CHAPTER 6

NO SECOND CHANCES

 

“What’s this?” I asked Beth on a slow day the following week. We were restocking supplies in the ER when I noticed a clipboard hanging on the wall with my name on it.

“That’s the ‘NB’ list,” she said.

“NB? What’s that?”

“New Blood.”

I leaned closer. Beside both mine and Mickie’s names, which were at the bottom of the list, were our blood types—A-positive, mine, and AB-positive for Mickie.

Dropping the rolls of gauze she had stuffed in her arms on a gurney, Beth opened a wall cupboard. “Everyone who works at the Seventy-First is listed, along with their blood types.”

“In case we get wounded?” Visions of lying bleeding after a rocket attack flashed through my mind. I shuddered.

Her chestnut ponytail swung as she shook her head and began placing the gauze on the shelf. “When we run out of a particular blood type—which is easy to do during a push—we check the list to see who has that type and, um, recruit a donor on the spot.”

“Ah, so that’s why everyone, said, ‘new blood’ when they met us that first night. They meant it literally.”

Beth grinned, her dimples punctuating the sparkle in her brown eyes. “You got that right.”

She shut the cupboard door then pulled a pencil from her ponytail and checked off a box on our job sheet. I scanned the list. There it was: “Martin, Capt. Seth Gabriel, AB-negative.”

“Blanchard!”

Startled, I swung to the doorway, where Major Lennon stood. How long had the nursing supervisor been standing there?

“I need to see you in my office. Now.”

“You’ve heard of Medcaps, haven’t you, Lieutenant?” she asked me as I sat on the wooden captain’s chair in front of her desk.

“Yes, Ma’am. Medical Civil Action Patrols.”

Lifting a sheet of paper from one of several neatly stacked piles in front of her, she reached to the top of her head and pulled her glasses from her graying russet hair and slid them on. Her lips twitched as she studied the paper.

“Fortunately, we’re in a slow period—the only time we can afford to send medical teams to the outlying villages in II Corps.”

She placed the paper on the blotter in front of her, folded her arms on the desk, and leaned forward, hazel eyes peering at me over her glasses. I shifted my weight on the hard wood.

“You’ve done good work in the two months you’ve been here,” she said with the customary nod that was as close to a smile as she ever gave. “Dr. Greene’s requested you accompany him on a Medcap that’s leaving tomorrow morning for Plei Le Lahu. You’ll assist him treating the locals for everything from headaches to toothaches to sprains to fractures to infestations.”

She leaned back and studied me for several seconds, her hands in a prayer position against her lips. Then her gaze shifted to a gold-framed photo on top of the stack of papers closest to me. Her face, softened—just for an instant. If I hadn’t been watching her, I would’ve missed it. Dropping her hands, she lifted her pen and scribbled on the paper.

“The chopper leaves tomorrow at 0700 hours. Be at the helipad outside the ER—”

“Chopper?” I interrupted. “I thought we’d be traveling by Jeep.”

She shook her head. “The terrain is rough, the roads are mud, and we have reports that the VC have blown up several bridges. Going by chopper reduces the chance of an ambush.”

“I see.”

“All right then.” She flipped open a file, pulled out a paper, and handed it to me. “Here’s a list of the medical supplies you’ll assemble. Today. Lieutenant Phillips, who’ll also be going, will help you. Meet Dr. Greene and Captain Martin at the helipad at 0600 hours to help them load the chopper.”

“Captain Martin?” So much for my plan to avoid him. I didn’t know if I was mad or glad.

“He’s an excellent medic, as well as our finest pilot.” Her eyebrows arched as she peered at me over her glasses. “Is that a problem?”

Yes. “No, Ma’am.”

“Good. That will be all, Lieutenant.” She turned her attention back to the file on her desk. “Dismissed.”

As I rose and turned to leave, my hip brushed against the stack at the edge of the desk. Papers and files scattered to the floor, the framed photo toppling over and landing on top.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I gasped, bending to retrieve the documents. I lifted the frame gingerly, inspecting it to make sure the glass hadn’t broken. A beaming couple in Army uniform—in their mid-twenties, I guessed—stood in front of a MASH-type tent. He stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist, pride and joy in every line of his handsome features. Her face glowed as she leaned back against him. I brought the black-and-white snapshot closer, staring at a much younger Major Lennon. My cheeks grew warm as I carefully placed the frame on her desk. I glanced at her left hand. No wedding ring. I stacked the papers on her desk and straightened the pile.

