For All Their Lives

by Fern Michaels

  The hotel suited Mac Carlin. It wasn’t fancy or ostentatious. It looked comfortable, the prime requisite for weary travelers. The oak-paneled lobby was restful somehow, the touches of brass just right. It was clean, Casey noticed, another requisite for travelers away from home.

  In less than three minutes Casey was seated in a deep leather chair after being told that Captain Carlin hadn’t returned. She would wait. How long she didn’t know. Probably until the desk clerk started to look at her suspiciously, which happened at twenty minutes of three.

  Casey did her best to stare down the desk clerk the way Nicole would have done. “I’d like to leave a message for Captain Carlin, but I’ll need paper and a pen,” she said stiffly. She carried both to a small alcove. Thinking in French and writing in English proved to be a chore. She wasn’t sure it was all proper, and at this point she didn’t really care.

  Dear Mac,

  I feel very foolish writing this note to you, but I want you to know I enjoyed dinner with you the other night and the time we spent together. I looked forward to spending the time with you. I still don’t know my father’s telephone number, and it doesn’t matter now. I’ll be leaving at five in the morning, a little over two and a half hours from the time I write this. I called all the hotels in the telephone book to locate you. You were out, they said, so I came here to wait for you. It is almost three in the morning and I must leave now.

  I have never done anything like this before. I now have a pleasant memory to carry with me. Thank you again for a lovely evening.

  Casey debated a moment before she signed the note. She added her father’s address and her name.

  “Would you please call a cab,” Casey said as she handed over the note.

  “Certainly,” the desk clerk said coolly.

  “Thank you,” Casey said just as coolly. Her head high, her shoulders back, Casey walked through the oak-paneled lobby to wait for the cab outside. It was raining harder now, splashing on her shoes. She didn’t care about that either. Where was he? She’d made a fool of herself by coming here. She wanted to run back inside and snatch back her note and rip it to shreds, but she didn’t have the nerve. He probably thinks I’m a streetwalker, she thought as she stared over her shoulder. The desk clerk was still watching her from behind the desk.

  “Take me to 3345 Lombard Street,” Casey said to the driver. She pulled the door shut, careful not to slam it the way she had earlier. She wanted to cry, to throw a tantrum. She was a fool. Men who stayed out all night were up to no good. Mac Carlin probably hadn’t given her a second thought, while she’d been obsessed with him. She tried to shrink into her wet coat. She’d never felt so humiliated and embarrassed in her life. She wished she could run and hide and erase her meeting with him.

  Biting down on her lip, Casey walked through her father’s house, making sure the lights were off, her room tidy and the kitchen neat. Her eyes smarted. “It looks like I was never here,” she thought miserably.

  It was exactly five o’clock when Casey noticed the flash of headlights on the living room wall. She was out the door, suitcase in hand, a moment later.

  At eight minutes past six Casey boarded the bus on the first leg of her journey to Southeast Asia. She would attend an officer orientation course at Fort Sam Houston in Texas. Her final destination: Vietnam.

  MAC CARLIN CHARGED through the door of the Hotel Savoy at fifteen minutes to five. His stride was purposeful, military. He was tired and irritable, and the irritability showed on his face when the desk clerk caught up with him at the elevator. “Sir, you have two messages.”

  Christ, the old man found out about the snafu, Mac thought. “I’ll get them in the morning,” he barked, stepping into the waiting elevator.

  “Sir, the young lady looked . . . upset. She waited for over two hours,” the desk clerk said. Mac stopped the door from closing. “What did you say? Exactly?”

  “I said the young lady looked upset. She waited for over two hours. She left a message. You have two messages.”

  “Well, where are they?” Mac thundered.

  “In . . . in your box, sir. I’ll get them.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Mac snarled. “Call me a cab!” he roared.

  “Yes, sir, right away, sir,” the desk clerk said, never taking his eyes off the angry captain. He just knew the captain was going to put his fist through something, and he didn’t want it to be his face. He’d seen angry guests before, but nothing like this.

