Hawkeye Pierce gazed blankly at the shot of scotch in front of him. He was sitting at a table for two at Slogan's Bar in Crabapple Cove, Maine. Across from him sat his old friend, Trapper McIntyre. Hawkeye desperately tried to make his eyes focus on Trapper--on Trapper's purely suburban clothes, on his ever-curly mass of hair, on his welcoming eyes, but he could not. Trapper had made an early evening trip to the Cove to visit him, and he couldn't even look at his friend.
For two hours they had been sitting in Slogan's passing the time with lively talk made interesting by both of their colorful senses of humor and charming chemistry. It had started out as a grand time. Hawk had decided that this evening he was going to be happy. He was going to let the world in--at least he was going to allow Trapper in. Yes, it had started out that way, but now three shots later and his head swimming on the edge of golden intoxication, things seemed far less hopeful. Trapper had refused to drink more than two mugs of beer saying a reoccurring ulcer was in charge of his insides these days. Hawk had been totally convinced that he would stop with one double, and when he ordered the second and third he did it almost unconsciously, obsessively.
Earlier they had talked almost exclusively about Trapper's family, about his daughters and how fast they were growing up. Trap even told him about an argument between him and his wife that had lasted four days and nights, and the make up session that had followed on the fifth (of which he insisted no detail be left out)! Now, looking through the scotch at the light it reflected from overhead he got the courage to ask what he had wanted to since they had taken their seats in the desolate bar.
"Trap, do you ever dream about Korea?" he ventured.
"Dream, Hawk?" Trapper asked as he eyed a slim, sexy brunette who had just entered the bar, causing a bell to jingle melodically over the door.
"Yeah. Not good dreams like hiding out in the nurse's shower, or burying Frank in a foxhole. No, that's not what I mean. I mean bad dreams like blood and guts and guns and bombs and minefields and… death, your basic horrors of war."
Trapper shook himself free from the soothing spell of the woman ordering a drink when he heard the way Hawk put an emphasis on the word horror. He looked at his friend, taking in his nicely ironed shirt, but noticing that the first three buttons were undone. He saw his hair, unobjectionably groomed but gray, all gray at his temples—and suddenly got the feeling that this was someone else in his friends' clothes. This was someone new who had lost Hawkeye Pierce along Grove Street on the way to Slogan's.
"Yeah, sure I dream about that rotten place, pal. I wake up sometimes and realize I've been removing shrapnel or resecting a bowel in my sleep. But, man that was so long ago for me. I find it best to just move on. I put my life into my practice, my girls, the Red Sox season, and I'm able to live." And just like that he was on a tangent concerning baseball stats and scores, something Hawk knew nothing about or was in no way concerned with at the moment.
As Trapper droned on and on about Boston's "inalienable right to a World Series title," Hawk was struck with the nonchalant way he had dismissed the question. He knew in his heart of hearts that Trapper was not being disinterested or hurtful on a conscious level, even though he was drunk he knew it. He heard what Trap had said, but he also saw his eyes and the intense flash of concern in them, he saw his shadowy, furrowed brow. He knew that Trapper was carrying on the best way he knew how and that was to block the hell out of his mind. He almost wished he could do it too.
"Happy Trails, Partner" Hawkeye slurred at Trapper as they said farewells outside in the dry, crisp autumn air of Maine. He held out his hand in a jerky, unsure motion. Trapper grabbed it firmly and pulled him in close. Both of their right arms were crushed between their chests and Trapper's free arm was immediately around his friend's neck in a fierce hug. Standing still like that with Trapper, the cool, thin air with the aroma of the pine trees from the Maine woods invading his lungs and mixing with the scotch, Hawk's knees went weak. Trapper quickly caught him underneath the ribs and said, "Steady Hawk, you're comin' with me. I'll get ya home. No need to stumble now, you're Partner's here to help."
Hawkeye woke the next morning—Saturday morning—to a splitting headache, useless muscles and a fuzzy tongue. He dragged himself off of the upholstered sofa in the den of his childhood home where he still lived with his father, Dr. Daniel Pierce. As he sluggishly shuffled into the bathroom he began to remember his last hour of consciousness the night before.
Trapper had driven him home, aided in pouring him on the sofa and then took a seat for himself in Daniel Pierce's overstuffed, leather armchair. Despite the elaborate warmth and coziness that the chair offered, he had not surrendered into it, but perched on the edge. His eyes were sharp and clear as he stared directly into Hawk's cloudy ones. It was then that he had begun his talking, seeming to pick his words carefully, if not almost painfully. "Hawk, look at yourself, buddy. You're overworked, stretched too thin and drinking doesn't help." Hawk had closed his eyes at this, knowing that he was right, but not wanting to hear it. Was Trapper still living with the war? No. The answer was simple and abundantly clear. Trapper still had life, he was still able to laugh and mean it, he still had energy. Hawkeye didn't know if he had enough energy to ever open his eyes again. He had heard Trapper John utter closing remarks of: "I love ya fella and hate seeing ya like this. I hope ya feel better in the morning. Call me will ya, Hawk?" The last was more like a plea than a question. Hawkeye had every intention of answering, but the veil of booze and exhaustion slipped over his brain and muscles. He was out until 10 the next morning.
