Margaret never believed the saying 'it could always be worse'. She thought that this was it- this was how rock bottom felt. Empty, cold, alone, bursting and tortuous and manic all at once. But she was wrong.
She sat at Rosie's that night, but no matter how many scotches she seemed to down, she was still sober as ever. Such a painful reality was inescapable, even in the once blissful embrace of alcohol.
That's when the news spread. The route to Tokyo was under heavy artillery fire, pounded by Chinese air forces. No planes would be getting in or out of the entire area for two weeks.
Hawkeye was to be buried in Korea.
Margaret dissolved into tears again just thinking about it, slumping down onto the cold wooden table and clenching her glass in an iron grip. He'd never go home. Not even in death. That tiny cottage by the sea in Crabapple Cove he'd talk so fondly about would never be his final resting place. His father would never get to kiss him goodbye as he'd done with his wife years ago.
No, instead he'd be buried in the hard, dry soil of war-torn Korea. There was no defined, civilized land plot. Just whatever field wasn't currently ravaged by landmines. His flesh would decompose, and his bones would fade away. And the war would just keep on going. It was tragic and it was vile, it was unlike anything she'd ever known before.
A knock on the door of the empty tent jolted the Major from her thoughts, and a hesitant nurse Bigelow popped her head in the room. "Major? The… The procession will be starting in five minutes. Colonel told me to let you know."
Margaret looked down at her simple black dress, rather ugly, in her opinion. But it was the nicest clothes she had now. She'd burned her army uniform last night. She gave a silent nod to the doorway where Bigelow had stood, and it took all of her willpower to drag her body up from the stool and walk outside.
The entire camp was there. Every single one of them. And behind the flock of personnel, there trailed a long line of villagers, all whose lives Hawkeye had touched in one way or another. Some held candles, others brushes of flowers laced with incense. Colonel had mounted his horse, and everyone was dressed in their regalia. Patients were even hobbling along, those who were well enough to stay or had not been re-routed to the 8063rd for the day.
There were quiet sobs echoing throughout the crowd, hushed murmurings and somber conversations. All noise ceased, however, when the trumpet sounded. Corporal O'Malley, a patient who'd been treated for a broken leg, happened to be a musical prodigy and had gotten a scholarship to college for his skills with brass. He'd more than offered to play the wake, and the classic army tune rang through the forests and hills.
The crowd started moving, slowly and deliberately, as if dragging their feet would delay the captain's burial. Colonel led the way, face agonized as he coaxed his horse onwards. BJ, Charles, Klinger, and Father were the pallbearers. Margaret didn't dare look at their faces. The coffin was a simple pine box, decorated with roses and bushels of lavender, daisies and clover, all of which were picked by the villagers and set in traditional order. No one could've guessed it was the bravest, most heroic, most loved captain in the world that lay inside.
Margaret stumbled along at the front of the nurses gathering, the world seemingly moving by in slow motion. She hadn't even noticed when they had reached their destination. It wasn't until Kelleye gently rested a hand on her shoulder that she stopped walking.
It was a field of tall, golden grass that stretched for at least a mile, vacant of any shelled huts or bullet-pierced vehicles. A few trees dotted the landscape, and the coffin was set underneath a willow. Strange, she thought, I didn't know willows grew in Korea.
Father stood before all of them, shoulders slumped in somber fashion. He cleared his throat and dabbed at his eyes, a bible in his hand, and began to read the burial prayers in Latin and English. Margaret didn't listen to the somber creeds, didn't even look up when he cast holy water into the crowd and sprinkled some on the coffin.
A simple, six foot deep rectangular grave had been dug. Beside it stood two South Korean soldiers, rifles in hand, guarding the ceremony with vigilant eyes. Father finished the blessing with his cross, tears lightly staining his cheeks from behind his wire rimmed glasses.
"We will now… Now hear a word from the villagers of Ouijambu, who generously asked to contribute some of their customs to the resting of Hawkeye's soul." He announced, voice broken. The line of people who'd been trailing the camp stepped forward, and Margaret watched as children, women, men and elders came up to the site of the grave and began chanting.
Their hymn seemed to strike a deeper chord with the major- though she couldn't understand a word of it, it seemed to speak to her feelings more than the traditional Catholic prayers. It was a loud, almost hysteric, chorus of wailings and shouted incantations up to the skies. Incense and symbols were waved about as a few of the elders blessed the coffin, their meanings unknown to the Americans, yet sincere and somber on such a level that touched them all.
The children stood in a circle around the adults, clapping their hands along to the beat of it all. A little boy stood to the side, beating a canvas drum. Then, one by one, the villagers laid flowers and offerings around the grave, making an outline of color in the mud colored landscape. The hymns faded, and soon they all filed back to join the rest of the personnel.
And then came time to lay the coffin in the ground.
However, before they could lift it in, a shrill howl tore through the air. BJ was doubled over, clutching the pine box, weeping shamelessly in a raw cry of pain. He kept pleading Hawkeye to come back hysterically, refusing to let go when Sydney and Klinger gently tried to coax him away from his brother.
Margaret didn't even know what she was doing, but before her mind could object she found herself kneeling beside BJ, arms wrapped around him, burying his face in her shoulder. And ever so slowly and with the utmost care, his shaking hands were pried away from the coffin and he collapsed into Margaret's arms. The blonde nurse ran her own trembling hands over BJ's hair, stroking his head and whispering unconscious soothing nothings into his ear.
And the two of them watched together, through a tear glazed view, as the heart and soul of the 4077th was lowered into the ground and covered with dirt.
