𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 ━ five hargreeves

9│EVERYBODY LOOK WHAT'S GOIN' DOWN

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❛ ᴡᴀsᴛᴇʟᴀɴᴅs ᴏғ ᴛɪᴍᴇ​​​​​​​​​​. ❜ ° . ༄
- ͙۪۪˚   ▎❛ 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄 ❜   ▎˚ ͙۪۪̥◌
»»————- ꒰ᴇᴠᴇʀʏʙᴏᴅʏ ʟᴏᴏᴋ
ᴡʜᴀᴛ's ɢᴏɪɴ' ᴅᴏᴡɴ ꒱


❝ NOBODY COULD MAKE A
SUPERHERO OUT OF ME ❞

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Vietnam was unlike anything Lola had ever experienced— not that she could claim to have experienced much of what life had to offer but still, she knew this wasn't life— this was far, far worse. It wasn't just that Vietnam was a worse version of Florida (more humid, stickier, hotter and wetter and the crocodiles and alligators were grenades and bullets) but the noise of guns and explosions, though muted, was constant.

Thanks to her father, Lola knew a little bit about a lot of history. She knew at least half of the casualties weren't soldiers but Vietnamese citizens. She knew the war lasted almost thirty years and that at the end, both the U.S. and South Vietnamese Presidents would be shot. He'd also read that despite the myth, the U.S. hadn't won every battle but the troops also didn't lose any ground. But what stuck in her head the most, of course, were the numbers: one out of every ten Americans who served was a casualty. 58,148 soldiers were killed. 304,000 were wounded. 2.7 million served. 75,000 veterans were disabled. The list continued, of course, but Lola preferred not to think about it.

In fact, she never could have imagined having to think about it except, perhaps, on a test— certainly never to live it, and it was even worse that her one link back home— Klaus— was a soldier. She didn't know why he didn't leave right away. That's certainly what she wanted to do the second the sound of combat reached her ears when they landed in the soldiers' tent, but she unfortunately hadn't gotten a chance to talk him out of staying before he was whisked off to fight.

Now, she stood in front of a stern, older woman with a firm-set mouth and disapproving expression. Her eyes were hard and unforgiving as she stared down at the younger girl. "How much experience do you have?"

Lola had, at first, worried her age was going to be a problem— she suspected the warfront didn't see very many fifteen-year-old girls— but nobody seemed to care much that she was underage. Instead, she blinked at the steel-haired woman in confusion. "Experience?"

"Nursing," came the short, sharp reply. "I haven't got all day, girl."

"Oh, um," she hesitated, and her stomach was already squeamish at the thought of blood. "None?"

The older woman was not pleased with this answer. "Well, what skills do you have?"

She frowned a moment before her expression relaxed. "I can count. I'm good with keeping track of numbers."

"Right, then. You'll be on inventory. Go see Dottie to get started." The woman pointed into a large, canvas tent where Lola suspected Dottie was.

(Unfortunately, when she got inside, she threw up in the entrance.)

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It seemed to take forever for the first day to end. Lola forced herself to stay focused on the numbers— luckily, the inventory was in terrible shape— and not on the cries of the soldier being tended to in the tent, or the state of them. Many of the wounds they sported were positively gruesome. They were bad enough in fuzzy pictures illuminated on a white board but they were far, far worse in person. As long as she didn't look directly at them, though, most of Lola's stomach contents stayed in its proper place.