The next bed held a woman—impossible to tell if she was young or old; her body was burned from head to toe. The black, charred flesh still smoked.
Beside her, tucked protectively against her body, was a baby.
Frankie stopped. For a split second, the horror overwhelmed her. She had to take a deep, steadying breath.
The infant was still alive.
“Dear God,” Frankie said under her breath. How could that be?
With care, she picked up the infant, who couldn’t be much older than three months. “Hey, little one,” Frankie said, her voice breaking. Thin white ribs shone through the gaping wounds and burns on her chest.
She found a chair and sat down. The OR was a cacophony of screaming, moaning, crying casualties, and shouting medics and nurses and doctors. The sound of wheels rolling on concrete, of new gloves being snapped on. But for a moment, Frankie heard nothing except this one infant’s struggle to breathe.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” Frankie said.
The baby drew in an uneven breath and exhaled slowly and then went still.
Frankie held the dead baby, overwhelmed by this loss, unable to move, unable to stand.
No one would ever know who this child was or even that she had lived and died. How could this be done, even in the name of war?
“McGrath! I need you.”
It was Dr. Morse.
Ignoring him and the melee of the OR, she carried the infant to the morgue, where body bags lay stacked along the walls.
Private Juan Martinez, a kid from Chula Vista who’d been drafted right out of high school, stood in the center of the morgue. He looked as exhausted as she felt. “Rough night,” he said.
She glanced down at the baby in her arms. “And now this.”
Martinez stared down at the baby. “Jesus,” he said softly, moving closer. He placed a black-gloved hand on the baby’s body, covering the entire ruined rib cage. “He will hold you in heaven.”
Frankie was surprised to hear that bit of faith from a man who stood in the morgue all day, cataloging the dead, zipping up body bags. Then again, maybe you couldn’t do this job otherwise.
Martinez found a cardboard box and an old T-shirt. Frankie wrapped the baby in the soft khaki cotton and laid her in the box.
She and Martinez stood there for a moment, the box and the baby between them.
Neither spoke.
Then Frankie left the morgue. As she shut the door, she heard the incoming choppers and felt something ugly take root inside of her: a dark anger. She was so tired of pulling green canvas over young men’s faces, and now this baby.
With a sigh, she headed back to the OR, grabbed a gown, and went back to work.
* * *
“Get out of here, McGrath,” Dr. Morse said at 0200. “You’re dead on your feet.”
“We all are,” she said. The OR was so full of burn victims that many lay three to a bed.
“Yeah, but you look it.”
“Har har. A beauty joke. Perfect.”
He touched her shoulder, gave it a squeeze. “Go. If you don’t, I will.”
Frankie pulled off her blue surgical cap. “Thanks, Doc. My tank really does feel empty.”
“Get some sleep.”
She looked around. “After this?”
He gave her a look of commiseration. They both knew sleep was unlikely. There wasn’t enough pot or alcohol on-site to make her forget that baby dying in her arms.
She thanked Doc and headed for her hooch. As she passed the new admin building, she ducked in, found Talkback on the radio.
“Hey, Talkback, could I make a MARS call? Short, I promise.”
He glanced left to right, looking for a superior who might disagree. The Military Auxiliary Radio System phones were not for personal use. “Short.”
She settled into a chair and picked up the handset. “Call to Vung Tau HAL-3. Lieutenant Commander Joseph Ryerson Walsh. Over.”
Frankie tapped her foot impatiently, listening to static.
“Who is calling? Over.”
“Lieutenant McGrath. Seventy-First Evac. Over.”
“Emergency, ma’am? Over.”
“Yes. Emergency. Over.”
“Hold. Over.”
Frankie knew she shouldn’t be doing this, calling him and saying it was an emergency. But they hadn’t seen each other in more than a month, and she needed him.
“Frankie?” Rye’s voice broke through the static. “Are you okay, over?”
“Hey,” she said, her voice quaking. “Over.”
“What happened? Over.”
“Napalm. Over.”
In the staticky silence, she knew they were both seeing the suffering of tonight.