P For Popular

"He's gonna die, isn't he?"

Darkness had finally fallen, bringing with it an intensely bright moon. Murdock stood in front of the Huey, one hand in his pocket. Connolly stood facing him, leaning back against the chopper nose arms folded. He watched her dip her head at his question, looking away. Tucking a stray piece of hair behind one ear, she bit her lower lip considering an answer.

After a pause, Connolly glanced back up looking him straight in the face. "It's not good Murdock. He's got a sucking chest wound. Pots is literally breathing through the hole in his side, and the more air he takes in, the more the pressure causes his lung to collapse—"

"I, I know what it is." Murdock interrupted her, feeling his head begin to spin again.

Connolly blinked in concern at the bitterness in his voice. Her smooth brow furrowed. "Well, I've applied an occlusive patch using the plastic from the dressing packages and some tape," she continued softly, "but it won't hold for long. He could really do with a chest tube insertion, but I've nothing to work with. If we don't get him back soon—"

"Stop it!" Murdock snapped, a rush of heat creeping up his neck. "What do you care if he dies? He's just another in a long line of faceless GI's for you, isn't he?"

He watched her eyes widen in shock and immediately regretted his outburst. "I'm…I'm sorry." He stammered. Lifting his good hand, he edged up the brim of his blue cap to rub his forehead in agitation. "I just…" he faded off, his throat constricting.

Murdock kept his eyes closed, struggling for composure. He didn't open them again, until he felt Connolly touch his elbow.

"It'll be fine H.M., Pots never gives up easy. He always has an ace up his sleeve." She said with a wry smile, conjuring memories of late night poker games in the Officers Club. If Pots was there, no one ever won. Slipping her arm around his waist, she gave him an awkward hug. "Help is coming."

Help is coming… Murdock couldn't help feeling he wouldn't bet his life's savings on that statement. While it was true Stevens had managed to jerry rig the damaged radio, long enough to relay a distress message by way of an infantry division within shortwave range, it didn't mean help would arrive in time. Murdock knew, as did Connolly, that even if the 29th had dispatched a helicopter immediately after the division had called in their general coordinates, the rescue, plus a return trip, would double the time of a normal Dustoff run. It would take time that the wounded they carried could not afford to lose.

Time Daryl didn't have.

Reaching around Connolly's shoulders, Murdock draped his good arm about her. Drawing her into his chest for comfort, he responded to her hug. He felt her rest against him and realized just how hard this must have been for her as well. After all, she was a trained medic watching a friend die. He couldn't imagine what it was like, knowing how to save someone but being unable to do so.

"You done good Ter," he managed at last, wanting to help her. Connolly shifted, lifting her hand to scratch at the dried blood on her chin.

"Yeah, sure." She muttered unconvincingly.

Just then, Stevens appeared from the direction of the open cabin. The dull glow from the MX anglehead flashlight tucked in his vest, bobbed up and down with his long stride.

"Terry, White is awake." He said, pausing to let the two separate. "And he's asking to talk to the idiot who wrecked his chopper. His words, not mine."

For the first time since that afternoon, Murdock smiled. Connolly also let out a small chuckle as she wiped stray tears from her eyes.

"Go on," she sniffed, nodding in the direction of the Huey. "I'll catch up."

Murdock didn't need to be told twice. Tramping over the flattened grass, he made his way toward the helicopters rear compartment –dimly lit by a second flashlight. Climbing carefully into the cabin on his knees, he tried to avoid jarring his aching shoulder.

Daryl watched him from his place near the bulkhead. His head was cushioned on his folded jacket and a faint grin slipped across his pale, graying, face. "Hey man, you're as graceful on legs as you are at landings." He struggled to speak, his voice barely above a hoarse whisper.

"You're just lucky we landed," Murdock grunted, squeezing in between Daryl and a second stretcher. The other two wounded soldiers appeared to be sleeping, no doubt zonked on whatever Connolly had administered to calm them. Setting his back to the metal wall, he drew his stiff legs to his chest and faced the cockpit. Taking a deep breath to settle himself, Murdock glanced down at the man beside him.

For a long moment they simply regarded each other carefully, neither seemed sure of what to say. Several insects, attracted by the light of the upright MX, fluttered in the flashlight beam casting irregular shadows on their faces. A cool night breeze swept through the open cabin, bringing with it the faint scent of excess jet fuel leftover from the chopper crash.

