In his mind, Hawkeye was adding Olympic judges and a tense crowd that was dying to roar its approval of his prowess, but dared not interrupt his concentration. He could feel his rivals from other countries awaiting the results of his throw with bated breath, hoping to see some mistake that would give them a glimmer of a chance at victory. Hawkeye had no intention of giving anyone the chance to see him fail.
He leaned forward and looked closely at the helmet, shifting his shoulders and readying the card. His wrist twisted until he felt it was at a comfortable throwing angle, and he took a deep breath to gather his concentration. The muscles in his forearm tensed up for the quick and practiced flick that would send this little piggy home, and putting as much concentration into his throw as a golfer pours into his putts, he released it.
B.J. Hunnicutt, his tentmate, slapped his knee and laughed happily in the same instant that Hawkeye released the card. Startled, Hawkeye jumped even as he threw the card, and sent the six of spades flying off to land a full foot away from the helmet. Irked, Hawkeye pulled himself up and stared reproachfully at B.J., who was in his own little world and grinning happily. In his hand, B.J. held a three page letter.
Hawkeye leaned forward, putting one hand on his knee and using the other one to shake a finger in mild remonstrance at his friend. "I'll have you know that was a perfectly good winning streak you just ruined. The pride of the entire nation depended on its success."
B.J. glanced up from his letter, a happy grin on his face. "Sorry, Hawk. Now you know why I could never get a date to the movies." Shrugging helplessly, B.J. tapped the letter with the back of his hand. "Letter from Peg," he explained with a tragic smile.
Hawkeye grinned, and the corners of his eyes creased into tiny wrinkles that hadn't been there when he had first been drafted. " 'Courage, Camille,' " he intoned with bravado.
B.J. chuckled in his quiet way and turned back to the letter. Standing, resolving to retake the shot which had been interrupted due to circumstances beyond his control, Hawkeye retrieved the six of spades and began to aim again. An imagined announcer excitedly pointed out to the crowd how much skill and finesse Hawkeye Pierce showed in every match of card-tossing that he played, and especially so in this one. See the fiery glint of concentration in the bright blue eyes, and observe the angled set of the wrist, which seemed so casual yet contained such muted power, such control.
Somewhere in distant reality, a jeep roared as it pulled up to the 4077th MASH. Knowing that mail had already come and that no wounded were expected, Hawkeye ignored it. He gave the six of spades a toss and was triumphant; he pumped his fist into the air and cheered himself. B.J. glanced up from his letter, smiled indulgently, then returned to reading the latest news to give himself the baby blues.
Hawkeye stood up and started pacing. Now that he'd been distracted, if only for a moment, from his card-tossing, he found it difficult to get wholly into the flow of it again. He sat down on his cot, picked up the magazine Radar had left for him, and opened it to the volleyball section. Out in the compound, an engine coughed loudly as it stopped. Hawkeye glanced up from his magazine.
An impatient young man hopped out of his jeep. "I need a doctor!" he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify the call. Hawkeye tossed aside his magazine and stood.
"Lucky for him, he's just wandered into our breeding grounds," he muttered. He heard a quiet rustle from the bunk behind as B.J. tucked Peg's precious letter back into its envelope and followed him outside.
Hawkeye strode up to the jeep's driver, wondering why he'd been summoned when this young man practically glowed with health -- which probably showed that he hadn't eaten any army food lately. He was about to say as much when Colonel Potter's voice rang out, not far behind him.
"What in the name of Saint Patrick's lucky clover is going on out here?" the colonel demanded. The soldier drew himself up for a salute. Potter quickly returned the salute and said, "At ease, soldier." His glance flicked to Hawkeye, who turned on his most charming smile and wiggled his fingers in a little wave. Used to Hawkeye's cynical mockery of army traditions, and unbothered by it, Potter nodded finally at B.J., now leaning against the jeep. He waited for an explanation.
The soldier drew off his helmet and cradled it against his side. "Sir," he said, and Hawkeye was grimly unsurprised to note that the soldier's voice was still rough with youth, "there's a woman lying back there on the road. Up a ways. Looked like her jeep flipped on her." The soldier added, "She looked pretty bad and I didn't wanna move her."
