Hawkeye drummed his fingers on the dashboard, tension radiating from his slight frame as he fiddled with the sleeve of his jacket.
"Hawk, will you cut it out? You're driving me crazy."
Hawkeye said nothing, but ceased to move his fingers. They were, undeniably, surgeon's fingers: slender, agile, graceful. Even now, as he flexed them, they seemed restless – it was as though they wanted action, as though they longed for a scalpel with which to dance.
"This was a crazy idea. Why did I let you talk me into this? What happened, happened. I don't care anymore. I stopped caring the moment I left the goddamn country." He spoke in a torrent, the words falling over each other. The attempted casual tone fell flat: both of them knew that he cared a great deal, more than he would admit to anyone: particularly to himself.
"Hawk, you're not kidding me. I know you too well." It was true. The two men were closer than brothers: they knew every one of the other's habits, every insecurity, every niggling unease. Indeed, BJ knew Hawkeye better than he knew his own wife: something which made him uncomfortable and contented in equal measure. "It always bugged you, all the time we were in Korea. You certainly talked about it enough."
"Well, that was then, and this is now. As I always say, no time like the present."
"Since when did you ever say that?"
"Since about five seconds ago, but the sentiment was there."
Hawkeye gave a grin which would have deflected most others; but not BJ. There was silence for a moment as both men looked forward at the road.
"You never got over it. Every time someone mentioned his name... well, I figured it's time you cleared the air."
"And how would you know, Mr I-know-what's-best-for-everyone?" BJ just shrugged, but it was enough for Hawkeye. BJ did normally know what was best for everyone: it was one of those annoying things. The truth was, Hawkeye had liked the idea when BJ had first put it to him. It was just that every mile they got closer to Boston, it seemed less and less appealing. A hard knot had formed in his stomach just after they'd crossed the Massachusetts border; it sat heavily, a reminder of what was to come.
"Who knows? Maybe we'll kiss and make up, decide we're soul-mates, and get married. Would that make you happy?" Hawkeye flung his arms into the air in a manner of impatience; it was a gesture which BJ knew well, which brought a smile to his lips. "At least you don't have that ridiculous moustache; he'd never take us seriously with you looking like Groucho Marx. Actually, scratch that: he looked sexy with a moustache." BJ had shaved off the moustache the day he had arrived home in San Francisco, nearly two years ago now, but Hawkeye still liked to tease him about it. It was one of those jokes which they would share until they were old men: just like the jokes about the food. Anytime the pair ate together, Hawkeye would always produce a comment about how the cuisine compared the 4077th's – "it's nice to enjoy a leisurely lunch; makes a change from having to eat the food before it runs off your plate".
Yet BJ knew that Hawkeye's humour belied anxiety. It this sense they could have been in Korea again: some things never change. The finger drumming recommenced. BJ tried to ignore it, but he couldn't help shooting an accusatory glance.
"Sorry, Beej."
"Look, I get why you're nervous. Hell, you haven't spoken to the guy in years. But I can tell it still bugs you, so it'll do you good to see him."
"I'm not nervous. Just edgy. Tense. Uneasy. Anxious. Nervy..." BJ stopped listening as Hawkeye waxed on, the words tumbling from his mouth as they often did when he became agitated. They had been to hell and back together, yet Hawkeye still got on BJ's nerves sometimes. Of course, he had nobody but himself to blame for this episode: their trip had been, after all, his idea.
They drove on in silence for several minutes. Hawkeye began to hum absent-mindedly; the tune swelled into a crescendo as Hawkeye began to conduct an imaginary orchestra through the front windscreen. BJ gritted his teeth.
"Remind me again how I shared a tent with you for two years without killing you?"
"Oh, that's easy. I'm just so charming. Irresistible, according to some nurses," Hawkeye smirked. BJ smiled too. All women were still nurses; of course they were. They descended into silence once more.