Finally, Murdock found his voice, "Uh, Connolly said you're, uh, gonna be okay Pots—"

"Bullshit." Daryl replied, drawing a wheezing breath. His chest expanded against the ties of the field bandage holding the plastic patch in place. "I'm gonna die, aren't I H.M.?" He asked abruptly, his expression completely serious.

Murdock felt like he'd been kicked in the gut, "Pots—"

"Murdock."

"Come on! No, you're not. You're—"

"Murdock."

"Dammit, Pots!" Murdock gritted out between clenched teeth. Yanking the hat off his head he threw it against the back of the pilot's seat in frustration. "Don't make me say it. There's still a chance."

"Yeah, right, and high card beats four of a kind." Daryl said drily. "I know my odds H.M. and they're not good."

Murdock shook his head silently and studied his boots. Tears dampened the corners of his eyes but he refused to let them fall. "Well, I haven't given up on you yet." He mumbled at last, fiddling with his sling.

Once more the two fell quiet, listening to the rhythm of Connolly and Stevens conversing outside in low murmurs. Their voices, mixed with the heavy breathing of the other soldiers, and the cadence of nighttime insects, reminded Murdock of group camping as a boy. If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine lying awake in a canvas tent with other Scouts his own age, listening to the sounds around him. Oh, how he wished to be eleven years old again, simply out to earn a merit badge somewhere in the woods outside of Clarksville, Tennessee. Instead, he was now half a world away lost in a war no one knew why they were fighting.

"You know," Daryl began after the lengthy pause. His fingers twitched around the dog tags in his hand. Murdock assumed Stevens must have given them to him to hold, for the sake of his wedding ring. "My father was in W.W. two and he used to joke that the P on his old tags stood for "popular". He grew up Protestant, but he never took religion seriously. I mean, he did believe in God, he just never thought he needed him. And I grew up, sort of thinkin' the same thing…"

Murdock glanced over, wondering uneasily where the conversation was going. He could tell it was getting harder for his friend to talk. "So? I never thought much about it either." He admitted.

"So," Daryl winced, squeezing his eyes shut in wave of pain. Once it had receded, he opened them again, "What if we're wrong?"

Murdock cocked his head questioningly.

"I mean look at J.J., man. He's got God and he's solid." Daryl continued, clenching the dog tags in his hand. "I, I've always relied on luck my whole life and it seemed to work, but now…now I don't think it's gonna save me this time."

"Save you?" Murdock frowned. "What? Are we talking about Heaven here? Because you aren't gonna die Pots."

"Murdock." Daryl reprimanded him softly, forcing him to face the gravity of the conversation.

Adjusting his position uncomfortably, Murdock swallowed passed the lump in his throat. "My Grandmother, Emma –Emma Jane, once told me: 'it's better to believe in something and find out it isn't true, than not to believe and find out it is.' So, I guess it's really a matter of what you care to believe in. And if we're talking about life after death, I can't help."

Daryl closed his eyes. He was slipping back to sleep again, "I grew up believing H.M. My problem is, I never accepted that there might be only one way to get there…"

"Murdock!"

Face's cry of desperation yanked Murdock back from 1971 with all the delicacy of a jackhammer. The transition was everything but gentle. He felt dazed and sick all at once, his mind reeling from the many emotions still boiling around inside him. Taking an involuntary breath, he tried to work out where he was. Then, the sight of Stiles forcing Face to his knees brought it rushing back to him.

He remembered his friend, he remembered the bay, and he remembered the guns surrounding them.

The heavy click of the Beretta cocking also reminded Murdock of what little time they both had left.

Dammit, Pots. He thought. Why is there never enough time left?


AN: Wow, first off I'd like to apologize for the delay in updating. The summer suddenly picked up and I couldn't find the time to write properly. Hopefully it won't happen again. Second, I'd like to thank everyone for the wonderful reviews you've all left. Thanks for taking the time to R&R.

*I'd also like to note why I chose Clarksville, Tennessee for Murdock. Firstly, it's because I wanted a southern state but not one as obvious as Texas. Secondly, Clarksville is a very old city and I felt Murdock would have appreciated growing up there. And finally, because it's near Fort Campbell home of the 101st Airborn Division which might have been a reason why Murdock became a pilot.*

TBC, Thanks for reading!