Author's Note: My extreme apologies to those of you who care about such things for the incredible lack of updates. In my own defence, I have written a lot of chapters... just not those which come next in the chronological sequence! I've been playing around with things so far, and basically making stuff up, but if any of you have a favourite episode from seasons 1-3 which you'd like to see, please tell me:-) Anyways, enojy!
Tokyo, Japan. Land of the rising sun and the all-night bath house. Or in Hawkeye's words, Land of the hedonistic Gods. The draftees of the American armed services very quickly learn not to underestimate the pleasure which can be derived from a hotel with real beds, and a bar with real alcohol. That first, crazy trip is the one which remains in Hawkeye's memory. A medical conference, he thinks. If so, he doesn't remember it. That bit is unimportant. What he does remember is Henry, dancing with a lampshade on his head, and Trapper sitting on the roof of the hotel stark naked, and singing. He remembers trying to swim in the Emperor's moat, racing in and out of hotel rooms with Trapper, making a game of it, trying to catch General McArthur in the act.
He remembers, at oh-five-hundred in the morning, falling through the door of Mrs Lee's take-away and whoopee parlour with Trapper and Henry, wearing nothing but papa-san hats and bathrobes. He can never remember where the bathrobes came from, only that Henry's was pale ice-blue, that Trapper's was golden yellow, and his red, like blood.
There, in Tokyo, the days seemed to stretch, hour upon golden hour. Days become nights, become days without end, and sleep, though absent, is not mourned. That first visit, even now, is infinite, a slender-spun haze no different from any other, and yet memorable because of that.
There was a two-star General with a corncob pipe, and Trapper flirting outrageously at him across the table, his long lashes fluttering, laughter concealed beneath the sensual whisper of his voice. For once, Hawkeye played the straight man, offering the General, with all the sobriety he could muster, the chance to partake of Trapper's dubious virtues for a mere $3.20, while Henry leaned heavily on the doorway, giggling in terror of retribution. There was a crazy, pinwheeling ride in a hijacked rickshaw, and an incensed Japanese driver chasing after them in silk slippers. There was a city, neon-lit in gorgeous decadence, the lights so bright as to make the night another day. There were street vendors selling strange foods that none of them knew the names of, but which they ate anyway - hot, aromatic things, every mouthful an adventure in itself. There was a bath-house, and kimono-clad girls with faces painted garishly, American-fashion, in strange, unsettling contrast to the demure little smiles and rustling paper fans.
Then there was Friday, and a dusty chopper waiting by the pad. Tokyo, falling away beneath them, a one-way ticket back to hell, and boots filled anew with blood.