Boots
I've worn these boots for almost three years now. The fronts are worn through the shiny black leather and to the raw, tan animal hide. They're coated in blood a thousand times over - they're not as waterproof as the Army likes to think they are (well, neither are the tents, or the food containers… or anything else, really). After a long OR session I can feel my toes squelching about in the congealed blood that feels like jelly.
Did I mention that I can't eat Jam anymore?
They've been my only constant companion. Spearchucker left without even a whisper in the camp. Ugly's orders were quietly rescinded, Trapper left without saying goodbye…
I tried getting rid of them once. They're worn through in many places, and usually let more than just OR blood in. Rocks, dirt, gravel… The hoops I jumped through! You wouldn't believe it! Of course, not much out here is really believable. They've carried my weight without complaining, even after being nailed to the floor by an unimaginative prankster. I eventually stopped wishing for a new pair, when the winter months warmed to spring.
But these boots have always been here for me, holding me up, keeping me standing. When I've thought about how much the war was getting to me, going for the soft underbelly of my concience trying to get me to cry out in pain, I've thought of my boots and how they protect me from the harsh, abrading things I don't notice until it's too late. They're my own little foot armor.
Jokes and pranks are my big body armor. They're preposterous, presumptive, premeditated, usually "premedicated", performances that protect and preserve my actual personality.
You know, when I wore civilian shoes I used to be called Ben. From the moment those once shiny army boots cleared my ankles I became Hawkeye. Being Hawkeye happens when I wear my boots. You don't actually think I acted like this when I was in the states, do you? If I did, I'd be the only 31 year old with advanced cirrhosis of the liver! I'd have permanent hand prints on my face, and I probably would have been arrested several times for indecent exposure and public lewdness… And other than the time in college with the Valedictorian I've lead a spotless civilian life.
Mostly.
I get nervous even going to the shower in my shower shoes. Lately I've started going in my boots and only wearing the shoes IN the shower. The less time I spend as Ben out here, the less time the war can get to me. I hate sleeping because I can't wear my boots! That's when the nightmares get to me and I feel like I can't breath because my brain is so busy going crazy and making my heart pound that it doesn't have enough concentration left to regulate my lungs.
"Hawk?"
My head snaps up as I'm startled from my musings. It's my new Bunkie, BJ Hunnicut (Don't ask him what it stands for - 'whatever you want' is no kind of answer).
He's smiling. His cheesy mustache quirked up at the corner, blue eyes sparkling. He's wearing that damned pink shirt again, his size gun-boat sneakers are unlaced and his hair is sticking up in the back from where it was pressed against his pillow a few minutes ago. "We're expecting a lull for the next week or so."
I keep staring. The sun is just coming up over the ridge behind him, dappling the swamp in soft golden light. My boot dangles limply from my fingers.
Beej cocks his head at me. "You going to put your boots on, Hawk?"
Startled, I look down at the dilapidated leather in my hand, then back at BJ. His smile is full of warmth and friendship.
Hand shaking, I put the boot back on the floor and reach for the only pair of civilian shoes I brought to this cruddy place. I meet his eyes as I slide the tennis shoe over my army drab sock. His eyes soften in understanding.
I whisper, "Not today." and stand on my own feet.
OQOQOQOQOQOOQOQOQOQO
This is my first fan fiction of any variety, and I thank all of you for being the first to read my work.
In case any of you were wondering, this was inspired by Alan Alda himself. When discussing his casting into the role of Hawkeye, He said he'd been hardpressed to imagine himself in the role. However, he put on the army boots and viola! The lecherous Hawkeye Pierce was born. I recall him saying that he wore the boots throughout all 11 seasons, and he never felt like Hawkeye without them on. It left an impact on me and inspired this little ficlet.
The BJ element may seen hastily thrown in at the end to some, but it was actually the catalyst that launched this drabble. Throughout seasons 1-3, there is very little development in the character of Hawkeye. He is very one dimensional with only occasional bursts of morality and emotion. However, with the arrival of BJ Hunnicut, it is clear to the discerning watcher that Hawkeye is evolving as a character. He lets things get to him - his friendships are becoming more and more necessary to his survival and sanity, and he becomes a better person through his association with BJ Hunnicut. He becomes more the person I imagine he was in the states, and more vulnerable because of it.
By opening himself up to BJ, he opens himself up to the rest of the war, and in order to preserve himself he must open himself further to his friend. There is a vulnerability these two share that is touching, and I hope I have brought to you readers a small portion of the beautiful give and take that I see between these two men.