"It's just strange that you of all people set this up. I mean, you never even met the guy." It was true: BJ had slept in his bed, hung his scrubs on his hook, used his footlocker, drank martinis from his still, even acquired his best friend – yet he had never met him. He'd heard all about him, sure. All about his practical jokes, his shenanigans with the nurses, his departure without so much as a note – at length, on those dull evenings in the Swamp with nothing else to do but talk and drink gin from the still. Yet BJ had never even seen a picture of his predecessor; he was undeniably curious.
"Well, I guess I heard enough about him, Hawk." BJ didn't elaborate, but the implication was clear. Hawkeye had indeed spoken often of his old bunkmate; sometimes fondly, but more often than not with more than a touch of bitterness. BJ had always noticed something in Hawkeye's eyes when he spoke about him – there was something acrimonious which lurked beneath the surface. Sometimes, after an anecdote, Hawkeye would fall quiet: something which itself denoted the fact that something was wrong, as he was rarely able to remain silent. Yes, there was something that gnawed away at Hawkeye: even now, when Korea was just a fast-retreating memory. Of course, it was more than that – how could any of them truly forget? – yet perhaps this was the first step, mused BJ. He glanced across at his best friend, and continued driving onwards.
Somewhere ahead, ex-Captain Trapper John McIntyre was waiting for them.
They climbed out of the car and made towards the bar. It was late afternoon, November 1955, and the sky was a dull, ominous grey. Even as they walked a few raindrops fell, splattering on the pavement with fat plops. They reached the door; Hawkeye slowed down, tugging at his shirt collar, smoothing his now greying hair with a hurried sweep of his slender hand.
"Hawk, you look stunning. Quit fussing." Hawkeye smiled thinly, before taking a breath and pushing past BJ into the bar.
It was almost empty; BJ's gaze swept around the room, before settling on a figure in the corner. It was unmistakeably the infamous Trapper John McIntyre; although BJ had never seen a photo of him, there was something in the carefully nonchalant attitude and baby features which seemed to fit. Besides, BJ could spot a surgeon a mile off – there was something indefinable in their demeanour which always gave them away. Next to him, Hawkeye stiffened slightly.
Trapper looked up from his drink; he caught sight of them and smiled, his disarming grin slightly sheepish as he beckoned them over. As they approached, BJ studied the man about whom he had heard so much. The broad shoulders and muscular physique could not have been more different to Hawkeye's lean frame: indeed, it took no stretch of the imagination to picture Trapper on a football pitch. The soft, tight blond curls gave an effect of innocence, golden tresses encircling the man's twinkling brown eyes. That was, of course, until you saw his smile – for no one could mistake Trapper for innocent after that. His slightly crooked, roguish grin was, without a doubt, his defining characteristic; it dominated his features in such a way that made it clear that it was not Trapper's eyes but his lips which were the window to his soul. And although there was something undeniably wayward in that smile, it was also strangely enchanting, alluring even. It was a smile that promised fun, augured high jinks, and perhaps most strikingly gave the impression that you alone were in on his joke. BJ concluded that Trapper looked every inch the clown he had heard about. As they neared the table, his fair eyebrows arched upwards in an attitude of nonchalance, but Trapper's eyes were fixed on Hawkeye.
For a moment, there was a pause as the three men regarded each other. Then, with a confident swagger that BJ could tell was typical, Trapper held out his hand to Hawkeye. Hawkeye regarded it for a moment, before swiping it away with a slight roll of his eyes, and pulling the bigger man into an embrace. Trapper grinned slightly awkwardly, resting his arm on Hawkeye's shoulder with an air of self-consciousness. As they broke apart, Trapper took a step back and cocked his head to the side slightly as he considered his old bunkmate.
"Hey, Hawk. It's erm... well it's been a while."
"Yeah, what happened, Trap? D'you get lost taking out the garbage? Get distracted by something shiny?"