Hawkeye stepped into the jeep immediately, but B.J., a trifle more conscientious, spared a quick glance for Colonel Potter. Potter had already turned away and was calling for someone to fetch a medicine bag and for someone else to place a stretcher in the back of the jeep. B.J. leapt in, and the young soldier revved the engine into life.
Hawkeye leaned partially out of the jeep to accept the medical bag Nurse Kellye handed him, and twisted around to hand it to B.J., who set it on his lap and held it tightly. Someone handed the doctors helmets, which they donned. As soon as they had all their gear, B.J. called out to the soldier in the driver's seat, "Let's go!" Hawkeye steadied himself with a hand on the windshield as the jeep rocked forward, then backwards as the soldier put it in reverse. Personnel cleared out of the way, the soldier turned the jeep around in a neat semicircle, and they were off to find their patient.
*****
There had been a time when Hawkeye would have been exhausted by an hours-long operation, but that was before Korea. Now he was only vaguely tired. Arching his back to relieve muscles that had spent too long bending over a single patient, he shuffled out of the operating room, tossing away his surgeon's mask and reaching behind himself to unstrap the apron. B.J., who walked faster when he was tired, was already seated on one of the benches and had leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed. Hawkeye wandered over to the bench and gave B.J. a nudge. His friend made room for him to sit.
Hawkeye sat, then loosened his boots and kicked them halfway off. He sighed with relief. He hated the constrictive army boots only slightly less than he hated the constrictive army.
B.J. shifted on the bench and his brows drew together in a frown. "Where's that smell coming from?" he asked, opening his eyes and looking around.
"Gotta be you, Beej. I took a bath in fragrant rose petals this morning. By the latrine." The shower tent was only a short distance away from the officers' latrine.
Shifting away from Hawkeye on the tiny bench, B.J. replied offhandedly, "I think I can narrow it down to your favorite smelly aftershave or your favorite smelly feet."
Hawkeye looked at him. "Well choose one. I can't make all the decisions for you."
"Next time you take your boots off, do you think you could take your feet off, too?"
"Mother warned me about you army men. Give them a foot and they take a mile. Give them a mile and they take over your country," Hawkeye said, but he put his boots back on, not bothering to relace them, and stood up. He walked into Post-Op, where the patient had just been very carefully settled on one of the beds. Colonel Potter was standing at the end of the bed, seeing to her comfort. Hawkeye hung silently in the back, looking sadly at the bandage-covered woman. He shook his head to note that she had actually become more plaster than person.
"Pierce!" Hawkeye turned and saw Major Frank Burns walking towards him. Frank sneered as he approached.
Hawkeye, tired and frustrated, was in no mood to deal with Frank. He clenched his fist, but he kept it by his side despite an almost overwhelming urge to wipe the smirk of Frank's face. "Problem, Frank?"
Frank tapped his foot and shifted his weight around. "Do you realize that I had to take both your shift and mine because you weren't there to relieve me?" he demanded.
"Next time you can feel free to relieve yourself. Our nurses are very good at changing bedpans promptly," Hawkeye replied with a cynical smile.
Frank drew back. "You can't say that to me! I outrank you."
"Shower more often," Hawkeye suggested.
Frank sputtered with outrage. "Well, I never!"
"Diagnosing the problem is half the solution," Hawkeye observed. He pushed past Frank and walked up to Colonel Potter, who either hadn't heard the exchange or had been ignoring it. Frank stumbled uselessly for a comeback. Eventually he sat down by a desk in the corner and fumed.
"So who is she?" Hawkeye asked of the colonel, glancing at him. Potter shook his head.
"Don't know that yet, son. Radar's got the numbers on that jeep she had, and he's trying to find out where it should be. We're hoping that way we'll find out where she should be," said the colonel.
"Wouldn't it have been easier to check her travel papers?"
Potter smiled slightly. He put his hands behind his back and rocked onto the balls of his feet. "Might've been; unfortunately she isn't carrying any. Our best guess at the moment is that she's neither mineral nor vegetable."
