“Go, Frankie,” Hap said, taking her by the shoulders, turning her toward the doors of the OR. “Barb left an hour ago.”
Frankie nodded. Had she fallen asleep on her feet for a second? Too tired to argue, she pulled off her mask, scrubs, cap, and gloves, and tossed them away.
Outside, daylight.
She blinked, confused for a moment. What time was it? What day?
Move, Frankie.
She left the OR and stepped outside, onto the walkway; there were pods of people about, looking tired, not much talking going on, drifting in and out of the mess hall.
In front of the morgue, she saw a single litter, positioned between two sawhorses. Beside it was a stack of body bags.
She headed slowly toward the litter, drawn to the loneliness of the man lying there, hoping he hadn’t died alone out here. He was young—so young—and Black. He had one limb left—his right arm—and it hung limply over the side, his fingertips just inches above the bloody ground.
His youth upended her. She was twenty-one years old, and she felt ancient. All these young men who’d come here, most of them by choice, being shot at, ripped apart, broken into pieces. The majority were Black or Hispanic or poor, straight out of high school. They didn’t have parents who could pull strings to get them out of service or into the National Guard, or college classes to keep them safe, or girls who would marry them. Some volunteered just to choose the branch of service, rather than be shipped out in whatever service when their number came up.
A generation gone. Her generation.
Dirt and blood streaked his face. She could see clumps of sweaty skin where his helmet had been. She couldn’t help wondering who he was, what he had believed in. They all had stories, these guys, stories that they’d thought would go on for years, through marriages and jobs and children and grandchildren.
She saw a helmet nearby and bent over to pick it up. A Polaroid picture, splattered with mud, stuck up from it.
This young man in a white tuxedo coat and black pants, wearing horn-rimmed glasses with his arm bent at a crisp ninety degrees. Beside him was a Black girl in a long gown, wearing elbow-length white gloves, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm.
Senior Prom 1966 was scrawled on the white border of the print. On the back it read Come home, Beez. We love you.
Frankie gently wiped the Polaroid clean and put it in his pocket. “At least you’ll be going home,” she said quietly, touching his cheek. “That will mean something to your family.”
In the distance, she heard a mortar thud and explode, and then nothing.
She was so tired of watching young men die. Instead of turning toward her hooch, she went to the Park, where people sat in chairs, watching a movie. The rat-a-tat-tat of the noisy projector garbled the dialogue.
Frankie knew that no movie would ease her loneliness or dim this new and acute sense of impending doom that had attached to her, but it was worse to be alone than to be among people. She sat down in the chair beside Barb, who handed her a drink.
“What are we watching?”
“The Great Escape.”
“Again?”
One drink, Frankie thought. Just one.
* * *
On their first day off in two weeks, Frankie and Barb sat in chairs in the Park, a cooler beside them, drinking lukewarm TaBs. Barb was reading a letter from home aloud.
November 17, 1967
Dear Barbara Sue,
Lord, I don’t know who to worry more about these days, you in harm’s way, or your brother in California. The letters coming from Will are worrisome, that’s for sure. I sent you clippings about the riot in Detroit this summer, remember, when the Guard was called in? There were other riots, too. In Buffalo, Flint, New York City, Houston. Lots of cities. Cops clobbering on us negroes. Looting. I just found out that Will was in Detroit that day, rioting. 33 Black folks died.
I’m afraid. Ever since your brother got back from Vietnam, he’s been angry in a way that will get him killed. Those college white boys might get away with violence at their protests, but it won’t fly for Will and his Black Panther friends. I know you’re busy, but maybe you could call him? He might listen to his big sister. Lord knows he won’t listen to his mama. Thinks I oughta be mad as a hornet, but what good will that do? Me breaking a window or marching across a bridge won’t change a thing. He forgets I saw your uncle Joey get lynched for looking wrong at a white lady. That wasn’t all that long ago.
Anyway, we miss you plenty back here. Counting the days till you’re home.
Love, Mama
“Lieutenant Johnson?”
Barb looked up.