Chapter Eleven: Epilogue.

The first thing Hawkeye did upon arriving back at his hell away from home was throw a party. Discourse and disillusion followed any trying crisis. This little romp was no different. The heat of danger had raised boils on his back and added a few more gray hairs to his salt and pepper mess. So, of course, he had to make his insides match his out. Hawkeye was nothing if not consistent. The booze went fast in honor of Jones, Mac, and the returning Colonel. Potter stayed only for a few rounds, Margaret finally harping him away from the festivity and into bed.

The two newcomers were both praised and chastised for the events that had capsized the little camp, all in one breath. Radar talked Indy's ear off. He was never prouder of his hero. He only wished he had been there, which he reminded Indy again and again, until he couldn't speak any more. A similar fate befell everyone close to him as the night waned on. The buzz died and what crowd hadn't passed out on the floor dissipated.

Hawkeye and Indy sat together at the bar. Hawkeye kept sipping a beer that had emptied an hour ago. Jones cradled his, the rust colored contents having warmed in his hand. Jones took a long look at the room behind them. It looked like a battlefield. People sprawled everywhere, sleeping where they fell, unable to carry on. Only two remained standing, slumped up against the jukebox; Mac and Winchester. They were shoulder to shoulder, swaying back and forth, still muttering songs in sync with a record that had flat lined before they had.

"You two hold these social gatherings often?" Jones regarded Hawkeye's partner in crime, B.J. Honeydoo, passed out on a stool nearby, snoring loudly.

"Oh yeah," Hawkeye assured. "But, only when the situation calls for it. Everyday."

"That bad," Indy said as a matter of fact. In just a little time he had gotten so much of Korea and become a part of it through Hawkeye's distain of it, a wandering clown trapped in a wrong time.

"In between the booze, ooze, bruise, abuse, and bad news, we find time to sing the blues," Hawk recited. "By B. F. Pierce; killed in action."

"War has many casualties." The empty place in Indy's satchel still burned a blues of its own. Knowledge that what he'd done was right in giving his prize to the freed villagers wouldn't keep warm. Having Hawkeye's respect, however, he was finding oddly comforting. He was a cynical, rude, obnoxious man who didn't look for anyone's approval. In doing so, he unknowingly commanded others to seek it from him. Gaining his friendship was a unique experience, and maybe that was the prize Jones would take from Korea. "None so dire as the mask of virtue."

"Yeah. Without it, we couldn't find reasons to go to one."

"To virtue"—Indy raised his glass.

"May she get skivvies and stay home next time!"

Their toast was interrupted by Radar crawling to his feet, cast from the human debris.

"Hey, kid." Indiana welcomed the boy with jaunty delight. "That grape knee-high coming back to visit ya."

He didn't answer. In his eyes, Hawkeye saw that familiarly distant gawk, as if miles away. "Oh no," was all Hawk could muster.

"Choppers…coming in fast. Choppers! Choppers! Everybody get up quick!" One by one, he tried to rouse the drunks up, wounded by their inebriation.

Hawkeye's head sank.

Indy put his hand on his shoulder. "Can I help?"

"Great…we need another doctor…"

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah…yeah…"

He rode with Hawkeye to the landing pad, blinded by snowfall. The surgery was as long as the blood deep. A day later, Indy was gone. His goodbye was short. The high of his visit lasted through two more dances with wounded, and then his stopover disintegrated into a fond but faded memory. Monotony and its stingy hold returned, with it, the urge to split your head with that axe.

The war marched on.

The End.