"I stole MacArthur's jet and flew it stateside." The pair laughed, more easily now: Hawkeye's humour had diffused the awkwardness.
"And you must be Hunnicutt? Nice to finally meet you." Trapper reached over and shook BJ's hand. His grip was surprisingly gentle.
"Ditto. Call me BJ, everybody does."
"BJ? What does that stand for then?"
"Whatever you want it to." BJ caught Hawkeye's eye and smirked, as Hawkeye threw up his hands and shook his head.
"Don't even go there Trap!" he exclaimed with typical flamboyance.
Hawkeye watched as the two other men exchanged pleasantries. Seeing Trapper again was almost surreal; the sight of him not wearing dog tags and army fatigues – or bloodstained scrubs – was uncanny. He was, of course, much as the same as Hawkeye remembered him – his hair trimmed a little more neatly perhaps, but the smile... oh boy, was that smile the same. Even as Trapper grinned now, Hawkeye was knocked back by the memories that came flooding to him: they might have been in the Swamp again, plotting some prank to pull on Frank, chasing after nurses, drinking martinis. For Hawkeye, Trapper was Korea, and to see him now, in the flesh, evoked a potent mix of emotions, some so raw that Hawkeye flinched inwardly. He was overjoyed to see him again, he was afraid of what he might remember, he was angry all over again – because Trapper had left him all alone those years ago, without a note, without a goodbye...
"First round's on me, geeeeentlemen," Hawkeye cried, inexplicably deciding to imitate Charles, despite that fact that he knew Trapper had never met the Boston blue-blooded surgeon. He hurried to the bar, desperate for some space to collect his thoughts, leaving BJ and Trapper to seat themselves at the table in the corner.
"Well Hawk, you're just about as crazy as I remember you," Trapper murmured softly in his thick Boston accent as he watched his old bunkmate make towards the bar. He shook his head, smirking, as he turned to BJ. "One of a kind, huh?"
"I've certainly never met anyone quite like him," BJ agreed, frowning slightly as he too looked over at Hawkeye's retreating frame. "He was just about the only thing that got me through Korea sane."
"Same with me, I'd say." There was a pause, as both men considered their mutual friend.
"You keep in touch with anyone else? Radar, Hotlips, Father Mulcahy...?"
"Well, they write me sometimes, but I don't get to see them much. You?" Trapper looked away, something that looked to BJ like shame on his sharp features.
"I guess not, no. I got a letter from the father once, but..." Trapper trailed off, shrugging casually. "I gotta say, I was pretty surprised when you called up out of the blue. I mean, it's great to see Hawkeye again, it really is, but... well, I guess I thought I'd left all of that behind." BJ watched Trapper carefully; the goofy smile was there, yet it obscured something else, something enigmatic.
"Well," BJ began, measuring his words carefully, "I think that's Hawkeye's problem. He thought he'd left it all behind, he thought he'd, well, he'd left you behind, but..." He trailed off as he saw Hawkeye's figure approaching, drinks in hand. "It's time to find out, I guess."
The clear liquid splashed over the edge of the martini glass as Hawkeye placed it on the table in front of Trapper; it might have been water, but, of course, it wasn't. This was Hawkeye.
"Well, I know it won't quite have the subtlety of the old homebrew, but I thought for old times' sake we couldn't really be drinking anything else. I asked for them dry, but I doubt they'll be quite as arid as the stuff from the still."
"Hawk, its 5 o'clock."
"And that never stopped us before, might I add. Anyway, consider yourselves lucky. I almost bought some grape Nihi in homage to Radar." The three men laughed. BJ took a sip of his drink.
"Well, anti-freeze it isn't. How did we ever drink that stuff?"
"It was better than being sober." BJ and Trapper murmured in agreement.
"Remember when we made it, Hawk? The still, I mean," Trapper smiled. "Frank nearly had an aneurysm when he clocked what we were doing!"
