
He gave her a sad look. “For tonight, it will.”
Six
The next morning, Frankie woke disoriented, uncertain where she was.
Then the smell hit: shit and fish and rotting vegetation. And the heat. She was drenched in sweat. Her sheets smelled sour.
She was in her sauna-hot hooch, in Vietnam. With a pounding headache.
She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the cot.
For a terrible minute, she thought she might vomit.
She’d had two shots of whiskey last night. Two.
And nothing to eat.
The last thing she remembered was dancing with Ethel to “Monday, Monday.” Had Frankie’s shorts fallen down at one point, pooled around her shiny new combat boots? She thought so, thought she remembered someone saying, Nice gams, Frank! and Ethel laughing as Frankie struggled to pull the shorts back up.
Oh God. Way to make a good first impression.
Where were Barb and Ethel?
Feeling shaky, dehydrated, she scratched her short hair and looked around. A large gray rat sat on the dirty wooden floor, holding a half-eaten candy bar in his pointy pink paws; at her look, he stopped nibbling and stared back at Frankie through black, oil-drop eyes.
Tomorrow morning, she’d throw something at him. Now she felt too weak to expend the effort.
Frankie got out of bed, ignoring the rat, who was now ignoring her, too, and dressed in her creased olive-green fatigues, taking care to tuck her pants into her spit-shined new boots.
The rat scurried across the wooden floor and disappeared behind the dresser.
“Okay,” Frankie said, standing in the small, crowded space. “You can do this.”