The gentle tones of Mozart's "Concerto for Clarinet and Orchestra in A" wafted through the somewhat pungent air, and Charles Emerson Winchester III breathed in the sound as if savouring the fumes of a fine cognac. His fingers twitched slightly as he followed the intricate ebb and flow of the music and he closed his eyes, attempting to shut out the incessant twittering of his tentmates.
"I'm gonna kill Klinger when he gets back from R&R," announced Hawkeye Pierce as he sat on his cot, attempting to put on his boot without jarring his heavily bandaged right foot.
"Come on, Hawk," said BJ Hunnicut, who had heard this promise several times in the last few hours. "It's only a sprain after all, and it's not as if it was deliberate. My guess is that Klinger knocked the mail tray off the desk with his bag as he went out – it's unlucky for you that you were the one to come in next and fall over it. It could have been worse." He grinned. "It could have been me, for instance."
"Your sympathy underwhelms me," said Hawkeye.
"You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time." BJ put down his book. "Ready for lunch?"
"Almost. Talk about getting a quart into a pint jar." Hawkeye gingerly guided his swollen foot into the boot and laced it loosely.
"Attention all personnel – incoming wounded! Ambulances in the compound!"
BJ reached the door in a couple of long strides and was gone. Hawkeye stood up carefully, took a few painful, halting steps and teetered. As he thrust out a hand to balance himself, a noise like a kingsize zipper drowned out the sound of the approaching vehicles.
"Pierce, you clumsy oaf! Watch what you're doing!" Charles snatched the record from the gramophone player and tilted it to catch the light. "Ruined," he moaned.
Hawkeye was now leaning on the doorframe and biting his lip, having turned his ankle over again. "Charles, I'm sorry," he said. "I lost my balance. Hey, it's only a record - I'll get you a new one."
"Only a record?" repeated Charles incredulously. "It's Mozart, you barbarian!"
Colonel Potter's gruff voice reached them from the compound. "Pierce, Winchester – get your butts out here pronto!"
Charles pushed past Hawkeye, hissing "Mozart!" as he went. Hawkeye followed much more slowly. Potter watched his Chief Surgeon approach the half dozen or so wounded men lying on litters in the compound, and he frowned.
"How's the ankle Pierce? You're moving about as well as a mule on an icy millpond."
"To be honest, Colonel, it feels like there's ground glass in my joint. If I hadn't seen the x-rays with my own eyes, I'd swear it was broken."
"I'll take another look at it later. In the meantime, we have a few damaged bodies out here that need tending to."
"I'm on it." Hawkeye bent down next to one of the litters, failed to find a comfortable crouching or kneeling position, and opted to sit in the dust next to the wounded man. The soldier was a big man in his mid-thirties, wearing sergeant's stripes on his arm. He was conscious but clearly in pain, wincing as the wound beneath his field dressing was probed.
"Shoulder wound here," Hawkeye said. "Doesn't look too bad….." He stopped in surprise as the man on the ground grabbed his wrist with his good hand.
"It's nothing," the sergeant whispered through clenched teeth. "You gotta see to Jerry over there; he's hurt real bad."
"I'll get right to him," said Hawkeye calmly, trying to free himself from the man's grip. "Let me just get you something for the pain…"
"No!" The soldier began to fight him, trying to sit up. "You gotta see to Jerry! He can't die, not Jerry – he deserves to live more than anyone!"
His waving arm connected with Hawkeye's outstretched right leg, sending a wave of fresh pain through the doctor's ankle. He cried out, and the wounded man was instantly contrite.
"Did I hurt you, Doc? Gee, I'm sorry. It's just….."
"Listen to me," snarled Hawkeye, pushing the man back down with more force than was necessary and checking his tag, "Sergeant Clark. Every man who comes through here deserves to live, and every man who comes through here gets the very best care to try and make sure he does just that. Now lie there, shut the hell up and let me do my job!"
Heads were turning their way at the sound of Hawkeye's shout of pain, and his uncharacteristically harsh outburst.
"Everything okay there, Hawk?" asked BJ, concern on his face.
Hawkeye hauled himself to his feet, white-faced. "Yeah, fine, he said curtly. This guy can wait." He hobbled across to the thin, dark haired young man Clark had called Jerry. "This guy can't. Serious abdominal wounds, heavy bleeding – I'll take this one. Get him inside."
A/N: So what's different about Jerry – bet you can't guess! Find out in Chapter Two…..