"I think the same could be said for most of our escapades. To be honest, I'm surprised Frank didn't flip out earlier, considering the stuff we got up to." Hawkeye shook his head unremorsefully. "I tell you, his leaving made the 4077th that little bit more bearable... for the patients and us!"
"His surgery skills did... well, leave something to be desired."
"You're implying that said skills were more than non-existent," BJ chuckled. Trapper laughed in agreement, having decided that he quite liked the younger man.
"Did you ever hear from him, Trap?" Hawkeye's tone was casual, but the implication was clear: did you ever hear about any of us after you'd gone?
"Nah, course not. Didn't exactly go looking for his telephone number. I think I speak for all of us when I say I'll be happy if I never see Frank Burns again!"
"I'll raise a glass to that!" cried Hawkeye, seemingly satisfied with the answer. He took a drink. "Mind you, he was pretty good to wind up. I mean, we pulled some pretty good ones on Charles," – Hawkeye looked to BJ, his blue eyes twinkling – "but it never quite supplied the same level of satisfaction as seeing old Ferret Face's, well, face, when we pulled the rug from under his feet".
"Yeah, I heard that Frank got replaced by Winchester. He worked in Massachusetts General at the same time as me for a few months after the war," Trapper added in response to Hawkeye's questioning look. "What was he like? I can't imagine he'd have been any better than Ferret Face – bit of a pompous twerp from what I gathered".
"He was a good guy." Hawkeye shot in sharply. "One of the best surgeons I've ever worked with, strong principles, kind-hearted – deep down – and a deceptively good sense of humour. Yeah, he was a good guy. Actually, what am I saying? He is a good guy. We saw him last year at Colonel Potter's Wedding Anniversary, huh Beej?"
"Wha- oh yeah. He, er, didn't turn out so bad in the end. Indisputably an improvement on Frank!" But BJ was slightly taken aback by the abruptness of Hawkeye's response. Of course, Charles was a friend – but he had also been one of the most annoying people imaginable to share a tent with. BJ had been just about to recount how infuriating Charles' snobbery and insatiable love of wailing women – or opera, as he preferred to call it – had been. Indeed, many a time Hawkeye had subjected the Boston surgeon to his acerbic wit in the OR, or to his puerile sense of humour in the form of his many practical jokes. Yet now, Hawkeye was speaking of Charles as though they had been inseparable. They had been colleagues, yes, companions thrown together by the perils of war, but never willingly the best of friends...
Trapper too seemed slightly surprised by the sudden change in Hawkeye's tone. He shrugged, carefully maintaining his own casual indifference.
"Well, I guess that was just how he came across. I mean, I left the hospital pretty soon after, so I never really knew him. I just thought he was a bit of snob."
"Well, you thought wrong." Hawkeye retorted shortly, before pausing slightly and relenting. He continued more softly, "Well, I suppose he is a bit of a snob. Hell, he's a snob of enormous proportions. It just didn't stop him being a decent enough guy, in the end." There was an awkward silence, as the three men drank their martinis.
"And the new Colonel... was he OK?" Trapper enquired tentatively. There was another silence, this time more intense, as the question couldn't help but remind the men of the reason why the Commanding Officer whom BJ had never known had been replaced.
"Yeah, one of the sweetest guys I ever met. Regular Army, but don't let that put you off him." Hawkeye smiled slightly, swirling his martini around. "Of course, he was no Henry Blake." A certain heaviness descended onto the table, as the memory of Colonel Potter's predecessor seemed to fill the space between them. The sight of Trapper made the thought even more painful for Hawkeye; somehow, the idea of Trapper being home emphasized the fact that Henry had never made it Stateside – and never would. After a pause in which none of the men wanted to be the first to speak, it was Trapper again who broke the silence.
"I suppose this new guy was too smart for Klinger's Section Eight capers?" The three men laughed, thankful for a lighter subject to discuss.