  Palms out in front of him, Mac pushed through the doors. He stormed up and down under the skimpy canopy. She’d been waiting here for him while he was sitting in an all-night movie watching French films dubbed in English. “Son of a bitch!” While she was waiting he’d been watching Babette s’ev va-t-en Guerre with Brigitte Bardot, a stupid movie in which the sex kitten played a British agent helping the French resistance. He’d seen five movies, all of them French, all of them terrible, but he felt closer to Casey thinking she might have seen them too.

  “What time is it?” he demanded of the cab driver as he slid into the backseat.

  “Five minutes to five,” the driver said tiredly.

  “I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you get me to 3345 Lombard Street by five o’clock. Two hundred, whatever the hell you want. Just get me there. If you get a speeding ticket, I’ll pay it. Move!”

  “Yes, sir!” Tires squealed. Mac was thrown off balance as the cab shot forward. He held onto the strap over his head as the cabbie did his best to earn the promised bonus. His tires squealed a second time at four minutes past five when he pulled to the curb. Mac was out the door before the cab came to a full stop. He ran up the walk knowing he was too late. He banged on the door and shouted Casey’s name until he was hoarse. When there was no response his fist shot out. Pain ricocheted up his arm into his neck. He banged again with his good hand, shouting and cursing. Lights sprang to life across the street and next door. Jesus, he was creating a ruckus. All he needed was a pair of pissed-off cops or the military police.

  “Get out of here,” he said to the cab driver. “I missed her by four fucking minutes. Four goddamn, lousy minutes.”

  “Look, son, do you want to tell me what this is all about?” the driver asked kindly. Mac told him.

  “We passed a cab on the way up. Maybe it was her. The only place I can think of that someone would go at this time of morning is the airport. Not too much traffic at this hour. If that was her, we might be able to catch up. We usually go off duty at five. Not many calls between five and six when the new shift comes on. The cabbie might have stayed on since the airport is a good fare.”

  “Let’s try it,” Mac said, his face full of disgust. “Listen, can’t you call in and ask where she’s going?”

  The box on his dashboard squawked. “Not our cab, son. Sorry. Do you still want to try the airport?”

  “Why the hell not?”

  The only way Mac could describe the ride to the airport was hair-raising at best. His search of the terminal was futile.

  As he walked back to the waiting taxi, he knew one thing for certain: He was capable of killing. With a weapon or with his bare hands.

  TWO WEEKS LATER, when his new orders arrived almost a week behind schedule, Mac headed for Travis Air Force Base to begin the first leg of his journey to Southeast Asia. His final destination: Vietnam.

  PART TWO

  Chapter 3

  THE PLANE WASN’T just dirty, it was filthy. It smelled of mildew, dry urine, and something else Casey couldn’t define. She was soaking from her own perspiration, her uniform so wet she could wring out the hem. Her girdle was just as wet, chafing her each time she moved. She’d never been more miserable in her life. She knew her own sweat was adding to the obnoxious odor in the plane, so she tried breathing through her mouth the way the others were doing. It didn’t help.

  It was a day of mishaps. This was the third plane she’d boarded so far, and she had yet to make it to a runway. The first plane was a cargo plane with engine troub
le; the second developed a fuel leak; and this one, Casey was certain, was put together with spit and glue. She’d been aboard for the past three hours along with four other nurses and seven enlisted men returning from R & R. Up front were three doctors and two officers playing gin rummy and drinking warm beer. When they took time out to lower their bottles, they cursed the army and Southeast Asia, their voices carrying to the back of the plane.

  Earlier in the day her small group had been cheerful, chatty, talking about Officer’s Training School, the enlisted men’s R & R, and, of course, home. For the most part they were a happy group, until they boarded this last plane, and then fatigue had finally set in. But Casey couldn’t sleep. She felt cranky and grumpy and wanted to tell the VIP’s up front to shut up. She wanted to get off the damn plane and walk around and take off her girdle. She wanted a cold soda pop and something to eat. What she didn’t want was another cigarette, because the air was already so foul she could hardly breathe.

