“I know.”
Major Goldstein sighed heavily. “Losing you is pure shit from my end. I’ll get some newbie nurse to replace you, no doubt, but orders are orders. You’re a hell of a combat nurse.” She sighed again. “So, naturally, I lose you. It’s the Army way. Make sure your will is up-to-date. And write your parents a nice letter before you go.”
Frankie was too stunned—too scared—to say anything except, “Thank you, Major.”
“Believe me, Lieutenant McGrath, you will not thank me for this.”
Frankie left the admin building in a daze.
Pleiku.
Rocket City.
She walked past a group of men playing football on the beach and a pair of uniformed Red Cross workers sitting in portable beach chairs, watching the game. More shirtless men sat in chairs, getting some sun. Someone was setting up the screen and projector for tonight’s movie.
She found Barb in a beach chair, reading a letter from home.
Frankie sat down beside her. “I’ve been transferred to the Seventy-First.”
Barb took a long drink of her gin and tonic. “Man. No one screws a woman like this man’s Army.”
“Yep.”
“So, when do we go?”
Frankie must have misheard. “We?”
“Honey, you know I love to travel. I can get transferred with you. No sweat. God knows they need us both up there.”
“But Barb—”
“No talking, Frankie. For as long as I’m in this godforsaken place, I’m with you.”
* * *
The hooch door banged open. No knocking. A swatch of hot yellow sunlight blasted into the dim interior.
Barb stood there, still dressed in the khaki shorts and T-shirt and combat boots she’d worn to the ER this morning. Her Afro was bigger now; in the past weeks, she’d let it go, called it her private rebellion.
A young woman stood beside Barb, wearing her Class A uniform and carrying her Army-issue handbag and a soft-sided travel bag. Electric-blue eye shadow drew attention to her wide, frightened eyes. Frankie could see how the poor girl was shaking.
“I’m Wilma Cottington from Boise, Idaho,” she said, trying to iron the stutter out of her voice.
Barb said, “Land of potatoes.”
“My husband is in Da Nang,” Wilma said. “I followed him.”
“A husband in-country. How lucky.” Frankie made brief eye contact with Barb. They both knew a husband in-country was potentially lucky. Or extremely unlucky.
“I’m Frankie.” She stood up. “Why don’t you unpack? We’ll show you around when you’re done.”
Wilma looked around the hooch.
Frankie knew exactly what she was thinking and feeling.
They’d all been turtles once, and the Thirty-Sixth was a carousel of people coming and going. Wilma would make it—become a more-than-competent nurse—or she wouldn’t. Most likely she would, even without Frankie or Barb to train her. Major Goldstein would start her in Neuro.
The circle of life in the Thirty-Sixth.
A rat scurried across the floor; Wilma screamed.
Frankie barely noticed the rodent. “That isn’t the worst of what you’ll see, kid.”
Kid.
They were probably the same age, but Frankie felt ancient by comparison.
“Don’t drink water unless it comes from a Lister bag, Wilma,” Frankie said. “That’s as good a place to start as any.”
* * *
October 20, 1967
Dear Mom and Dad,
Hello from hot and humid Vietnam.
I never told you about our beach party. I went waterskiing for the first time. Then we had a mini-American Bandstand dance party on the beach. There are these Naval helicopter pilots—the Seawolves—who really know how to have a good time.
My friend Ethel went home and Barb and I surely miss her. I never knew how intense wartime friendships could be.
I’ve been at the 36th Evac Hospital for six months, and it seems that the brass wants me to move up north, into the Central Highlands, to the 71st. I’ll send you my address when I know what it is. Barb is going, too.
Until then, could you please send some hand lotion, tampons （they sell out in the PX because the men out in the bush use them to clean their rifles）， shampoo, crème rinse, and I sure would love some more See’s. And I’m almost out of perfume. The boys love it when I smell like the girls back in the world.
I’ll write again as soon as I’m settled. I’m nervous about the transfer, but excited, too. This will really sharpen my nursing skills.