"Damn right he was. And, fair play to Klinger, some of the stunts he pulled on Colonel Potter were so brash that I would have given him one for sheer audacity." Hawkeye shook his head. "He stopped wearing dresses after Radar left, it was a shame really. They added a certain... colour to the camp."
"He was crazier than all of us in the end though. Stayed in Korea to get married! Only got home to Toledo this year." BJ added.
"No way!" Trapper laughed incredulously. "I would never have believed it. Of course, I would never have believed most of what happened in Korea to be honest." Hawkeye nodded, a smile that looked to BJ slightly bitter on his lips.
"It was certainly... well, crazy, and not in a good way either."
It was some time later when BJ stood up suddenly, placing his empty glass on the table; the soft grey light which had spilled through the windows was long gone, replaced by the harsh artificial glare of streetlamps and the shimmering reflections of cars' headlights in the puddles which lined the road.
"I think I'm going to take a little walk. You guys stay here, I just need some fresh air." Hawkeye looked towards the window, pausing for a moment so that they could hear the thunderous pounding caused by the lashing rain which fell in merciless sheets. He raised an elegant eyebrow.
"Sure, Beej, why not? There's only a hurricane outside." BJ squirmed slightly as he lifted his jacket from the back of his chair.
"I'm sure it, erm, just sounds much worse than it actually is, Hawk. Anyway, don't mind me, you two just, just... well, carry on chatting." BJ knew that his motives were transparent at best, but he didn't care. They hadn't come all this way for Hawkeye and Trapper to merely exchange polite conversation; BJ could sense Hawkeye's uneasiness in the other man's company, and was determined that his friend should finally confront the infamous lack of a goodbye note. With a knowing look to Hawkeye which left him cringing at the lack of subtely, BJ threw his jacket on and made for the door, leaving the original two Swamp rats alone.
Hawkeye watched his best friend's retreating back, smiling slightly despite himself: BJ was so adamant that he should 'come to terms' with Trapper's departure from Korea.
"He's not a bad kind of guy, your friend. You two are pretty close." It was a statement, not a question. Trapper sipped his drink broodingly, nodding towards BJ's empty chair.
"Yeah, he's my best friend. Don't think I'd have made it out of Korea with an ounce of sanity without him." Trapper smiled across the table as Hawkeye echoed the words that BJ had spoken earlier. "I mean, when you get stuck in somewhere as hell-like as Korea, well, you can't help but end up best friends. Or arch enemies, I suppose. Come on, Trap, you should know. We were there too." Trapper shrugged.
"I mean, sure, the 4077th was like family, but you and BJ are friends for real."
"As opposed to what, Trap? Pretend friends?" Hawkeye could feel his temper rising; Trapper's casual, nonchalant attitude which had always been so enamouring in Korea merely smacked of callousness here.
"Jesus, Hawk, no. But... well, let's not pretend we had something that we didn't. We were just two doctors with a taste for martinis and practical jokes who were thrown together and were lucky enough to get on. We never chose each other as friends, we didn't have much choice. I mean, what was the alternative, befriending Frank?"
"So you wouldn't regard us as friends? You think that after everything we went through, everything we did together, it all means nothing?" There was a silence as Trapper paused, apparently measuring his words carefully.
"Of course we were friends, jeez. You were the best guy in the whole camp. But don't you see? Everything we went through together, that isn't enough to make us soulmates. The war defined our whole relationship, but with you and BJ, I can see that there's more to it than that. That's the difference." He shrugged again. "Of course, we had some alright times, didn't we, Hawk? I mean, don't get me wrong, some of the greatest people I ever met were at the 4077th." Trapper spoke uncharacteristically carefully, something which might have been vulnerability creeping into his normally cocksure voice.
"So great that you never kept in touch? So great that you never even bothered to write a stinking letter? So goddamn great that you didn't say goodbye, not even with a note? Huh, Trap?"