Hawkeye looked at the woman. She was whipcord thin and sinewy, and although she was presently sunk in a deep coma, there remained a look of hard determination about her face; perhaps it had something to do with the firm set of her jaw. Strictly speaking, she wasn't pretty, though she had enough curves to her that she could probably be a knockout if she tried. "I always wanted a pet paramecium," he said. "But Dad was worried it would track amoebas into the house." Colonel Potter chuckled.
At that moment, Radar popped his head through the doors of Post-Op. "Colonel Potter, sir, I managed to track down the jeep," he said. He stepped inside and walked up to the two surgeons.
Potter turned to his company clerk and nodded approvingly. "Good work, Radar; now we'll finally get to find out who this lady is."
"Not unless she's a he-Korean, sir," said Radar.
"A Korean, Radar?"
"Yes sir. With real crooked teeth." Radar curled his index fingers and raised them to his mouth in an imitation of the crooked teeth.
Hawkeye nodded. "Ah, yes, the infamous Oujongbou Wendy! She looks different without the handlebar mustache." Radar blushed.
Potter let out a resigned sigh. "Quiet, Pierce. Go on, Radar."
"Sorry, sir," the 4077th's company clerk mumbled. "Some guys from the 123rd Evac had it last. It broke down on them in the middle of the road. They had to get out and were trying to fix it when a couple of North Korean soldiers--"
"With bad dental hygiene," Hawkeye put in, and Radar flushed.
"They had guns and the medics didn't, so one of the Koreans held 'em up at gunpoint while his buddies fixed the jeep and when it was working, the North Koreans took off in it," Radar finished. He looked in awe at the comatose young woman. "Gee, I wonder how she got it back from them."
Frank piped up, "Isn't it obvious? She's in league with them!" He preened as the attention of everyone in the room shifted to him. "No travel papers, nothing at all to tell us who she is-- I say that means she's been up to some pret-ty risky business with the Commies." Frank nodded decisively.
"Steady, soldier," advised Colonel Potter. "Like I said, we don't know enough about this girl to make any guesses as to her character; we'll just have to wait for her to come out from her nap."
Frank muttered, "If she ever does."
Hawkeye stiffened, furious. Frank knew better than anyone how much Hawkeye cared to see that his patients survived, and how personally he took it when they didn't. The urge to knock Frank's block off grew strong in him and he took a step forward, but the colonel put a calming hand on his shoulder. "If she ever had a chance of coming out of this okay then she's been given the best odds available in all Korea; Pierce and Hunnicutt did a fine job."
"I still think she's a red sympathizer," Frank mumbled. Then he tossed clipboard on the desk and left Post Op, announcing as he left that it was now Hawkeye's duty to keep a watch on the patients.
Colonel Potter shook his head. "Been in the army since I was fourteen and I never met such a jackass. Come on, Radar; looks like we're back to paddling the old canoe."
"Yes, sir," Radar replied, following his C.O. out of Post Op.
Hawkeye wrote down orders for the patient's care; he then stood silently at the end of the bed until Nurse Baker approached to ask him about the IVs being given to another one of the patients in the hospital. Hawkeye muttered a rote reply and Baker smiled indulgently, looking down at the young woman whose face was all but covered in bandages. "Looks kind of like Sleeping Beauty, doesn't she?" Baker asked. She patted Hawkeye's shoulder and went off to follow his instructions about the IV.
The young surgeon stepped up to tuck the sheets in snugly around Sleeping Beauty's shoulders, then went off to do his rounds.
*****
Despite the weeks spent shipping to Korea on the cheapest available transportation, letters from home still managed to smell like home. B.J. could catch faint traces of the lilac scent of baby powder on his wife's letter, and if he closed his eyes he could imagine Peg crooning baby songs to Erin as she efficiently changed a dirty diaper. Then he opened up his eyes and was back in Korea, which smelled of dust, old smoke, and fermenting booze. He saw Hawkeye lying on his back in his cot, propping a nudie magazine up on his knee. Stifling a sigh, B.J. folded up Peg's letter and delicately replaced it in its envelope.
Then he took a long drink of the bitter-tasting gin from the distillery.
