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.