Another Army Mistake
It was another Army mistake. Orders were rescinded. It was a simple clerical error. Someone else received the wrong orders. The stars were mis-aligned. Whatever.
Either way, Trapper John MacIntyre found himself at an aid station. On the front. Not miles away, no, this was in the thick of things. Not much in the way of actual surgery, aside from shoving bandages and sponges into soldiers – children – so they could hopefully make it to the 4077th or the 8063rd or even better, an evac hospital.
He wrote home, once. Had no idea if the letter made it or not. He moved around too much to receive a response, anyway. Tried to write Hawkeye, but every time he picked up a pencil, the shelling started or wounded poured in. More often than not, he got as far as Dear Hawk and then he found himself prying his face up from where he'd passed out on the back of a jeep that was his "desk."
He got "promoted" to Commanding Officer eventually. Might have come with a rank promotion as well; he wasn't sure. He was still the one to fill out piles of paperwork: requisitions, telegrams, things that probably kept the station running. Now he finally knew how Henry Blake might have felt. He'd have happily killed to have a Radar O'Reilley or even Zale or Igor. It didn't matter, if he could get some rest that was voluntary and not so much passing out.
Kenny Hollens, the only medic that hadn't been killed or sent home, was performing minor surgeries on his own, now. Trapper removed the worst, most traumatic pieces of shrapnel while Kenny closed or packed or bandaged the wounds so they would hold till MASH.
It was summer when Kenny performed his first incision, shrapnel removal, and closure without Trapper assisting. They were stripped to undershirts, helmets secure on their heads.
Afterwards, when they took a bracing shot of some local spirit they'd found, Trapper grinned and nudged him companionably. "When you get stateside," Trapper told him, "You should go to medical school. You can stay with my wife and I in Boston – you'll be great."
Hollens grinned ruefully. "Due respect, sir," he said, "the only cutting I ever want to do again is on a cow at my dad's butcher shop."
And really, what could Trapper say to that?
They moved a lot. They followed the front were right behind the line. Moving a mile, two miles was nothing anymore. A few jeeps and a truck were all they needed. There were shelters, mostly intact, that he knew better than his home anymore. His favorite was an old house that had probably been a brothel once. It had separate rooms, and some old tapestries or something. Now the floors were covered in blood and surgical garbage and any hope Trapper had of getting home.
He found himself dreaming not of his wife or his girls, but of the Swamp, of performing surgery in the 4077th, of Rosie's Bar. He couldn't picture his wife's face anymore. He remembered his girls' faces through the photos he had left. He remembered Frank, Klinger, the nurses. He remembered Hawkeye, and the look behind his mask when they found out about Henry. He tried not to think of that day: Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake's plane...was shot down over the Sea of Japan. It spun in. There were no survivors. He refused to think it could happen to him.
He got shot.
Well, kind of. He caught lead while simultaneously dodging a landmine explosion. He didn't know who it all belonged to. He didn't care. He couldn't feel the shrapnel in his side: not a good sign. He tried to tell Hollens that he was fine, but the kid wouldn't listen to a word he said. "I'm putting you on that chopper because you'll save more lives than I ever will!"
Trapper tried to argue, but the pilot took off and his breath was lost in air that was too hot and too cold at the same time. He didn't pass out, exactly, but he kind of lost time for a while there. It wasn't until the skids touched down and he was looking into a face that screamed regular Army that he was cognizant of his surroundings anymore.
The man – doctor? - was checking the wounds. "Not good, but you'll be all right a little while yet. You're going to be just fine, soldier."
Trapper couldn't have that. "'M not a soldier. Doctor."
The man nodded. "Apologies, Doctor..." a hand reached for his tags. "Doctor MacIntyre. I'm Colonel Potter, I run this joint. Can you tell me what happened to you?"
Trap tried to focus in. "Shrapnel, left side. Not sure how much, or how deep. Trying to breathe shallowly; don't want a punctured lung."
"Wise decision. You ever been to a MASH?"
Trapper wanted to laugh. "I'm familiar, yeah."
"Well then, you know we'll get you fixed up right quick. Orderly!"
The next – what, hour? Two? - were a rush of shouting voices. Someone moved him to pre-op, where another unfamiliar doctor checked him over, and sent him off for x-rays. Nurses hung bags of fluid and blood. Yet another doctor checked his vials and he wondered if anyone that he had known was left. He wished for someone – anyone – familiar, but then immediately felt a stab of guilt. They're home, you jerk!
And then he heard something – that can't be – but as though the thought had summoned the voice, he heard Hawkeye of all people through the OR doors. "Next patient, please."
A commotion, and Trapper felt himself lifted and carried into the OR.
The nurse and gas-passer quickly set up the sheets. Hawkeye – damn, he looks old – shouted for gloves and gown, and maneuvered himself into the protective equipment with Nurse Kelleye's help. As he approached the operating table, he looked first at the X-rays that were on the lightboard, then at the surgical instruments, and then at his patient.