Hawkeye glared across the table at his ex-bunkmate, all of the tension and anger and bitterness which had been simmering beneath the surface for the last hour finally exploding with the force of one of the shells that had bombarded the pair all those years ago in Korea. Trapper opened his mouth to speak, but Hawkeye cut him off.
"Cut the bullshit, Trap. You might not want to admit that we were friends, you might not even think that we really were, but in my head you were my friend. Damn it, you were my best friend, you were my, my..." Hawkeye raised his arm, as though trying to pluck the word he was looking for out of the air between them. "...my lifeline. And you left. You left me alone with fucking Frank."
"Hey!" Trapper slammed his palm onto the table, finally seeming agitated. "What did you fucking expect me to do? Give my orders back and say, 'Hey, I'd rather rot in Korea with my bud Hawkeye Pierce than go home to my family!'? What would you have done, Hawk? Don't tell me you'd have stayed out of loyalty to a guy you never even knew before the war. You'd have been on that plane in a flash." Hawkeye threw up his hands in anger, his face a picture of indignation.
"Of course I would have gone. I'm not angry about you going home. You just never even bothered to say goodbye, you didn't even leave a note. I mean, can you imagine how it felt when I got back from Tokyo to an empty Swamp? No note, no warning, no nothing. Just Frank's smarmy little ferret grin."
"Hey, I told Radar to give you a kiss. Don't tell me he chickened out." Hawkeye's scowl shifted slightly.
"No, no, he gave it me. On the cheek. But as much as I'd always desired a kiss from Radar, it didn't really help all that much, Trap."
"Well, I told him to kiss you on the lips." Trapper raised his eyebrows. "That would have been funnier."
"Damn it, that's not the point." The scowl returned as Hawkeye leant back in his seat, his arms folded and his blue eyes harsh. "You abandoned me. You were gone without so much as a note, Henry was dead, and I was all alone. Those hours when I was just sat waiting for BJ to arrive... they were awful, the worst of the whole war. I couldn't even bring myself to shake BJ's hand when he came, I was too angry. I couldn't even look at him." Hawkeye leant forward. "Would it have been so hard to write a letter, Trap? Would it have been too much of a hardship to check up on us every once in a while? I didn't want a thesis, just a note to say goodbye."
Trapper looked away, his eyes lowered with something close to shame as he ran his slender fingers through his tight blond curls.
"Look, Hawk, I... I tried. I really did. Hell, the Swamp was damn near full up with scrunched up paper. You know I was never good with the soppy stuff; the words just wouldn't come. I mean, how can you condense what we had into one impersonal side of writing?" Trapper looked back at Hawkeye, his twinkling grin nowhere to be seen. "When I said earlier that we weren't the same as you and BJ, I didn't mean that we weren't friends. I mean, I'd have gone crazy there without you. It was just that everything about us was built on the situation, on the war. And suddenly the war was over for me, and I guess I wasn't entirely sure where that left us. Hell, I'm still not sure where that leaves us." Trapper sighed heavily. "We tried so hard to reach you, you know, so you could come back from Tokyo. And when it got to the afternoon when I was to leave, I sat down on my own in the Swamp and tried to write you that note. But all I could think of was how I was going home and you were stuck in the camp, and how guilty I felt about it. I paced around, but I couldn't get it out of my head that in a few hours you would probably be in OR up to your elbows in blood and I would be with my girls, stateside. We were comrades, the two of us fighting against the whole of the army; the whole of the war, really. But then I got my orders – I dunno, it was like I was some kind of traitor or something. I didn't know what to say. By the time the jeep arrived to take me away, I jumped inside, 'cos all I wanted was to get away from the godforsaken place, and I'm afraid that was you included. The thought of facing you, even in a letter... well, it scared me more than an entire battalion of North Koreans."
"But you never wrote, not even a single letter, when you got home. You knew the address."
"Hey, you never wrote me either, Hawk."
"Can you blame me? In my eyes, you'd buggered off and thrown me to the lions. Even thinking about you made me angry, so I sure as hell wasn't going to write." Trapper smiled ruefully.