  Wake Island, the last stop before Vietnam. They were waiting for another VIP, and he was three hours late. Whoever the son of a bitch was, Casey hoped he broke both his legs when he came aboard.

  A sudden shout went up from the men behind Casey when a stewardess came aboard the MAC plane contracted out to the Flying Tigers. She was a pretty girl and she was young, and just as damp and sweaty-looking as everyone else. Casey watched as one of the officers reached out to pat her rear end. She swiveled, swatted at his hand, and dressed him down loud enough for the whole plane to hear. Casey felt like cheering. Catcalls and disgruntled boos from the men behind her set her teeth on edge. God, she was tired.

  “Listen up, everyone. We’ll be taking off in thirty minutes. We’re waiting for the men from Travis to get here. We’re going to need every one of these seats, so clear off your gear to make room. I’m sorry about the delay, but the plane from Travis was late. Hang on, guys,” she said directly to Casey and the others seated behind her. “They’re loading on some cold soft drinks and I’ll serve them as soon as we get airborne.”

  “Is it always this hot?” Casey muttered.

  “This is nothing, wait till you get to Vietnam,” the stewardess muttered in return. “We have some magazines on board, would any of you like one?” She had no takers. Casey slumped down on the seat and covered her face with her hanky. She had to sleep or she was going to die sitting in this plane. She tried every trick she knew to relax enough to sleep. She was dozing off when a stampeding band of boisterous young men, not more than nineteen, came aboard. Casey felt rather than saw a body take the seat next to hers. He was young, blond, and smelled soap-and-water clean. When she removed the hanky from her face for a better look, she got a whiff of his hair tonic. Casey sighed deeply as she settled back in her seat, and she said a little prayer asking her God to protect the young soldier. A moment later she was sound asleep.

  CAPTAIN MAC CARLIN climbed the steps of the plane, his face grim. The good old army credo, hurry up and wait. Bullshit!

  Mac’s eyes raked the brass in front of the plane. He could tell at a glance he was outranked by three majors and one full colonel, and ripped off a salute before he stowed his gear. He hadn’t had any sleep for almost forty-eight hours, needed a shower and a shave, was no longer creased and pressed. His only consolation was that none of the others looked any better than he did. He felt like bellowing, “Let’s get this show on the road!” but merely slid into his seat and buckled up. He was asleep the moment he closed his eyes. Fifteen minutes later the plane was airborne.

  THE FLYING TIGER set down at Tan Son Nhut Airport in Saigon at three-thirty A.M. The flight attendant had both doors open: the rear door for the enlisted men and nurses, the front for the brass and doctors. Mac was the last to leave the forward section of the aircraft.

  “Jesus,” was all he could say when the heat and humidity smacked him in the face. He smelled rotting vegetation. He took a minute to orient himself as he tried to breathe through his mouth.

  He was aware of a line of school buses, military buses, and young lieutenants with clipboards. He gagged from the putrid air as he watched the gaggle of enlisted men head toward the row of buses, and wondered how they knew which one to take.

  A second lieutenant had started toward him and was rattling off Mac’s name when he saw her. He didn’t stop to think; he didn’t stop to consider. His heart leaped to his mouth, and he shouted, “Casey!” He dropped his gear, his heart thundering in his chest. It couldn’t be, he thought. He was making a fool of himself. God simply didn’t make coincidences like this. He didn’t care, he had to see for himself.

  The young woman, whoever she was, was turning. In a heartbeat he’d know if it was really her. Who else in the whole world had that buttery-yellow hair? He pushed his visored cap far back on his head, needing every bit of help to see her face in the white light glaring off the tarmac.

  Her smile was like a sunburst. “Mac!” she cried joyously.

  “It is you!”