Standing on cold tile in the bathroom, Hawkeye peered at his reflection in the mirror. He had just finished scrubbing and rinsing away last night from his face. He wanted to see a glint of mischief in his eyes, a smile that wasn't forced, hope, happiness and life. Instead he saw dark circles, an unshaven cheek, tiredness and despair. He sighed deeply and reached for the towel hanging by the sink, still gazing in the mirror searching for something…someone.
He heard movement in the front of the house, the kitchen. Immediately he rushed from the bathroom towards the rustling. When he reached the kitchen he said, "Morning Dad, what are you doing? You know you're supposed to be resting, taking it easy. You should have called me, I'd have gotten the coffee for you."
"Nonsense, Son! One mild stroke and you think I'm helpless? I'm perfectly capable of pouring my own cup o' Joe." As an aside he added, "I am a physician, Ben."
"Just because you know all the right things to do and you know how to take care of your body, doesn't mean you'll do it, Dad. I think it's surprisingly hard for doctors to take care of themselves with the care and energy they give their patients."
"You know this from personal experience do you, Son?" Daniel asked as he sat down at the wooden table, his eyes never leaving Hawk.
"Listen Dad, I don't want to talk about me now. I just want you to be careful, that's all." And with that Hawkeye slumped down into his own chair, next to his father.
"Okay Hawkeye, I'll be careful. Right now I think I'll be careful on my way to the mailbox. You eat some breakfast." He rose from the chair with caution and yet more determination.
"O, No! No, no you don't. I'll get the mail! Like I said, you don't need to be walking that far right now. Dad, please listen to me."
"Ahhhh, Phooey! I can do this Benjamin, and you're not going to keep me from living my life!" Hawkeye could see his father was angry now as he ambled out of the screen door, down the front steps and along the gravel driveway on the way to retrieve the mail. He was angry in his own right at his father's stubbornness and pure failure to comply with the reality of the situation—simply refusing to acknowledge that anything was wrong with him. Hawk had come to expect this from his father, but also to dread it. It was the source of so much tension and conflict in their relationship these days. He watched his father get the mail and head back, disliking the part of him that was taking the risk. The entire time, he was oblivious to the fact that he was just like his old man.
Hawkeye sat on a stool by the telephone in the den. His stomach was in knots and his head ached. He was full of tension while the operator put through his long distance call and he didn't know why. Surely his friend B.J. would be happy to hear from him, after all he hadn't spoken to him in almost three months. It would be nice to catch up.
"Hello" A female voice said on the other end of the line. And then again "Hello?"
"Peggy? Hi, it's Hawkeye. How are you doing? He had never met Peg Hunnicutt in person, although he had chatted with her many times over the phone, but he felt he knew her through B.J. He imagined she was a wonderful, caring woman, it could be heard in her soft, shy voice.
"I'm good Hawkeye, really good. Me and B.J. are getting ready to take a trip to the coast. It's going to be a little vacation from his long hours at the office and from my housework. He knew she was in a pleasant mood, excited about the trip, and maybe simply about the way her life had resumed with the husband she loved so much, since the end of the war.
"Ahh, the joys of housework. You know Peg, I remember Mother saying to Dad that housework makes a woman ugly." Peg giggled at this. "All I'm saying is you better be careful" he added.
"Oh, Hawk, you are a laugh!" she exclaimed.
"You haven't even caught my second act!" Peg continued to laugh, but it gradually faded and there was a silence where Hawkeye knew he should say something but nothing came except "Well, is Beej around?"
"Sure Hawkeye, he's just here in the den. I'll get him for you."
He waited and thoughts raced through his mind. What was he going to say? What kind of conversation was this going to be? He didn't want to burden B.J. with his troubles, but he needed someone to talk to. Rustling on the other end of the line indicated his friend's presence.
"How's my friend with the great big grin?" B.J.'s voice was booming and full of genuine enthusiasm. It was enough to make Hawkeye realize that he would talk only about good things this time. He would not depress his best friend tonight.
Not particularly wanting to answer the question posed, Hawkeye replied with "Not as good as some bum going on vacation in the near future. Good to hear your voice Beej. Good, yes sir!"
"Yeah, a few days on the coast with the best family in the entire world would do any man good. Any woman for that matter" B.J said with a smile in his voice. "I'm sure happy you called Hawk, did Peg tell you the great news?"
Caught up in the flow of warming conversation Hawkeye replied "Well, she told me about the vacation, but she failed to mention what specific, exotic destination you three were"—B.J. cut him off at that and continued "Not the vacation you dope, the other great news. The news that there will actually be five of us going to the coast!"
Five? Hawk asked, not understanding.
B.J. answered the question without missing a beat. "Right, five. Me, Peg, Erin, Waggle the dog and one new addition to the Hunnicutt clan, not here yet, of course. Not for a while actually, but---O, Hawk I'm just deliriously happy!"
