"Move 'em out and Klinger, your slip's showing," barked Potter.
"Aye aye, Colonel," Klinger saluted smartly before pulling it up. His outfit was from the Ava Gardner collection, very low-cut on top and tight in the skirt. His hairy knees stuck out like doorknobs. He struggled with stretchers, due to his unfortunately high heels.
All the wounded were headed out. Potter didn't want to risk it. Hawkeye hopped on the bus to chat with them. One was from Augusta.
"You'll be home eating blueberry pie in no time. Have the biggest slice you can for me, okay?"
The private smiled. His family was dirt poor and soon he'd be back in the potato fields, head injury or not. Hawkeye knew this may be last time in his life he'd get good medical care. It was hard to imagine the Army as an oasis from hard work and strife, but for some it was almost a respite.
The tension in the atmosphere seemed to be rising. Zephyrs of wind ruffled the flags and kicked up dust devils . Across the 4077th, everything that could be nailed down was fastened, bolted or tied. Sandbags were stacked in pyramids and long, flat boards were put in place over the trench shelters for extra security.
Amid all this, Father Mulcahy was tending his little garden, patiently watering the tender stalks and pulling weeds. Hawkeye admired the man for his steadfastness. The garden was obviously going to be a flop. The soil was dusty and turned to clay when water hit it. Still, the good Father was out there in all his spare time, humming and smiling.
"Hey Father, how's it coming?"
"Oh good, Hawkeye. These tomato plants are coming along. I do so miss fresh vegetables, especially tomato sandwiches on pumpernickel with a little salt, pepper and butter. Somehow our creamed turnips just don't compare."
Hawkeye smiled. "I need some advice, I know I don't always come to you for it, but I can't ask BJ because it's kind of, touchy."
Father Mulcahy stood up and looked at him expectantly.
"I have this acquaintance who is really down. It's not just the war, it's life. And I can't seem to cheer them up. I care about her, I mean, well, I just care a lot more than I think this person realizes."
Mulcahy knew who he was talking about. Small camp. He sighed and started to clean his glasses. "Hawkeye, you know, when it comes to colleagues, I always say it's okay to put your heart on the line. If they are friends, they'll understand and maybe even admire you for it."
Hawkeye just stared. This made Mulcahy nervous. "Just be there. A lot of people around here enjoy your friendship, myself included. But you can be a little…intense, " he gulped.
"Okay," Hawkeye said softly. Privately he thought that was worst advice ever. Why was he going to a Catholic priest for insight into women? "Thank you. And good luck with your tomatoes. Save me one, all right?"
Mulcahy waved his spade and got back to work. There was nothing to do except take a nap, so Hawkeye started to head back to the Swamp. He passed Margaret's door and stopped for a minute, wondering if he should knock. He was so busy wondering that when the door swung open, he almost fell backwards. A very disheveled Margaret squinted out at him.
"What?" was all she asked. The bags under her eyes had bags. The scent of stale liquor hung in the air, much like the stench that swamped the Swamp. She was much to pale, much too tired and much too thin. He couldn't think of anything to say and apparently, neither could she. They stared at each other for a moment and then the door shut and Margaret was gone.
Did that just happen? Hawkeye was a bit shaken up by the encounter and more than annoyed that he felt so helpless. He wished he had something to give her, some insight, but his demons were widely known. She wouldn't take advice from him at all.
Back in The Swamp, BJ was slowly dismantling the still when Hawkeye walked in. "Precious cargo," was all he'd say. Hawkeye just shrugged and hopped on his bunk, wishing he could sleep but knowing he couldn't. The air outside had grown still and stagnant and the heat seemed to intensify.
"Hawk, have you seen Margaret today? Seems like she's not gracing us with her delicate, quiet presence much lately."
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell BJ about their recent encounter. The time just didn't seem right. BJ would want details. "I think the fair Major is catching up on her beauty sleep, and who am I to barge in on that uninvited?" Hawkeye said, hoping the neutrality in his voice would belie his concern.
"She seems to be having a rough go of it. I guess when she wants company, she'll come find it. Our flaps are always open - …"
"…and our things are always hanging out," finished Hawkeye. Charles walked in, eating a sandwich.
"Ah, you two are a regular cyclone of cutting wit," Charles sniffed.
"Is that a meatloaf sandwich, Charles? With ketchup and onion? Be still my beating heart," said Hawkeye, ignoring the put-down.
"That is correct. Klinger is handing them out for lunch as we speak."
Margaret once said meatloaf sandwiches were her favorite Army food. BJ didn't seem interested in heading to the Mess Tent, so Hawkeye thought he'd grab one and a cup of coffee as a peace offering for her.
The compound was quiet. He walked by one of the trenches and shivered internally about spending any time in the cramped little spaces. Radar and Potter were outside, nervously scanning the skies. "See that cloud son? That's a wall cloud. Could have gone the rest of my life without seeing one. Damn, this isn't good, " said the Colonel, loudhailer in hand. "Glad I took Sophie out to pasture. She'll have to have some horse sense in this weather to run it out."
Radar had seen plenty of tornadoes in his young life. "I would give anything for a storm shelter right now. Mom would wake us all up in the middle of the night and send us out to it, just like the one in 'Wizard Of Oz'."
Hawkeye looked at the sky with them for a while, then made his way into the Mess Tent. All that was left was bread. Typical. He had just grabbed a coffee cup when a commotion broke out.
"Everyone to a trench! On the double! Tornado!" yelled Potter. Off somewhere in the distance, a crack of thunder punctuated the moment. Hawkeye stuck his head out the door and witnessed everyone diving into the trenches like moles. He slammed the cup down and took off toward his tent, but then he had a dark thought.
What if Margaret was so out of it she couldn't hear Potter yelling on the loudhailer, the screams of the nurses, the distant wail of the wind? In a flash, he was at her door, knocking, then yelling and then finally kicking it off the hinges. Margaret was a lump on her cot, so Hawkeye grabbed her before she could even stir. The wind was getting louder now.
Given her awkward angle and unresponsiveness, you can almost forgive what happened next. Hawkeye ran Margaret's head straight into the door frame with a splintering crack. "Yeooooooooowwwwwwwwww!" she moaned. He didn't let the sudden deceleration stop him. The closest trench was two steps from her door. Margaret was unceremoniously thrown in and Hawkeye jump in beside her, pausing long enough to pull the boards and sandbags over the top. He squinted to see Margaret's moaning figure in the darkness and silently prayed the walls wouldn't close in on both of them.