"Yeah, I suppose so. Well, I did think about it, plenty of times. But it was no different to that afternoon in the Swamp: the words never sounded right. Besides, I was trying to forget Korea. All of it, it just seemed like a nightmare, and I never wanted to think about it again. I mean, I didn't keep in touch with anyone, it wasn't just you Hawk. The idea of having anything to do with the 4077th again was unthinkable, sickening even. And in my head, you and the war were so closely tied that after a while the lines became blurred; you and Korea were one and the same, so how could I have connected with you, without connecting with the war all over again?" There was a pause as both men considered his words. "I almost didn't come tonight, you know? I was scared, because I thought that seeing you would make me feel like I was in Korea again."
"And does it?"
"A little. I mean, weren't you tempted, when you got home? To cut off everybody, and pretend that it had never even happened? Because that's why I never wrote, Hawk. It would have meant acknowledging that my time in Korea was real".
"I thought about it, yeah. But I couldn't; it would have meant never seeing BJ again for one, and I don't think I could have done that," Hawkeye said simply.
The rain continued to hammer on the windows, the relentless pounding beating a fierce tattoo against the glass. The two men in the corner regard each other carefully, neither speaking for several minutes. Eventually, it was Hawkeye who broke the silence.
"Well Trap, I guess I can understand. Forgive you – not just yet. I think you were a damned coward. But you had every right to be, after what we went through."
"Hawk, I'm sorry." Trapper sounded sincere; more sincere, Hawkeye mused, that he had ever heard him in Korea.
"It's OK Trap. It's over now; what happened, happened. In fact, I propose a toast." He raised his glass. "To old friends and the end of that war!" Trapper too raised his glass. The pair clinked glasses, before draining what was left of their martinis; it was like the end of the whole lifetime that they had once shared.
BJ returned some time later, soaked to the skin and shivering slightly. He approached the table with anticipation: there was a subtle change in the others' manner which told him that they had – finally – discussed the issue which had bothered Hawkeye for so long. Hawkeye looked up at his sodden friend and laughed out loud; the familiar sound eased BJ's anxiety.
"So Beej, did you enjoy your little walk? Don't tell me you forgot your picnic, that must really have spoiled your stroll. Did you put sun cream on? You look a little burnt around your nose." BJ smiled wryly and removed his coat, wringing out the sleeve.
"I had a splendid time. Nothing like a gentle saunter to set one's spirits up." BJ didn't need to ask how their conversation had gone. It was clear from Hawkeye's demeanour that any acrimony had been cleared; and after all, BJ had always been able to read Hawkeye like a book.
"Well come on, we'd better get you dry." Hawkeye stood up and turned to face Trapper, who had also stood. "So Trap, it's been... well, enlightening to see you." He reached out and shook the other man's hand. "I suppose I might see you around?"
Trapper nodded, but both men knew it was a lie: old arguments had been settled, but it didn't mean that they would meet again. Everything that Trapper had said had been true – in Korea, they had been the best of friends, yet somehow without the war they were nothing more than two men who had once known each other, in the distant past, in a far-off country. As Trapper smiled his impish grin, the fallacy of Hawkeye's question was laid bare.
"Well, you know me, Hawk. Footloose and fancy-free..." Of course, it was true. Trapper had never been a man for long-distance, involved relationships. Indeed, it was his lack of concrete attachments that made him so appealing; it was what made him Trapper John.
"Anyhow, look after yourself. And, Trap, you're right, let's not go back there. I think we've all had enough of Korea for a lifetime." They embraced, broke apart, and, with a final glance and a customary grin from Trapper, BJ and Hawkeye made for the door.
Hawkeye knew that Trapper was watching, but he didn't turn. This time, it was him leaving, but it didn't matter. Finally, Hawkeye understood Trapper's plight: somehow, it just didn't feel appropriate to offer a final goodbye.