I love you.
You know that, and I know that you love me, and when that’s in place, we don’t need a goodbye.
So, I’ll say, “See you.”
Come visit me in Georgia. I’ll teach you about grits and collard greens and you can meet my mama. It’s a whole different world from your little island, trust me.
Until then, sister. Keep your head down.
And now. I know losing Jamie hurt like hell, but you’re still young. Don’t let this damn war take that, too.
I saw the way your Mr. Cool looks at you. Lord, I’d kill for a man to look at me like that.
Life over here is short and regret lasts forever.
Maybe happy now, happy for a moment, is all we really get. Happy forever seems a shitload to ask in a world on fire.
Be cool.
B
Beside Frankie, on the dresser, was a Polaroid picture of Barb, Ethel, and Frankie, all of them in shorts and T-shirts and combat boots, arms around each other, smiles so big and bold it seemed impossible that this was a wartime photograph. The beaded door of the O Club was behind them. Frankie could almost hear the multicolor beads clattering together, pushed by rain or wind. For all of it, they’d had good times.
She hoped they remembered that.
Fifteen
January 5, 1968
Dear Frankie,
I promised to write when I landed back in the good ole U. S. of A. I am home with my mama （for now） and sitting on my porch, sipping some sweet tea. Kids are playing kick the can in the street out front. Their laughter is something.
I miss you. I miss us. I even miss the 71st. Speaking of that, you’ll never guess who was on my Freedom bird. Coyote. Lordy, that boy has it bad for you. Showed me a picture of you two at the O Club in Saigon, but don’t you worry. He’ll find a sparkly little cowgirl in Texas.
Life here isn’t what I expected. I took a job at my local hospital and honestly, I’m bored to tears.
I need to find a new path. I’m sick of being treated like a candy striper. There’s not a lot of love for us veterans here.
I don’t know what I’ll do now. It’s hard to go from red alert sirens and saving lives to pantyhose and heels. The world might be changing, but we women are still second-class citizens. And Black women. Well. You do the math.
Life isn’t calm back here. Race riots. War protests. Dr. Spock was arrested for telling guys to resist the draft. The National Guard being called out. But it isn’t war.
I’m kind of at loose ends. Mama recommends more food and dating. Last week she bought me a used sewing machine.
I guess she thinks perfecting a blind stitch hem will revive me. I’m thinking I need a change. Maybe this little town is just too small for me now. But where would I go?
Anyway, stay safe and keep your flak jacket close.
Save some lives for me.
B
* * *
On a quiet day in mid-January of 1968, Frankie’s DEROS came in. She tacked the paper up on the plywood wall above her cot and drew a big red circle around March 15 and an X through today.
She was officially a short-timer.
* * *
At 0400 hours, on January 31, a rocket hit the Seventy-First.
Explosions ripped through the night.
The red alert siren blared.
Frankie scrambled out of bed, grabbed her flak jacket and steel pot helmet from underneath the bed, and dressed quickly.
Another rocket hit. The hooch shook. A rat ran across the floor, looking for shelter.
Frankie’s new hooch mate, Margie Sloan, sat up in bed and screamed. “What’s happening? Oh my God—”
The red alert siren sounded again, became continuous. Over the loudspeaker the words: “Attention all personnel, take cover. Security alert condition red. We are under rocket attack. Repeat: Condition red. Take cover.”
“We’ve got to get to the hospital,” Frankie yelled as she ran to the door, flung it open. Outside, the camp was filled with fire and smoke: buildings on fire, black smoke billowing, acrid-smelling. An oil drum behind the latrines burst into flames. One of the four-hundred-gallon water trailers positioned above the showers exploded; water geysered out. “Margie. Now!”
Margie moved in beside her. “We can’t go out there.”
Frankie grabbed Margie’s hand, wished there was more time to ease the young nurse into a night like this. “I know it’s scary, Margie, and I wish you weren’t so green. But one thing at a time, okay? Put on your flak and steel pot—”
“My what?”
“Your helmet. Put it on and get to the ER. Help with triage.”
“I can’t—”