For an instant Hawkeye had no idea what to say. He thought perhaps that he could not say anything. The moment B.J. had said "new addition," tears sprung into his eyes, poised to spill, as well as a very large, trembling, liquid lump blocking his airway and his ability to swallow. Finally he managed the choked up, one-word initial response of "Ba…by?" Then as he gained more control he spat out the whole intended question: "You're going to have another baby?"
"You bet your bottom dollar I am! Well, Peggy is. We both are, yes!" B.J. was so exuberant his response came out in a rush of breath and jittery excitement.
"O, Beej that's wonderful! You must feel so…" Hawkeye didn't know how to finish his thought. He couldn't say what he was thinking, surely not. What he had wanted to say was that B.J. must have felt so alive. But what sense would that make to someone who was outside the realm of Hawkeye's dead depression? None he reasoned with himself, so he just finished with a safer adjective: "amazing."
"Hawkeye, are you okay buddy?" B.J. asked after his friend had barely said the last word, merely sighed it and let the air fall silent. "I don't claim to be a man of great advice and insight, but I do know a bit about my best friend and how to listen well if he needs to talk about anything."
"No, no!" Hawkeye replied with more gusto than was necessary. "I just wasn't expecting such good news. "Hey Beej, if it's a boy I've always thought the name Benjamin Franklin Hunnicutt rolls neatly off the tongue."
Seven days. That's how long B.J. said he would be away. Hawkeye knew despite his friend's entreaty to call him at his summer home, he would not. He simply could not think of that being anything less than intrusive. So he would wait, he would think, he would drink, he would take care of Dad (if Dad let him), and he would grow lonelier.
That night, Hawkeye dressed in slacks and a red shirt that buttoned down the front and had a collar. He ran a comb through his hair, brushed his teeth and splashed a little aftershave on his cheeks. For a moment he thought of using his Dad's car, but quickly changed his mind and opted for fresh air. He left Daniel sitting in his wooden rocker, thumbing through some medical journal he had already read cover to cover.
The night air was surprisingly refreshing. Hawkeye let it fill both his lungs and figured it was good medicine. He pointed himself towards Main Street, more precisely towards Slogan's. As he walked he thought to himself, "I am the ultimate character study for the people of this town. I'm devoted all day to my patients, and then I'm out all night. I'm funny and engaging, yet I'm detached from my own life. I wonder how my patients, the ones that are very fond of me, stand me?" He had no answer, so he walked on.
Charles Emerson Winchester, III—chief of thoracic surgery at Mass. Gen. sat behind a powerful, glossy oak desk in his office. He had come to hate the desk, the monotonous decisions it had begun to symbolize. He hated the case files piled up in the left corner of it. He even surprisingly hated the gold embossed nameplate, declaring to all who entered that he was in charge. Lately, Charles just couldn't understand himself. He was in a position of authority, fitting a man with his skill and sophistication just as it should. He was a great surgeon, the best in the hospital. He had a nice house, a new car—the best of almost anything one person could have. But, on the inside he felt very barren.
Most of the doctors and nurses—all of the staff—and his current friends seemed nothing but superficial to him. He could hold conversation with the best of them, but his heart was rarely in it. All he really wanted was someone to understand what he was feeling, so they could tell him exactly what it was. He wanted to talk, but he knew what he had to say would be too depressing to all of his associates who had never seen Korea.
Charles walked down the dimly lit section of hallway in which his office rested. He was headed for the exit, intent on going home and sleeping off another grueling day. A few steps before he gained his freedom from the sterile surroundings that held him, he crossed paths with one of the new head nurses in his thoracic unit. She was a pretty woman he decided, although she had a homely quality about her. Shoulder length sandy-blonde hair framed a heart shaped face, doe eyes and a pixie-like smile. Her petite body looked full of energy, readiness to work, sturdy know-how and skill. He said "Goodnight, nurse" as he exited, she shared a smile that was warm and held something he didn't recognize much these days…compassion he thought, with a little hope in his heart.
In the weeks that followed, Charles got to know a great deal about his new head nurse. First off, he had inquired her name from a colleague, and discovered that it was Ms. Walton. He followed this inquiry with another standard that all single men ask of enchanting women: "Is she married?" His colleague had said he wasn't sure, but he thought she must be because he vaguely remembered spotting a wedding band on her finger.
The first week of October was host to a staff meeting. This was when Charles finally spoke with Ms. Walton personally. She came up rather boldly, full of enthusiasm, introducing herself to him and remarking how Charles' reputation preceded him—even in the smallest Massachusetts hospitals Dr. Winchester was regarded as the best.
"I know that you were in Korea with a MASH unit—a very efficient MASH unit" she stated bluntly. Korea was the last thing Charles expected to hear, and something he never cared to talk about with others. To say the least, he was shocked.
"Yes, you've heard correctly, Ms. Walton." He suddenly felt very guarded.
"O, I don't mean to pry Dr. Winchester, it's just that, well…I served in Korea as well. I was a nurse in various units. It's rare to find others who've been through the war. You know, there are so many new doctors and nurses entering the profession today…makes one feel a bit…ancient." She said this with a slight smile, but her eyes were far away—in Korea, perhaps.