“Private Fournette,” she said again. “I’m Frankie McGrath.”
He blinked slowly. Tears slid down his face, mixing with dirt and blood. “Have you seen Stevo? Private Grand. It was my job to keep him safe. He just got in-country two days ago. His mama and mine work at the same salon. In Baton Rouge.”
“I saw him,” Frankie said, finding it hard to speak past the lump in her throat. “He’s fine. He was asking about you.”
Private Fournette smiled, a little sloppily. “My … something hurts, ma’am. I figure that shot is wearin’ off. Man, I surely could use a cold beer.” He started to shake. His hand in hers went limp, grew colder. “Ma’am,” he said.
“Yes?”
It was a long time before he spoke, a shivering silence. “I wish I’d a told…” He wheezed hard. Blood bubbled up from his mouth. “Loved her.”
“You’ll tell her after surgery,” Frankie said. “Right after they fix you up. I’ll help you write a letter.”
“I…” He paused, shuddered, and closed his eyes.
His hold on her hand loosened. One minute he was there, holding her hand, whispering his regret, and the next moment, he was gone.
* * *
Mass casualty. That was what they called tonight, or actually MASCAL. Apparently, since the recent influx of troops, it was beginning to happen so often that they didn’t have time to call it by its full name.
Frankie stood in the back corner of the Quonset hut that housed the ER. After nine hours on duty, she was beyond exhausted and her feet burned with blisters, but it wasn’t the ache in her bones and muscles and feet that mattered. It was shame.
How on earth had she thought she belonged here? That she had something to offer men who were grievously wounded? She’d been as much help as a candy striper.
Tonight she’d held scissors in hands that never quite stopped shaking and cut off T-shirts and flak jackets and pants, revealing wounds that she couldn’t have imagined before today. She still heard patients’ screams inside her head, even though the ward had emptied a while ago.
Casualties, she reminded herself. Back in the world, they were patients; here, they were casualties. The Army was full of terms like back in the world. That was how everyone referred to the life that they’d left behind.
Frankie sighed heavily, heard footsteps, and knew it was Ethel, coming to check up on her.
“Well, that was an ass-kicker,” Ethel said, lighting up a cigarette. “And no, not every day is like this, thank God.”
In her mind, Frankie nodded. She was pretty sure that in fact she just stood there, staring at nothing.
Ethel put an arm around her. “How are you, Frank?”
“Useless,” was all she could say.
“No one is ever ready for this. The worst part is that you’ll get used to it. Come on.”
Ethel kept her hold on Frankie, led her through the camp. Frankie felt every one of the new blisters on her feet. Outside, the night air smelled heavy, like blood on metal; there was no moon to light the way.
In the mess, she saw a few men sitting in the enlisted section, drinking coffee, and as they approached the O Club, she smelled smoke wafting through the beaded curtain. Music followed the smoke, infused it with memories of home. “I wanna hold your ha-aa-aa-and.”
In the distance, she heard the whoosh of waves rolling in and out. The sound called to her like a siren song, reinflated her youth. Nights on bicycles with Finley, riding free, their arms outstretched, stars overhead.
Finley. She’d felt his ghost beside her all night, seen his eyes in the face of every soldier whose hand she’d held.
She pulled away from Ethel and walked alongside a coil of concertina wire, a barrier of razor-sharp spikes.
In front of her: the sea. It was a glow of silver, a sense of movement, and the comforting familiarity of it, the salty tang in the air, called out to her, reminded her of home. On the beach, she sat down in the sand and closed her eyes.
She felt the salt, tasted it. The sea—
No. Not the sea.
She was crying.
“You can’t be out here alone, Frank. Not all soldiers are gentlemen.” Ethel sat down beside her.
“I’ll add that to my list of mistakes.”
“Yeah. You gotta be careful. Over here, the men lie and they die.”
Frankie had no idea what to say to that.
“So. Which is it?” Ethel finally said.
Frankie wiped her eyes and looked sideways. “What?”
“Are you out here grieving the boys we lost or your own piss-poor set of nursing skills?”