  They both started to talk at once. “I called all the hotels . . . I went to this all-night French movie house . . . I waited until I couldn’t wait any longer . . . I saw all these French movies so I would have something to talk to you about . . . I’m sorry about the phone number . . . I tried everything I could think of . . . There were no openings at Walter Reed . . . I missed you by five minutes . . .”

  The drivers of the buses revved their engines.

  “Captain, on board now! This is the army, sir!”

  Mac turned to the voice calling him. He held up his hand. He couldn’t lose her again.

  “Where are they sending you?” There was desperation in his voice. He didn’t care if they court-martialed him.

  “I don’t know. The major has my orders. Where are you going?”

  “Long Binh. Contact the USO here in Saigon and let them know where you are. I’ll find you.” He wanted to kiss her, to take her in his arms. “I’ll find you,” he said again before he turned to run for the bus waiting for him.

  “I’m sorry,” Casey muttered to the woman at the steps to her bus.

  “Sorry isn’t going to do it, Lieutenant. You’re in the army and you obey orders. You have no personal life now. You’ve held up this bus for ten minutes. You disobeyed a direct order when I told you to get aboard.”

  Casey bristled. The woman wore the rank of a major. Right now, right this minute, she didn’t care if she was a general. “I’m a nurse, Major, not a soldier. I said I’m sorry.” Her back stiff, she climbed on board the bus and immediately craned her neck out the open window. In the eerie yellowish light she thought she could see Mac leaning out. She waved wildly. She heard him shout, “Don’t forget the USO!” As if she would forget.

  “I won’t!” she screamed.

  “That will be enough of that! You will conduct yourself like the officer you are,” the major said coldly.

  Casey had learned a lot in the brief time she spent at OTS. She had also picked up a lot of American slang, like “fuck you” for anger or frustration, and her favorite utterance was, “oh shit.” Now, she mumbled both phrases under her breath, to her seatmate’s amusement. The one thing she hated was taking orders. She wondered if this hefty-looking woman with the steely eyes could do anything to her. When in doubt, she thought, retreat.

  Casey forced a sickly smile to her lips. “I’m sorry, Major, but that was my fiancé, and we were separated in San Francisco. He didn’t know I was coming here,” she lied. Tears rolled down her cheeks, right on cue. She instantly had the sympathy of everyone on the bus, but they were all military enough not to verbalize it.

  The officer’s voice was as crusty as her attitude as she introduced herself as Major Patricia Ellison. “Welcome to Vietnam, girls. As I call your name raise your hand.”

  After the major went down the list, and several women asked questions which were rushed aside, they heard the sound of gunfire. “Is that thudding . . . artillery fire?” one of the giddy young girls asked fretfully.

  �
��Yes. It’s H and I fire, harassment and interdiction. Our guns. You’ll get used to it.”

  She’s wrong, Casey thought, I’ll never get used to it. Neither would the giddy young girl. She already looked too white-lipped and frightened. If she was nineteen, she was old.

  Casey knew she was the oldest, the one with the most nursing experience. The six young women riding with her were fresh out of nursing school.

  She hadn’t made friends with any of them on the way over. They were too young, too silly, too self-absorbed to take seriously.

  The bus pulled to a stop and the GI’s in the back trooped down the aisle and walked into the night.

  The major steadied herself by clutching a seat as the bus lurched off. “You’ll be spending the next few hours at one of Saigon’s BOQ’s—bachelor officer quarters,” she said. “In the morning, after breakfast, there will be a thirty-minute orientation and you’ll be given your assignments. Then you’ll be taken back to the airport to board your individual flights to your duty stations.”

  Casey was the last one off the bus. She followed the others and was reminded of a row of ducks trailing after their mother. She noticed the young girls weren’t the only ones wearily shuffling their feet. The major looked as tired as any of them.

  So this was Saigon. Casey stared at the stark-looking administration building and then at the departing bus. She felt the urge to spit, to try and get the awful stench out of her nose and mouth. In her life she’d never smelled anything so foul. Cow manure, sulfur, rotting vegetation, and something else—death. Rotting flesh.