It was yellow fever. He had passed out cold one night in the OR, and since then nobody could believe how fast things went downhill. The Chief Surgeon was the talk of the camp, heck, whole area. Patients and even some officers from the 8063rd had all heard about the doctor who caught yellow fever. Margaret had smirked at first, when Hawkeye was lucid enough to grin at the squad of nurses surrounding him, cooing and worrying over him and leaving a mountain of get-well flowers and cards. But then it had taken a turn for the worst no one had seen coming.
BJ spent countless nights by his side, whispering words of comfort in his ear, stroking the jaundice-colored lithe hand with a level of concern that could reduce anybody who saw it to tears. It wasn't supposed to be this bad- yellow fever was rare, especially in Korea. But somehow, someway, Hawkeye Pierce had managed to contract the worst case of it. BJ was heartbroken when he found out he had to leave his friend's side to go to Seoul for antibiotics, but trusted the 4077th to keep Hawkeye going until he got back.
The next four days would be the worst. BJ would spend the first three days either lying next to or sitting beside his friend, who drifted in and out of a terrifyingly high fever delirium. 104 was the average for the disease. Hawkeye's temperature spiked to 105.6. Margaret remembered that night like it was only a few moments ago- the feeling of her heart in her throat choking her as they moved the fiery body into a tub of ice, hooking up dozens of fluids in an attempt to desperately stop his body from literally burning itself alive. It had worked- albeit not cured, but it seemingly fought an unimaginable fate out the door and gave them all their wits back after insane worry.
On the third day, right before BJ left for Seoul, Margaret sat watching him pack his suitcase as she brushed back strands of dark hair from everybody's favorite captain.
"He'll be fine, you know," He said to her for what seemed like the millionth time, "yellow fever is a bacterial infection, not a deadly condition. My great uncle had it in WWII, he's 85 and swears by a glass of whiskey a day." Margaret had smiled, but she wondered if BJ was trying to reassure her or himself. The sharp decline of Hawkeye's health had shocked all the doctors, left colonel baffled and Charles searching every medical encyclopedia under the sun for a logical explanation. The head nurse knew BJ was beyond any of these emotions, though. She knew he was struggling to keep it all together, saw right through his brave face. The truth was, the golden haired doctor and Hawkeye were once blood brothers in another life. She can almost be positive of it. Anybody with eyes could see the strong familial protectiveness in every gentle touch, every reassuring whisper, every glance of concern BJ showed towards his friend. And in a place as dark as Korea, in a world full of bloodshed and war, people clung to any kind of family like a drowning man to a lifeboat.
Charles watched from the door with pained eyes as BJ told Hawkeye he was leaving. The captain was unconscious, of course, but the man spoke to him like they were carrying on a serious conversation. Hunnicutt placed an awkward, yet heartfelt kiss to his friend's forehead before standing to leave, uniform and all. He gave both majors a tentative smile, but his eyes were wet with unshed tears of pure worry.
Everyone had rushed out to see him off, nurses clamoring to pat his hands, offering some kind of comfort, while the rest assured him that Hawkeye would be safe with them. BJ only thanked the camp and told the well-wishers that he'd be back in no time with the medicine, whilst Colonel and Charles cursed i corps for not being available to just ship them the vials. Klinger honked the horn and Father did his cross as the doctor drove away, leaving Margaret in charge of nursing the camp's sickest patient until his brother got back.
"Hawkeye, time for your meds," Margaret called, walking shakily back into the swamp with a glass bottle and IV tube. She felt her stomach clench in dread every time she went to see him. Which was, give or take, almost every second of every day since BJ left for Seoul. She just couldn't bear it sometimes, which was odd because everyone expected her to be the strong, stonewall Major Houlihan, never someone who cries or, for god sake, feels pain. She did. In fact, she carried most of everybody else's along with her own. She had grown so used to putting on a firm, orderly giving outside because that's what the camp needed. Her nurses would run away in delirium fright and chaos if she wasn't the guiding light, the leader she's supposed to be. And sometimes, she was sure that she was the only one left who knew what was beneath all that- the weary, terrified Irish girl from California who carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.
"C'mon, lazy bones, I don't got all day, you know," she exclaimed shamelessly loud to Hawkeye, who was asleep with one hand dangling off the side of the cot and his legs tangled underneath the covers. His black hair was mussed and sticking out in all directions, and it reminded her so much of a little boy that she had to stifle a laugh.
"Hawkeye," she smirked, setting the tray of medication down on the bedside table with a clatter, "c'mon, honey, I need you to wake up for me to do this," she said a bit softer. She reached for his hand, and no sooner than the second she felt his skin did she gasp and drop the IV bottle, which shattered on the ground into a thousand pieces. She stumbled back from him, her hand recoiled to her chest like he'd been on fire, though the truth couldn't be more opposite than that.
He was cold. He was too cold. So cold that it set off every alarm bell in her body, sucked the air right from lungs, made her heart sink to her toes in a dizzying motion that already intensified her growing nausea. The dread was so strong that she felt her muscles weaken in an oddly numb sensation, legs shaking.
"H-Hawkeye?" It was more of a statement than a question. Without thinking, she fell to her knees at his side, shaking him. She only touched what his shirt covered, though, for fear of dissolving away if she felt the cold once more. Everything seemed to be going into double vision right before her. "C-Captain, c'mon, you gotta take your medicine now," her voice was wavering so badly that she realized in horror she couldn't recognize it herself. "Hawkeye!" She dared to speak louder, but shrank away as she saw his head loll to the side, eyes still closed. His skin was so pale... An eerie kind of shade that reminded her of moonlight... His face was expressionless, gray eyes closed.
Margaret watched and waited to see the familiar rise and fall of his chest, waited... And waited... And waited... And waited, until after what seemed like an eternity, her hand flew to her mouth and she shook her head in terror, eyes wide and body wavering. Her heart beat loud in her ears as she stumbled back over to him, falling at the last step and landing painfully at his side. She didn't care, though, as she witnessed with an odd, unfeeling sensation the faint blue color that was lined around the lips she kissed so many times. It was then that she understood.
And for a moment, she let it all go. All her major attitude, all her cares of how she looked and acted and what her place was here, her patriotic spirit to be the first woman soldier, because how could she ever be patriotic again when the war and country she believed with such fervor were for the greater good killed her best friend? Her lover? Her hope and ray of light in the darkness? The red white and blue she so often boasted about had betrayed her. It had stabbed her in the back unlike anything ever before, with a ruthless cold jab. She let go of all her pride and all she ever thought she was or should be. And she screamed. As loud as she possibly could, a heart wrenching, ear splitting cry that was almost unnatural, a wail that would haunt anyone who heard it and rival a banshee's keen. She howled like she was on fire and the utmost pain had seized her body. And she mourned not as the Major Houlihan whom everybody knew, but as the weary irish girl from California who'd lost her lover and everything they could ever be together.
She was too far gone to notice when people had started rushing into the swamp at her screams. Colonel Potter and Charles sprinting in, the nurses filing soon after. There was a pandemonium of keening and wailing, women sobbing. But no one was shrieking as loud as she was. All the nurses watched in horror as their Major broke down right in front of them, the firm, all American Margaret Hot Lips Houlihan crying in such a raw, almost animal like fashion that could break anyone's heart.
Someone's hands were on her shoulders, guiding her away from the body of her friend. And after that, she gave in to the fringes of oblivion.