Once Upon a Mulberry Field by C. L. Hoang

Author:C. L. Hoang
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: C. L. Hoang
Published: 2014-02-18T22:18:24+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

“There wasn’t a whole lot more than what I already told you on the phone,” Dean said.

It was Sunday morning. We were on our way to Tân-Sơn-Nhất AFB by Army helicopter.

“Dick called on Thursday afternoon and told me he was in 3rd Field Recovery Ward,” Dean repeated patiently. “After we hung up, I called you and Mme Yvonne. She’ll be waiting for us at the civilian terminal so we can all head to the hospital together. Just not sure how long we’ll visit with him. He sounded groggy and could barely talk.” He put up a hand to stop my question. “I have no information on his condition. We’ll find out together.”

It had been many weeks and much upheaval since I had last seen Mme Yvonne, just days before Tết. I instantly recognized her tall, thin silhouette among the crowd of local passengers, and we rushed toward each other to exchange hugs, somewhat surprised by the surge of pent-up emotions. She had on a simple floral dress, with a large handbag slung over her shoulder. Her face revealed signs of stress, though she managed to greet us with a broad smile.

“Bonjour, mes amis. Comment allez-vous?” she said. “It’s wonderful to see you both again. It’s been much too long.” Her eyes filled with apprehension. “Please tell me straight, was Dick seriously injured?”

“Let’s go find out.” Dean wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders as we headed out.

At 3rd Field Hospital, a short jeep ride from the main gate, Mme Yvonne and I waited in nervous silence outside the front office while Dean went in to make inquiries. He soon emerged waving a visitor’s badge, which he handed to Mme Yvonne.

“We can go in now,” he declared. “Right this way.”

After we crossed the front lobby, he led us down a tiled hallway that opened on both sides to well-lit rooms occupied by smiling, chatty young men—all recovering, many of them likely to be sent home soon to their loved ones. As we traipsed past the recovery ward with no hint of slowing down, I shot Dean a quizzical glance.

“Don’t worry. I was told our friend is doing well enough to receive visitors,” Dean assured us. “But the recovery ward is one hundred percent full, as you just saw, so they gave him a bed just around the corner, inside the Death Ward.”

“The Death Ward?” Mme Yvonne stopped in her tracks.

Dean hastened to her side. “Sorry. Bad choice of words. It’s where they keep the ‘expectants’—” He let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his crew cut. “Another atrocious term. I meant the worst casualties, who aren’t expected to make it but are carefully monitored for any hopeful signs.” Then, in a softer voice, “Just want to give you the heads-up before we go in, ’cause it ain’t pretty in there.”

We rounded the corner, tiptoed down another hallway and into a long, dark room toward the middle. It was lined with two rows of beds that held immobile bodies

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