The door to the Swamp swung open as Frank Burns strode briskly in, feeling fresh from freshly feeling up Margaret Houlihan. He plopped himself down on his bunk where the latest mail awaited him. Today Frank's mail included a battered package, over which the major visibly gloated. Frank's beady eyes glinted with greed as he tore the package open, and a smirk spread across his face.
"What's in the package, Frank?" B.J. asked politely.
Frank looked smug. "Christmas presents from my wife." He pulled clothing out of the box. "It's a turtleneck."
"And a partridge in a pear tree," Hawkeye sang.
Frank turned to snap at Hawkeye, but after taking one look at the cover of Hawkeye's magazine, he huffed up for a sermon instead. He spluttered helplessly for a moment before he managed to blurt out the entirety of his wisdom in one word: "Pervert!"
"It's a medical journal, Frank. This month's topic is anatomy." Hawkeye turned a page.
"Can't read without pictures, eh, Pierce?" Frank was delighted by his own cleverness.
"I wanted to try Braille, but Margaret was busy last night."
"Oh, you-- you oughta be court-martialed!" Frank spat.
Hawkeye wasn't listening. Leaning to the right and tilting his magazine towards B.J., he remarked, "Speaking of the major, doesn't that girl look suspiciously like Margaret?"
B.J. smiled and hmm'ed noncommittally, but he didn't look at the photo. Frank, however, started forward. He caught himself in a moment and frowned at Hawkeye.
"Just how dumb do you think I am?"
Hawkeye paused in his reading. "I'm open to suggestion, Frank."
"Poo on you!" Frank snapped, fed up. He threw down his Christmas present and stormed out of the tent. The door slammed with a loud bang like a gun going off.
"That's what I said," Hawkeye quipped.
"You could've been a little easy on him. It's nearly Christmas." B.J. grabbed the thin covers from his cot and pulled them around his shoulders, guarding against the cold wind that Frank had stirred up by slamming the door.
"Aw, c'mon." Hawkeye grinned. "'Tis the season to be jolly. Where's your Christmas spirit?"
"At the cleaners. The war spilled ketchup on the lapel."
"Or a Bloody Mary down your shirt front," Hawkeye said, grimacing. "Amazing thing, the war: sending the kids who are America's future to become America's past."
B.J. reached over to pour himself more gin. "Ah, the noble Hawkeye Pierce. Always concerned with the happiness of his patient, never worried for himself. What does he have to worry about? When this war's over he'll just go home and pick life up where he left off, with his wisdom in one hand and his sarcasm in the other." B.J. raised a full glass of gin. "Cheers," he finished, and tipped his glass then drank.
"Beej, I think your commiseration skills need work."
B.J. shrugged. "You're the man who knows everything," he said with a forced smile.
Hawkeye frowned. He rolled up his magazine and pointed it at B.J. "I don't know what's got under your skin, but you'll get a nasty boil if you don't ditch it soon."
A frown crossed B.J.'s face. "Speaking of boils, the atmosphere in this place is becoming unpleasant." He set down his glass, tipped an imaginary hat to Hawkeye, and strode out of the Swamp. Pages rustled as Hawkeye threw down his magazine.
Without even the flimsy walls of a tent to block the bitter winds, B.J. felt the harsh cold snap at him the second he stepped outside. Hugging his arms around himself, the young Californian doctor jogged to Post Op, where he was due to take up a shift in about twenty minutes. Slipping in, he danced in place and blew on his cold fingers to speed the spread of warmth through his body.
B.J. was not by nature an early person, and his premature arrival took by surprise the attending Post Op doctor, Colonel Potter. The colonel was sitting at a small desk in the corner, catching up on his paperwork. Thinking perhaps his shift was over, Potter checked the time on the wall clock by the door. "You're early, son," he told B.J..
B.J. shrugged. "Warmer in here," he said mildly.
The colonel put his pencil down "Well, since you're here I might as well make use of you. Mind taking over for me here, Hunnicutt? I've got paperwork that needs doing waiting for me in my office." B.J. nodded assent. "Thanks, son." Potter left, taking with him a few of the papers he'd been hunched over when B.J. first arrived. B.J. picked up the nearest clipboard, which belonged to the young lady whom Hawkeye had dubbed "Sleeping Beauty."
