"Beej, I'm not liking this." Hawkeye's previous good mood had been overtaken by worry, and now by something close to fear. His eyes were constantly on the move, darting around, looking for trouble… almost expecting it.
"This still doesn't look familiar to you?" B.J. asked.
"Not in the slightest. I hate to say it, but I think we're way off track."
"Shit," B.J. mumbled, clearly angry with himself for getting them into this. "Sorry, Hawk… really I am. You know I didn't mean to get us lost like this—"
Hawkeye put a hand on B.J.'s arm. "I know, Beej."
B.J. nodded, but Hawkeye got the impression he was close to tears. B.J. shook his head a little, as if to regain his composure, and said, "I'm pulling over. You hungry? Thank God we have those sandwiches."
Actually, thank the nurses at the 8063rd. They had kindly packed a couple of sandwiches in appreciation of the doctors' visit and in case they got hungry before they got back to the 4077th. Very prescient indeed.
B.J. pulled the jeep over and Hawkeye reached into the back seat for the paper bag that contained the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. "Here you go, Beej," he said, handing one over. Then he shot B.J. an ominous look. "You think it would be wise to eat only half now, and save half for later… in case we, you know, end up being out here for a long time?" Maybe a pessimistic thought, but a practical one.
"Yeah," B.J. said, taking only half of his sandwich. "Good idea."
They chewed in silence for a while, pensive and anxious. It was unusual for them to not have anything to say to each other. It was just such a tense situation, and Hawkeye didn't have any idea what to do next. His mind was churning, trying to find a solution. Give him a medical emergency, and he knew exactly what to do. But get him lost in a foreign land, and he wasn't quite as surefooted.
"This sandwich is making me thirsty," B.J. said, breaking the silence. "We do still have water, I hope?"
Hawkeye nodded. "Canteen's in the back seat. Hold on, lemme get it."
He was reaching into the back seat, feeling around for their canteen of water, when it happened.
A gunshot rang out and a bullet tore past the jeep. B.J. and Hawkeye immediately ducked down, trying to flatten themselves onto their seats.
"The hell?" B.J. asked as another bullet flew just over their heads.
"Sniper," Hawkeye said. They were both breathing hard, huddling low, as far down as they could possibly get.
"You think I should try to drive us outta here?"
Hawkeye shook his head. "Too dangerous. He'd hit you. He's close by."
"Well we're sitting ducks here," B.J. replied, sounding more angry than scared. "You stay low, Hawk. I'm gonna give it a shot." And he pulled himself up, just far enough that he could put the jeep in gear and drive them out of the line of fire.
"B.J., no!" Hawkeye said, but an instant later, another gunshot rang out, and Hawkeye actually heard it hit paydirt. B.J. screamed in agony, and Hawkeye yanked him down low again, so that no further damage could be done. "Shit, shit, shit! Where are you hit? B.J.?"
Moaning, groaning, another scream—this time in frustration—and then B.J. spit out, "My shoulder. He got my shoulder."
Hawkeye ripped open B.J.'s shirt where the blood was, at the right shoulder, and took a look at the wound. "You're losing blood, Beej, but I think you'll be OK. I mean, assuming we can get back to camp. I mean, of course you're going to be OK." He forced himself to stop rambling; he sounded panicked even to his own ears. Luckily, the wound wasn't as bad as it could've been. He wasn't going to lose B.J. He just needed to stop the bleeding. He had his medical bag with him, of course—in the back seat. But first he needed to get them the hell away from the sniper and the possibility of any further injury.
The gunshots had stopped abruptly once B.J. had been hit. It was as if the sniper had thought, Bingo! That's my quota for the day! and then knocked off work.
Hawkeye could only hope that was the case.
"Beej, you hangin' in?" he whispered.
B.J. nodded, though with something of a whimper. "Hurts like hell. But yeah, I'm hanging in."
"Keep pressure on that," Hawkeye advised, but of course B.J. already was. Even so, his shirt was becoming soaked with blood. "I don't hear any more gunshots. I think maybe he's gone…?"
"Wishful thinking," B.J. said. "He's armed and we're not. Why would he go?"
Hawkeye remembered something then. Col. Potter always made them take their sidearms when they left camp. "Actually, we do have a gun. It's in the back seat, isn't it?"
B.J. finally tore his focus from his injured shoulder and looked at Hawkeye's face. "Hey, yeah! Good thinking, Hawk."
Hawkeye managed to reach into the back seat, clutching first the canteen of water, which he handed to B.J., and then on a second grab, their gun. He didn't want to fire it—he hated guns—but maybe just one bullet shot into the air… maybe that would be enough. All he wanted to do was get them out of here so he could tend to B.J.'s shoulder.
"Just one shot, Beej," he said as he cocked the gun. "Gonna fire into the air, scare this guy off. And then we're gonna swap places so I can drive us the hell out of here. OK?"
B.J. was grimacing in pain, but he nodded. "Yeah. Good plan."
Hawkeye raised the gun above his head and fired once. There was no return fire, only silence, as they sat there and waited out a couple anxious minutes. The sniper must have gone.
"Move over here, Beej," he said, though their switching places in the jeep was difficult. B.J. screamed out in pain as his shoulder got bumped in the process. "Sorry, Beej. Hang in there."
Finally behind the wheel, Hawkeye got the jeep moving fast. He drove a good distance down the road, and then even further to be extra cautious, and when he brought the jeep to a stop, he let out a sigh of relief. He felt for sure they were far away from the sniper who had wounded B.J.
Whether there were other snipers around… well, he didn't want to think about that.
He got out of the jeep and jogged around it, grabbing his medical bag out of the back seat. "I'll get you fixed up in no time. Get that bleeding stopped. You'll be OK," he told B.J., feeling supremely confident, because this was doctoring and that's what he did best.
B.J., still clutching at his wounded shoulder, looked at him with gratitude in his eyes. "Thank you, Hawk."
"Don't mention it," he replied with a wave of his hand and a genuine smile. "Wait'll you get my bill."