Suddenly everyone in the media was asking the question: What in the hell is going on in Vietnam?
On February 2, LBJ used death as the success matrix of Tet, claiming that 10,000 North Vietnamese had died and only 249 Americans. “I can count,” the President said, implying that hearts stopped were what mattered. （He didn’t even mention the South Vietnamese casualties.） Two hundred forty-nine American deaths.
A lie, Frankie was sure, given the number of deaths she’d witnessed at the Seventy-First alone, but who knew the truth?
* * *
The next morning, Frankie stood at the bedside of a young South Vietnamese woman who’d been brought in late the previous night, burned and in the throes of labor. The team had done everything they could to save the baby, but it hadn’t been possible.
The woman was sitting up in bed, holding her dead newborn in bandaged arms. Beneath those white gauze bandages, the skin had been charred to black, but the woman hadn’t even cried out when Frankie debrided the dead flesh. She’d made a sound only when she tried to take the baby.
Unbearable grief.
So many dead and dying and lost.
Her hooch mate, Margie, approached Frankie, offered her a hot coffee. The cup shook in her unsteady hand. “Are you okay?”
“How could any of us be okay?” Frankie answered.
“Well. You’re on your way out. Just think. You’re going home.”
Frankie nodded. She’d been looking forward to going home, longing for it, dreaming about it, but suddenly she pictured it.
Coronado Island.
Mom and Dad and the country club.
What would it actually be like, being home, living with her parents?
How could she go from red alert sirens and saving lives to butter knives and champagne glasses?
“I don’t know how we’ll manage without you,” Margie said.
Frankie turned to look at Margie, whose eyes were red from crying. The young nurse was nowhere near ready for what was to come. She would be someday—probably—but not yet.
There was no nurse here with the experience Frankie had.
How could she leave this hospital and the casualties—American and South Vietnamese—who needed her? She’d come here to make a difference, to save lives, and God knew lives still needed saving. As much as she sometimes hated the war, she loved nursing more.
* * *
February 3, 1968
Dear Mom and Dad,
This is a difficult letter to write, and I am sure it will be difficult to read. I apologize in advance. I wish I could just pick up the phone and call you, but believe me, the MARS phone is not our friend.
It sounds crazy and absurd, but I have found my calling here in Vietnam. I love what I do, and I make a real difference. As you know, the war is heating up. I know the media and the government are lying to the American people, but I’m sure you’ve heard of the Tet Offensive.
More troops arrive every day, and a lot of them end up wounded.
We do our best to save them, and if they can’t be saved—like Finley—I sit with them and hold their hands and let them know they aren’t alone. I write letters to their mothers, their sisters, their wives. Can you imagine what such a letter would have meant to us?
So.
I am not coming home next month. I have signed up for another one-year tour of duty. I simply can’t leave my post when the men need me. We don’t have enough experienced staff here.
There. I can hear you screaming. If you knew me now, you’d understand. I am a combat nurse.
I love you both.
F
* * *
February 17, 1968
Dear Frances Grace,
NO. NO. NO.
Change your mind. Come home. Be safe.
You could get hurt over there. Enough. Come home NOW.
Your father is extremely unhappy with this idea, I might add.
Much love,
Your mother
* * *
March 1, 1968
Dear Frank,
Of course you’re staying. I never doubted it.
You’re as tough as dried-out rope and the men need you.
God knows it’s strange here, too. Nixon announced that he’s running for president and state troopers used tear gas to stop a protest. Holy crap. Nothing makes sense.
Still, strangely, life goes on. I’m in Veterinary School at long last and working my ass off. I’ve joined the local orchestra and am back to playing the violin. It helps a bit, although I still don’t sleep well.
Come visit me when you’re back in the world. I’m waiting with open arms. We have a new mare that is a dream for beginners. Nothing soothes the soul like a gallop in the sunshine.
Love,
Ethel
* * *