He sat down next to Sleeping Beauty's bed. "Good morning, madam; I trust your stay at Hotel MASH was suitable?" Silence, as the patient was still unconscious. "I see you tried the food. Try not to hold it against us, we're already trying our hardest just to hold it down." He leaned forward and checked the bandages around her head with gentle fingers.
"We don't usually get neurosurgical cases down here, Sleeping Beauty. With any luck, what we did for you will suffice. I think you'll do all right, though; you've been lucky so far. Spotted on the side of the road by a passing soldier, who brought you your very own pair of surgeons." Silence. "Hard to feel lucky in the middle of a war, isn't it?" Satisfied that the bandages were snug but not restrictive, B.J. went on to check her pulse and blood pressure.
"I'll bet there's someone out there who's really worried about you. A husband or a father, maybe. I wish you would tell us who you are so we could tell 'em where you're at. And believe you me, it's tough to have a little girl and not know where she is or how she's doing. Breaks your heart." He smiled wryly, then set down her wrist and shook his head. "Well, your checkup's done, Sleeping Beauty. I'd like to give you a handsome and debonair Prince Charming to wake you up, unfortunately I'm already married." He patted the pocket where he always kept Peg's picture.
Despite words to the contrary, B.J. was really worried about Sleeping Beauty. Her jeep accident had given her several broken bones and a fractured femur, as well as an epidural hematoma that B.J. and Hawkeye, neither of whom had any official training in neurosurgery, had been at a loss to treat. Improvising, as all MASH doctors must do at some point (and more commonly at many points), they shaved the temporal area, incised to the bone, and cracked the skull as carefully as was possible with a chisel that was their only available tool. The doctors took all precautions, but very few people got their skull cracked open by amateurs with a chisel and lived to tell the tale.
What worried him most was what would happen if they lost her. In spite of Radar's hard work to find out who she was, I-Corps had received no reports of a missing woman and had no information on her, or her family. Who were they to contact, not knowing who she was or where she came from? "Tell us where you're from," B.J. implored her, picking up her hand. The skin was pallid, and he could see the blue traces of her veins beneath the skin. "Do me that one favor. Live."
*****
Major Margaret Houlihan, arriving five minutes early for her Post Op shift, found Captain Hunnicutt still sitting by Sleeping Beauty's side, his brow furrowed by a pensive frown. "Captain?" she called. He jumped, startled by her voice. Margaret smiled faintly. "Wondering about her past?" she asked. Trying to guess the patient's history had become a favorite game around the unit lately, and guesses ranged from the extraordinary (she had caught the Commies escaping in an American jeep and bravely wrested it from them) to the mundane (the Chinese eventually abandoned the jeep and the young lady happened upon it purely by accident).
Hunnicutt shook his head. "Wondering about her future," he said, clasping his hands together and balancing his chin on them. "How do we send letters home if we don't know where home is?"
Margaret Houlihan was a logical woman-- as Head Nurse, she needed to have all her wits about her when conducting the business of the MASH. She had learned to be imaginative when facing unforeseen problems, but the case of this young woman escaped her powers of innovation. She didn't know what to do if the patient took a turn for the worse, and that helplessness festered sorely in her organized mind. Thus she clung desperately to the hope that, as she told Captain Hunnicutt, "She'll be all right."
The doctor smiled wanly. "I hope you're right," he said, but he didn't look hopeful. He ran a hand through his hair, then stood and moved on to the next patient.
Margaret shook her head. She saw to Sleeping Beauty's comfort, arranging pillows and smoothing the olive drab blanket. Before moving on to the next patient, she lay a cool hand on the girl's face and stroked the pale cheek. Following the gentle pull of Margaret's hand, the girl's head fell limply to the side.
The weak movement alerted Margaret, and she leaned down to check the patient's pulse and breathing. Both were weak, but present. A frown crossed her face as she stared at Sleeping Beauty. The girl, she realized, was staring up at her through half-closed lids. Her gaze did not hold the curious attention of a conscious person; rather, she bore the empty, placid stare of a pretty china doll. Against her will, Margaret shivered.
"Dr. Hunnicutt?" She called, and her voice was fraught with tension. "I think you'd better come look at this."