nineOn one corner of Mac Jenks’ black metal desk stood a small, framed snapshot of four green clad orderlies standing in front of the main entrance of 3rd Field Hospital, Saigon. Between the green men who stood in the center of the photo, a woman stood smiling in a wedding-gown-white nurse’s uniform. A setting Asian sun shined into their eyes causing all of them to squint against it. Mac held a manila file folder in his hands, a hospital record of some sort. These five friends shared a certain longing then and, in the evening of certain bloody days, they consumed gallons of hard drink to bring about the happy swoon of goodnight. They’d all vowed to stay in touch, but the reach had been too far, too long, and Mac missed them down to his shoes.
In front of the framed snapshot lay a pile of