At Trapper.
The blood left his face, but he breathed sharply once, twice, and then seemed to recover. "So, you came back," he said, as though making conversation.
"Needed to make sure you got my gift," he replied, trying to get their old banter going again.
"No worries, Radar delivered." He glanced at the X-ray again. "You certainly managed to collect a souvenir."
"Didn't like it. Told 'em I changed my mind."
"Hell of a return policy. Ready to take a deep breath?"
Trapper watched the mask fall over his face, heard the gas hiss on, and finally
allowed himself to sink into the darkness.
Post-op was calm when he came to. His body felt wrong, almost as though he were sick.
He turned his head to call for morphine, because even though he wasn't in pain yet, he would be very soon, probably, and found Margaret Houlihan, of all people, sitting by his bedside.
He felt relief flood through his body. "Nurse? Have you any idea how beautiful you are?"
She grinned at him. "Welcome back, Doctor."
"Hawkeye?"
"He's sleeping. There were a few tough cases after you were off the table; he and Winchester were worn out."
"Who put me back together?"
"Hawkeye, mostly, with Kelleye and I assisting."
"'M gonna be all right?"
"Just fine, Doctor."
He released a breath he'd been holding, and winced. "Morphine?"
"Coming right up." Her voice was very gentle.
When he woke, he felt a little better. Not great, not even good, but better. Some of the malaise had worn off, though he still felt kind of terrible. Most of the patients were sleeping, and it took Trapper a moment to realize it was because it was nighttime. One of the new doctors, the stranger, was at the desk in the corner.
"Hey, doc," he called softly. The kid turned around, walked to the chair by his bed.
"What's the problem? - Ah." He managed to pack a wealth of meaning into that one syllable. "Glad to see you're awake, Doctor."
"Glad to be that way. How'm I doing?"
"Why don't you take a look yourself?" The young doctor handed over the chart.
Trapper read through the document, noticing that there was more than he'd thought. He finally handed it back, sighing heavily. "Damn," he said.
The kid nodded. "Hawkeye did a good job on you."
He nodded. "I didn't catch your name, Doctor."
"Hunnicutt, though my friends call me BJ."
"Mine call me Trapper."
Hunnicutt – BJ – smiled. "Nice to meet you, Trapper."
There was an awkward moment of silence. BJ broke it, though. "Well," he said, "You're going to be just fine. And I'm sure Hawkeye will come 'round to say hi to you eventually."
Trapper wasn't sure what he meant by this last, but nodded as though he did.
Hunnicutt made as though to get up, but Trapper stopped him. "Can I get something for the pain? Think that's what woke me," he said.
The young doctor smiled. "Sure, Doctor."
The next couple of days were a blur. Even though he was fixing holes in his body, they were some of the most restful he'd had in a year. He had constant visitors: Klinger, Fr. Mulcahy, Hollens (who wasn't really a visitor as much as a slightly-more-mobile patient), Margaret, the replacement doctors – he was both delighted and appalled to find out what had happened to Frank – and Potter, the C.O. who'd welcomed him to camp. But no Hawkeye.
"He'll come around," BJ reassured.
Finally, when he was back on solid food and there was talk of the 121st evac hospital, Trapper knew that he had to act soon. He asked a nurse – one whom he didn't recognize – when Dr. Pierce was next on duty; said that he wanted to personally thank the doctor who'd saved his life.
She smiled. Yeah, definitely a new nurse. "He ended up with night duty. He should be in around midnight."
Trapper grinned. Not the flirtatious smile of last year, the one that made girls go weak at the knees, but an honest, relieved smile. "Thanks a lot, honey."
So he waited.
He asked for coffee, and the nurses decided he was healed enough for a half cup. Fantastic stuff, really; he had no idea why he'd ever complained about it. It was hot and strong, and those were both luxuries.
(If asked, Trapper would deny with his dying breath that he was nervous to see Hawkeye Pierce again.)
Night fell, and Trapper tried to sit up. He managed, eventually. Everything hurt.
"If you rip those stitches out, I'll be offended. That's some of my best knitting in there."
Trapper sighed in relief. "Got bored staring at the ceiling, can you blame a guy?"
"Well, the wall's not much more than an upholstered toilet."
"Practically the Taj Mahal, compared to where I've been living."
"Yeah."
They fell silent, neither man looking at the other.
"Hey, Hawkeye –"
"Look, before you say anything, just tell me something. Did you try to say anything to me?"
"Hawkeye, I waited as long as I could –"
"That's not what I asked, and I think you know it."
Trapper grimaced, because he did know it. "Yeah." He hated what he had to admit, but his conscience chose that moment to dust itself off and poke him. "I couldn't."
Hawkeye nodded. "That's all I needed, then." He turned, as if he was about to leave.
