Back in the real world, the so-called Summer of Love had come and gone; in its wake, the protests were getting louder, longer, angrier. Even here, there was anger about the war. Soldiers had begun to draw peace symbols on their helmets, in violation of Army regulations.
At 0600 hours, she packed up her duffel and travel bags and wrote Margie a goodbye note that said in part, I know you’ll wish I’d wakened you for a goodbye. It won’t be long before you’ll know how hard it is. We are professionals at goodbye, and still it hurts. Stay tough. Thanks for sending my footlocker home for me.
She dressed in her Class As, complete with pantyhose and polished black pumps. She didn’t have a full-length mirror, but she imagined she looked nothing like the wide-eyed girl who’d first landed in-country two years ago. And her uniform smelled like mildew.
When she opened her hooch door, she found Rye leaning against a pole, smoking a cigarette.
“Ready?” he said, taking the duffel from her, swinging the big, awkward bag easily over his shoulder.
“Not really.”
They walked through the surprisingly quiet camp, boarded the Huey, and lifted up into the sky.
In Saigon, at the airport, she thanked the pilot, checked her duffel, and let Rye take her to the Freedom Bird that would take her home.
A steady stream of soldiers walked past her on the tarmac at Tan Son Nhut, climbed up the movable stairs, and ducked into the large Braniff jet. They were a quiet bunch; there was no joking or laughing. Not yet, not while they were still in-country.
“Twenty-seven days until you leave, too,” Frankie said, looking up at him. She had to raise her voice to be heard above the rumble of the engines.
Twenty-seven days. An eternity in wartime.
No fear, McGrath.
A jeep rolled past them, full of soldiers with guns, looking for snipers.
More gunfire nearby. Pop-pop-pop. In the distance, a loud explosion. Something burst into flames on one of the runways.
Rye stared down at her. “Frankie … I don’t know how to tell you … I … won’t—”
“I know,” she said, touching his rough, unshaven face. “I love you, too.”
He let out a breath, gazed down at her. “God, I’ll miss you.”
He pulled her into a tight embrace, held her hard against him, and kissed her goodbye. She clung to him for as long as she dared, and then slowly pulled away.
Neither said goodbye. The word carried more than a hint of bad luck.
She straightened her shoulders and forced herself to walk away from him. At the top of the steps, she finally turned back.
Alone, he stood tall and straight in his worn fatigues, with a brimmed Seawolves cap pulled down low on his forehead. From here, he looked solid and steady, the perfect sailor, but she saw the clenched line of his jaw. He raised a single hand, fingers splayed, and held it there, then pressed it to his heart.
Frankie nodded, waved back one last time, and entered the jet. Most of the seats were already filled with men who kept glancing back at the door, as if Charlie might come breaking through any second, rifles drawn. They all knew they weren’t safe in the air until they were out of Vietnamese airspace.
Frankie found a seat on the starboard side, put her travel bag in the overhead bin, and sat at the window, staring out at Rye. She pressed her hand to the glass.
She heard the aircraft door close, clank shut. Moments later, the jet rolled down the runway, bumping over the bomb-pocked ground, and slowly lifted off.
Frankie stared out the window, saw clouds as they flew over the war-torn land, toward the safety of home.
The passengers applauded; someone shouted, “We’re outta there!”
Frankie was surprised to feel a version of sorrow.
As bad as it had been in ’Nam, as frightened and angry and betrayed as she’d often felt by her government and the war, she’d also felt alive. Competent and important. A woman who made a difference in the world.
This place would forever hold a piece of her heart. Here, she had found her place in the world, and she was afraid that “home” was no longer the place she wanted it to be.
* * *
Thirty-four hours later, after a six-hour layover at Travis Air Force Base in Northern California, Frankie stared out the oval window at the busy runways of Los Angeles International Airport.
Full daylight. A sun so bright it hurt one’s eyes. A blue and cloudless sky.
California.
The Golden State.
Home.
She had intended to call her parents from Travis, but when she’d finally made it to her turn in the pay phone line, she had turned away. She didn’t really know why.