“His name was Captain Peter Hansen,” she said, gazing at the photo. “I met him during the Korean War. I was an Army nurse assigned to a field hospital. He was a medical evacuation pilot.

“We fell in love. He wanted to get married right then and there. He even had the chaplain lined up. But I wanted to wait until we got home.” She stared out the window next to her desk. “He was shot down on his last mission.”

Major Lennon’s words echoed in my mind that night as I listened to dull thud of outgoing artillery and the whistles of incoming mortars, and huddled under the electric blanket. October in the Central Highlands meant a change in seasons: The monsoons were winding down and the cool season, which ran from November through January, was coming on. The mornings and evenings were damp and chilly, and the nights could be downright cold. Seth’s blanket did more than keep my bed dry; it kept me warm. I hadn’t even thanked him.

We fell in love. Sleep eluded me as I relived each moment I’d spent with Seth. The way he said my name. The way he called me “Kimosabe.” The way he held me during the rocket attack that first day. The gentle kiss that stirred a tempest of passion.

He was shot down on his last mission. Sometimes life doesn’t give second chances. Sometimes not even first chances. I didn’t want to end up like Sarah. It was Seth who’d found the burned chopper a week after it went down and brought Dan’s body back. At least she didn’t have to wonder anymore. I didn’t want to end up like Major Lennon, either. If only I could peek into the future.

God, if you’re real, help me. Please. I don’t know what to do.

I was still miserably undecided when the Jeep came for Beth and me the next morning.

“Did you pack extra fatigues?” she asked when we met at the front door of the hooch.

“No, was I supposed to?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, it’s raining.” She dropped her duffel bag on the wooden floor. “Better to have an extra set of dry clothes than go around miserable and wet all day.”

Tires screeched outside.

“Doesn’t Soup ever drive slow?” I asked.

Beth grabbed her duffel bag and opened the door. “Run back and grab some extra clothes,” she said over her shoulder. “And don’t forget extra boots. And your field jacket.”

I crammed two extra sets of fatigues and socks, as well as a pair of boots and my rain poncho, into my duffel bag, zipped it shut, then headed for the door. On an impulse, I scooted back and grabbed the red silk bra and panties Mama Rose had sent me.

I must be crazy, I thought as I rushed out the door.

We arrived at Plei Le Lahu around eight. While Seth and Walt met with the chief to let him know we’d arrived and get his permission to set up, Beth and I waited by the chopper with Buzz Kelsey, Seth’s co-pilot. The rain had stopped.

Nestled in a glen full of lush vegetation, the village was neatly arranged along the banks of a stream, where a handful of scantily clad children splashed playfully in the morning sun. Bamboo hooches stood seven feet above the ground on stilts, around which an assortment of animals—dogs, cats, chickens, and pigs—barked, sniffed, squawked, and snorted their way around, scrounging for breakfast.

A young girl—about sixteen or seventeen—her coarse ebony hair tied at the nape of her neck, a crying baby swaddled to her bare bosom, approached us hesitantly.

“Sick call?” she asked, her dark eyes filled with hope.

Beth nodded. “Sick call. Yes.”

With a glimmer of a smile, the girl turned and hurried to one of the hooches at the edge of the village.

“They know English?” I asked, watching as she climbed a bamboo ladder to the open front porch.

“They know a little bit of everything,” Buzz said. “English, French, Vietnamese—”

“Wait,” I said. “Vietnamese?”

“These are Montagnards, mountain people. They’re the most primitive people in the country, but they’re not Vietnamese,” Beth said. “Didn’t you notice how different she looks from our hooch maid?”

Luu Thi Bian’s slanted eyes and Oriental features came to mind. The girl we just met looked more like she was from the Philippines than Vietnam.

“I see what you mean,” I said.

“There’s no love lost between them, either,” Buzz said.

“Why’s that?”

Beth shrugged. “Why don’t you ask Seth? He’s made quite a few trips to the Montagnard villages.”

“Time to stop jawing and get to work,” Buzz said, nodding in the direction of the village. “Here come Walt and Seth.”

