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Outside the surgical tent, Margaret managed to capture a corpsman to help her drag Hawkeye back to his tent, resisting all the way. He kept telling her he didn't want to see B.J. when he closed his eyes as though that meant something, but she chalked it up to fatigue and stress.
She waved the corpsman out of the tent and helped remove Pierce's bloodied scrubs. "If there's any change, you'll be the first to know," she told him. He pulled away from her, watching B.J.'s cot despondently. Margaret bit her lip; he looked so lonely, so lost it made her heart ache. Kneeling next to him, she brushed back the hair plastered to his face with sweat and rubbed his back soothingly. "He'll be all right, Hawkeye," she told him, purposely keeping the doubt out of her voice. "You did your best for him—don't ever forget that. I've never seen anyone work so tirelessly. It's bound to come out okay."
"Thanks, Margaret," Hawkeye replied absently, not really hearing her. How could I have let him leave camp? What's wrong with me? I could have stopped it...
Margaret didn't like the look in his eyes. "Why don't you get some rest?" She helped him lie back in bed as she continued, "Captain Hunnicut will have someone watching him around the clock. You can take the watch when you're able."
"I'm not tired," Pierce murmured automatically, his eyes closing the second his head hit the pillow. Margaret watched him sleep for a minute, listening to the uneasy silence that had settled over the entire camp outside. With a final, silent glance at B.J.'s bunk, she slipped out of the tent to let the surgeon rest.
For the next three hours Hawkeye's body was in bed, but his mind kept wandering back to the operating room. Countless times he stood over B.J., trying to stop the bleeding. No matter how many wounds he closed, more would appear almost instantly. Blood bubbled up from everywhere.
He remembered his friend's eyes watching him with so much trust. And where is that trust now? Doubt cast its warped light on his delirious memory, transforming the quiet confidence in B.J.'s eyes to hatred and silent accusation. He cringed and tried to turn away from the loathsome gaze, immobilized by guilt. The floor opened beneath him to reveal a yawning, pitch black abyss, and he scrambled back to avoid falling in. Slender black filaments reached out from the void, wrapping themselves around him like sinister, shadowy pythons. They dragged him closer to the hellish opening, B.J.'s cold, furious stare bearing down on him. Through it all a single thought lodged itself in the back of his mind: I killed him.
He awoke with a violent twitch, not certain if he'd ever really gone to sleep. Slowly unclenching his shaking hands, he wiped the sweat and tears from his eyes. His throat felt raw, but he didn't remember screaming. B.J.'s cot loomed in the corner, a silent witness to his paranoia.
Hawkeye rubbed his palms together and stared blankly into the distance, rocking ever so slightly back and forth. He could still feel the phantasmal strands caressing his legs, trying to pull him into the darkness. A new wave of panic and restlessness forced him to stand, swaying a little. He had to get out of there.
Pushing back the door he stumbled into the compound, traces of blood and dirt still clinging to him. Had anyone looked at him without knowing the reason, they would have assumed he was merely drunk and just came from the wrong end of a bar brawl. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he wandered unsteadily around the camp as the world went by in a blur. He knew he should sleep, but part of him wondered if he wasn't asleep already.
After a while, his feet seemed to move of their own accord to the post-op ward. He stood outside for a long time, just watching the doors. Two corpsmen who had been loitering nearby edged away from the surgeon, spooked by his appearance and glassy expression. Taking a deep breath, he opened the doors and stepped through.
Having been filled beyond capacity before the influx of patients from the 8063rd, post-op now seemed more like a refugee camp than a restful place to recuperate. Gurneys doubled as beds for those with minor wounds, while a full complement of nurses flew back and forth to check on the more serious casualties. The heat only made the crowded ward more uncomfortable, shortening even the most placid tempers. Overwhelmed, Hawkeye swallowed hard and tried to ignore the urge to run.
He trudged down the cramped aisle, noticing a bed in the corner of the room that had been cordoned off for a greater degree of privacy. A nurse sat just inside the divider, taking notes on a clipboard and glancing up occasionally. Pierce stopped short, knowing instantly who the bed's occupant was.
Colonel Potter entered and saw Hawkeye standing in the middle of the bedlam, hands in his pockets, looking strangely out of place. "Pierce, what are you doing up and about?" he asked. Noting the man's sweat-slicked face and blank stare, he added, "I thought I gave you a direct order to get some shut-eye."
"You did, Colonel, my eyes are just insubordinate," Hawkeye responded distantly, not acknowledging (or realizing) the joke. He stepped closer to the bed in the corner, but Potter stopped him. "He needs his rest and so do you. Go back to bed, catch a few hundred winks, and come back when you're actually with us. You can see B.J. then."
Hawkeye chuckled darkly—a strange, guttural sound that worried the colonel. "You don't get it," he said, his gaze fixed on the divider. "I see him already. Asleep or awake, what difference does it make?"
Potter scrutinized him silently for a long moment. "All right," he relented, stepping back, "but don't let word get out that I'm going soft in my old age. Besides, this might be better therapy for you than sewing you to your bedsheets for the next week." Hawkeye pushed past the older man unceremoniously into the makeshift room, stopping abruptly at the sight before him.
A bandage covered half of B.J.'s face where flying metal had ripped it open, numerous cuts and bruises marring the other half. His chest and left arm were expertly wrapped, hiding the stitches—stitches he had placed—beneath. IV tubes trailed across his bed, reminding Pierce of the phantom tendrils that tried to suffocate him earlier.
He watched his friend's breathing like he'd done for so many nights; what used to be a visible and steady rhythm was barely discernible now. And he was so quiet...that's what bothered Hawkeye the most. At that moment the only thing in the world he wanted was to hear B.J. say something, anything, instead of just lying there like...
A corpse. Hawkeye shut his eyes tightly for a second. "How's he doing?" he finally asked the nurse.
"Pulse forty-six, BP seventy-five over fifty," she responded, a note of sympathy in her voice. She quickly vacated her stool for a grateful Pierce, who looked ready to collapse any second. With an understanding glance in Potter's direction she left to find another patient.
Sensing his need for privacy the colonel turned to leave, but Hawkeye's voice brought him to a halt: "What happens now?" The question seemed innocent, but Potter could plainly hear the apprehension lurking behind it. He realized they both knew the answer, but vocalized it for the other man's benefit. "Well, depending on when he pulls through this," he winced slightly, hearing how false the word when sounded, "maybe nothing. He'll recover here. Otherwise, we'll wait until he's more stable and send him to the 121st Evac, where he'll catch the next plane back to the states." The third, more final option went unmentioned.
He saw various emotions flickering across Pierce's face, none of them actually reaching the surface. "He wouldn't have even made it this far if you hadn't run after him," Potter added gently, curiosity creeping into his voice. "Damnedest thing I ever saw. How did you know, son?"
Pierce's expression made Potter's skin crawl. "I had practice," he responded dully, as though the answer explained everything. The colonel's eyebrow shot upward, but Pierce stood and dragged his stool closer to B.J.'s bed, settling heavily into it again; he was obviously through with speaking. Potter observed the two men wordlessly, watching them each fight their private battles, before tactfully retreating to the other side of post-op.
Hawkeye's hand hovered over the bed before coming to rest on B.J.'s arm. His head fell back against the wall, his eyes closing on their own accord. Even as darkness descended on him, he feared the menacing images approaching behind his eyelids with every breath.