“McGrath,” a medic yelled from the doorway. “Someone wants you out here. STAT.”
Frankie ran out of the OR, saw Rye standing outside, covered in blood and mud. “Are you hurt?”
“It’s not my blood.” He pulled her into his arms, held her tightly. “You’re okay,” he said shakily, and then, steadier: “You’re okay.” He drew back, stared down at her. “I heard about the direct hit here and all I could think about was you. I thought…” he began. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
He let her go, but she didn’t step back. It had felt so good to be in his arms, to be comforted, even for a moment. “Just another shit day at the Seventy-First,” she said, trying to smile.
“Come on, Frankie,” he said. “I’m taking you out of here.”
“There is no out of here,” she said tiredly.
He held her hand and led her away from the OR.
The compound was a stinking, smoldering mess. Something over by the Park was on fire, lighting up a sky that would soon be darkening again.
Rye said, “I’ve never seen a night like this.”
Frankie started to say something—she had no idea what—when she heard a soldier moan in pain. She yelled, “Medic!” and ran toward the morgue overflow area, where there were rows of canvas-covered dead bodies. A pair of exhausted-looking corpsmen were managing it all, gathering the names of the dead, checking dog tags, zipping the bodies into bags.
Over to the left, there was a single litter left on a pair of sawhorses. She saw blood dripping down from the sides and through the canvas bottom; she heard the patient moan again.
“Westley, has this soldier been given morphine?” she asked one of the corpsmen.
“Yes, ma’am. Doc Morse saw him. Said he couldn’t do any more.”
Frankie nodded and went to the man on the litter. She felt Rye come up beside her.
There was almost nothing left of a man who had been whole minutes ago. Field dressings were blood-soaked on three missing limbs. Blood and mud covered what remained of his face.
She reached for his dog tags so that she could comfort him by name. “Hey, Pri—” Her voice broke.
Private Albert Brown.
“Hey, Albert,” she said softly. “Did you come by to show me that fine ass of yours again?”
She leaned over the dying man, barely older than a boy, and placed a hand on his ruined chest.
His head lolled toward her. One eye looked at her. She knew he recognized her when his eye filled with tears.
“I’m here, Albert. You’re not alone.” She held his hand. It was all she could do for him in this moment, be the girl back home he’d never had. “I’ll bet you’re thinking about your family, Albert. In Kentucky, wasn’t it? Land of bourbon and good-looking men. I’ll write to your mama…” Frankie couldn’t remember his mother’s name. She knew it, but couldn’t remember. It felt like another loss, her not remembering. Albert tried to speak. Whatever he wanted to say, it was too much. He closed his one eye; his breathing turned as clunky as an old motor. Frankie felt his last breath expand and empty through her own lungs.
And then he was gone.
Frankie let out a heavy breath and turned to Rye. “God, I’m tired of this.”
Rye picked her up in his arms and carried her through the burning, smoking camp, past people drawn together in groups, grieving for what had been lost. The mess hall was half gone, as were the Red Cross offices. Giant smoking pits spat fire into the falling night.
The door to her hooch lay in pieces in the dirt.
Rye carried her inside and set her down on the narrow cot.
She slumped forward. “We have too many FNGs here. We needed Barb and Ethel and Hap and Jamie tonight…”
Rye sat on the cot’s edge, stroked her back. “Go to sleep, Frankie.”
She leaned against him. “His mama’s name was Shirley,” she whispered, remembering too late. “Shirley. I’ll write to her…” As exhausted and lonely as she felt, it would have been easy to turn to Rye, to reach for him, to let him hold and soothe her. Longing came with the thought. She lay down and closed her eyes, almost whispered, Stay until I’m asleep. But what would be the point?
Hours later, when she woke, he was gone.
* * *
The Stars and Stripes called it the Tet Offensive: a massive coordinated attack across the country by the North Vietnamese in the early hours of January 31, 1968, the bloodiest day of the Vietnam War so far. The attack blew the doors off the secret side of the war. Apparently, when Walter Cronkite reported on the Tet carnage, he’d said—on air—“What the hell is going on? I thought we were winning the war.”