We lugged the medical supplies to an open-sided bamboo hut next to the chief’s hooch, where we’d hold the clinic, while Buzz set up a speaker system and played a tape for the villagers which explained in their language what we were doing and how to proceed. The tape wasn’t needed, as Medcap had visited Plei Le Lahu several times in the past, but protocol dictated it be played.

“Thank God we didn’t have to hoist these boxes up a ladder,” I said, pulling open the top flaps. Unlike the rest of the structures, the hut where we’d hold the clinic rested only two feet above the ground and appeared to be the gathering place for the villagers.

“Thank heaven we didn’t have to do the ritual thing,” Beth said while we unloaded medicines and bandages on two makeshift bamboo tables under the A-shaped, broad-leafed thatched roof.

“What ritual thing?” I asked.

“In most of these villages, they won’t let us start medical treatment unless we participate in their welcoming ceremony,” she said.

“That’s understandable,” I said. “The ritual establishes trust.”

“And makes the medical team less than efficient.”

“How so?”

“The ritual involves smoking a peace pipe, which is usually packed with dope, and drinking homemade rice wine from a communal cup.”

I shuddered. “Oh, I’d never even think of drinking out of a cup someone else drank from, let alone . . .”

“I don’t know how, but your Seth pulled it off—again.”

“He’s not ‘my Seth.’ I haven’t seen him since—”

“Since you stupidly sent him packing.”

“I’ll ignore that comment. But how could he convince the chief to forego the welcoming ritual if it’s so important?”

Beth shrugged. “I think it has to do with his religion.”

“Whose religion?”

“Seth’s. He usually brings his Bible when he comes on these Medcaps.” She leaned close, her lips to my ear, and spoke low. “I’ve seen him reading it to them—he knows their language—and praying with them. Word spreads.”

“What word?”

“That Captain Martin’s God is stronger than their gods.”

As I assisted Walt, Beth worked with Seth, who’d pretty much ignored me since giving me a curt nod and a mumbled “Good morning, Lieutenant,” when I arrived at the helipad. I watched him slip candy bars and lollipops to the children, who squealed in delight. By lunchtime we’d seen about half the villagers, mostly babies, toddlers, children, and pregnant women. My heart went out to them, especially the children. Poor as they were, these Montagnard mothers kept their children clean.

Our last case of the morning was pulling a nasty tooth from the diseased gums of a ten-year-old boy and giving him a shot of penicillin.

“Walt,” I said when we finished cleaning up our station and setting up for the afternoon. “How come there are men in this village? I thought all those capable of fighting were conscripted into the NVA.”

Walt shook his head. “The Montagnards would rather die than fight for the VC,” he said. “They hate communism. They hate Ho Chi Minh.”

I met Beth and Buzz for lunch. The three of us sat on a blanket beside the stream at the edge of the village. Walt had begged off, claiming he needed a little shut-eye. Seth disappeared as soon as he and Beth had cleaned up their station and set up for the afternoon.

“Beans and weiners again!” Beth groaned. “Every time we go on one of these missions, you bring the same old thing. Couldn’t you have picked something else?”

“I’m insulted,” Buzz said, his freckled face contorting into a fake hurt expression. “I bring lunch, and you complain.”

“What do you have?” she asked, snatching his C-Ration. “Oh, yummy. Ham and lima beans. Not any better. Vangie, what do you have?”

I glanced at my unopened field meal. “Same as you. Hot dogs and beans. Where’s Captain Martin?” I asked, hoping to sound casual.

Buzz shrugged. “Sometimes he likes to eat alone.”

I watched the water frolic over the stream bed. Should I or shouldn’t I? If I had to do it over . . . .

“I’m not hungry,” I said, slipping a can of cola into the side pocket of my fatigue pants. “I think I’ll take a walk.”

Beth’s face registered surprise, then understanding.

“Here,” Buzz said, snatching the field meal out my hand. “Let me relieve you of this.”

I glanced around. Which direction . . . ?

“He went back to the chopper,” Buzz offered. “That way.”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

As I headed to the field where the Huey was parked, I had no idea what I’d say when I came face-to-face with Seth Martin. All I knew was that I had to get a second chance. I just had to.