"Wait, Hawk, don't do this."
"Don't do what, walk away without leaving anything but a secondhand kiss on the cheek from a corporal who should be home with his mother? We wouldn't want to do that, no, not at all."
"You think I had a choice? You think I wanted to do any of that?"
"I never saw any evidence to the contrary now, did I?"
Trapper shrugged off the blankets and struggled to his feet. "Perhaps you'd like to finish this conversation in private, Doctor."
"Whatever you say, Major MacIntyre."
(That damn promotion was going to haunt him until the day he died, wasn't it.)
He refused the wheelchair, although part of his mind nagged at him that he would regret it later. They stalked to the office and continued their conversation.
Hawkeye seemed almost fragile when they faced each other (but still didn't look at each other). "You left, Trapper. You just left."
"You say it as if I had a choice."
"Well, okay, but –"
"No, Hawkeye, you listen." He was mad now, madder than he'd been for months. "I wanted to say goodbye to you. I wanted to tell you all of the – whatever, the way I felt about you – but then I was at an Aid Station, and I was trying to just stay alive."
"Trapper,"
"No, I'm not finished yet." Maybe it was the fact that for the first time in months he wasn't listening to gunfire or chasing after it, but he finally felt something that wasn't fear, and he was going to use it. "I started writing you the minute I got to that Aid Station. And I was there for about 30 seconds before they had me cutting people open and shoving sponges into them. I watched my C.O. die in front of my face, and after a few shrink sessions I was back on the line with a promotion and one hell of a memory. But oh, forgive me that I didn't write to you. Forgive me that all I did was survive. Please, let me go get you some paper and I'll write you the last letter, not my wife and daughters."
He finally looked the other doctor in the face, and was almost shocked to see that Hawkeye's face was slack, and almost gray.
"I – Trapper, I'm –"
"Sorry?" Trapper tried to pace, but couldn't quite manage it. "Yeah, well, that's not exactly a comfort. You know, you and your operating room, and an entire hospital, different buildings, hot meals, for God's sakes."
"Trapper."
"I thought about it, you know. I thought about sending you a note with a patient. Telling the pilot to give you something. But I had to know that at least one thing was okay, and that was you, and that's a load of crap, but it is what it is, okay."
Hawkeye blinked. "Come again?"
Trapper unclenched his fists. "I needed to know that you were okay," he muttered. "I pretended that you were finishing the kid that I'd started. I know it wasn't exactly a picnic for you. I would've...found out, after the war was over. I would've looked you up, or gone to Maine, or written your dad; something. But – Hawkeye, if I'd been wrong –"
He didn't know who started it, but Trapper found himself hugging Hawkeye, and being hugged back.
"I should've written you," Hawkeye said, muffled. "I should have done something. But I didn't want to find out that I was wrong."
They stood there another minute.
"Hawkeye?"
"Yeah?"
"I think I better sit down."
Three days later, Trapper sat in the Swamp again, almost reveling in it.
Wounded had poured in two days after he and Hawkeye had had their conversation. He'd been in the middle of scrubbing up when Colonel Potter stopped him. "MacIntyre, are you up for this?"
Trapper straightened up, keeping his hands sterile. "If I can't handle it, I'll go sack out somewhere," he promised. "I can at least help with triage or basic closing if you don't want me in the middle of it all."
Potter surveyed him for a long moment. "Pierce," he called.
"Yeah?"
"Is there room for another cowboy in this rodeo?"
Hawkeye was already gloved, gowned and masked, but Trapper saw something that was almost a smile flit across his face. "The more the merrier."
Trapper finished scrubbing and went to work.
True to his word, he didn't do much more than the simplest of procedures. He worked with Winchester – a fellow Bostonian, funnily enough – and Potter, and Hunnicutt. The nurses ran an effective triage: no screw-ups, no prejudice, no racism.
"I wouldn't dare say that I missed this, but it's a damn sight better than my previous working conditions," he said when he found himself across the table from Hawkeye.
When they finished, he staggered out with the rest of the doctors. Klinger had asked already if he could give the doctor's post-op bed away, so he went to the Swamp. Hunnicutt was just as untidy, though he at least seemed a little more sanitary than Trapper himself had been. Winchester's bunk was...nearly freakish.
"Wish we could keep you, MacIntyre," Colonel Potter said, "But the Army has its own ideas for you."
"Let's hope I'm headed stateside for real this time," he commented dryly.
Potter nodded. "I'll see what I can do."
By the end of the week, Trapper found himself in a clean uniform, with a case in his hand and a Purple Heart glinting on his chest. The costume jewelry didn't matter to him, but it did to Potter and Margaret, and he'd allowed them to pin the medal on his uniform.
He'd be home soon, and this time it would stick. He'd see his girls, and his wife. He knew Hawkeye was alive, and he'd written his address down three times.
He was going home.