Goodbye, Farewell, and Ambivalence
I was roused from my sleep by a very persistent company clerk at a time that my head informed me in no uncertain terms was still far too early to consider consciousness, taking into account the sheer amount of alcohol I'd imbibed the night before and into the early morning hours. After batting at Radar ineffectively for a moment I realized through the haze of my hangover that he was stringing words together in what probably would qualify as a sentence if I could get my brain to process what I was hearing.
"...You... –-rporal Kenna... shower... chance... if you... –-awkeye... even listening?"
I blinked against the mild light coming in through the window on the door and realized that it had to be, in fact, late afternoon, though the detail didn't seem to faze my aching head at all, no matter how much I tried to convince myself that I really should not still be hungover. Looking blearily up at the irritated corporal, I asked, "Can you run that by me again?" Only it came out more like, "Kinyoorunthbymegin?"
Radar seemed to get the message. Probably that ESP thing he had going. He sighed in exasperation, but, seeing that I was more conscious, stopped poking and prodding me and started gathering some of my clothes, thrusting them in my direction. "Colonel Blake said you could visit with Corporal Kenna if you get over there real soon. Private Hale is on his way to the shower, so you have a few minutes to talk." As he spoke he dug around under my cot (bless his courageous little heart) for my boots. By the time he managed to find the second one I'd pulled on a clean(ish) pair of pants. "He said to tell you to 'be discreet,' if you know what that means." The last bit was said under his breath, and I wasn't sure if it had been part of Henry's message or if it was a personal addendum on Radar's part.
Undaunted by the lack of confidence shared by my friend, I welcomed the news with a relieved (if slightly bleary) hundred-watt smile. "Thanks Radar. Really."
The clerk returned the smile (albeit a bit more diffidently) and ducked his head. "You should probably get over there..." he deflected.
I reached out and squeezed the little guy's shoulder in thanks. "I owe you one."
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I felt rather foolish as I skulked toward the V.I.P. tent. The compound was quiet, with most of the staff congregating inside tents and at the O.C. that afternoon due to the light drizzle falling over the chilly Korean countryside. Trapper was pulling a shift in Post-Op and Frank had practically camped out in Margaret's tent, presumably preparing for the next day's trip to regimental headquarters and the witch hunt I expected would ensue. The major would be accompanying Henry and Radar as the complainant and a witness against the accused. As the second (first) witness on the scene I likely should have offered to join them, but there was no way I was prepared to testify as to what I'd seen. Henry very pointedly didn't ask, and Frank had apparently neglected to make the suggestion. Thankfully I hadn't had to speak with my Major-pain-in-the-ass since the incident; I'd passed out by the time he got off duty, and stayed passed out for the entirety of the morning and early afternoon. I wished I could avoid him for the rest of the war, but suspected that it wouldn't be a practical long-term goal.
They'd changed the guard since the previous night, and I recognized the new M.P. stationed at the door by sight only. I took the fact that he was singularly guarding Drew to mean that the second M.P. was with Hale, elsewhere. He looked at me curiously when I approached the door; apparently visitors had been few and far between. I smiled sheepishly at him and lifted the scotch bottle in explanation.
"I was supposed to give this to Corporal Kenna last night," I told him by way of explanation, reaching for the door without waiting for permission on the 'It's better to ask forgiveness' school of thought. He eyed me, but didn't make any move to stop me. I knocked quickly, then stuck my head in.
The room had been provided with an extra cot. The existing bed had been pushed up against the far wall, and the new one was pressed up to the front side of the tent on the opposite wall – essentially as far apart as they could get in the small space. The desk and table had been shoved into the two spare corners, and two trays of partially-eaten, unsavory-looking C-rations, presumably from lunch, took up most of the table space. Personal effects spilled out of both footlockers and suitcases, some looking the worse for wear. I spotted a few torn and crumpled photographs on what seemed to be Private Hale's side of the tent, indicating that the guys' bunkmates had beaten them back to their belongings and made their displeasure clear.
Drew was lounging on the far cot, reading one of the books that were provided for visiting officers. I couldn't make out the title, but it was a somewhat worn, red leather-bound number. He tossed it aside carelessly when he saw me peek inside.
"Catching up on your light reading?" I asked him with false levity as I stepped inside, pulling the door closed behind me.
"Hawk!" Obviously agitated, he fought to keep his volume low and wound up all but hissing his words. "What the hell are you doing here?"
For what felt like the umpteenth time in the last two days I held up the damn scotch bottle. "Delivery."
He frowned at me. "You shouldn't be here."
I scowled, my lighthearted façade quickly falling by the wayside now that the door was between us and the rest of the camp. "Yeah, well, I guess that makes two of us," I shot back irritably. Without waiting for a reply, I waved the scotch bottle, indicating the tent or camp at large. "What the fuck were you thinking?!"
Drew shrugged, arranging his face into something resembling an innocent expression. "I suppose I let my upstairs brain take a break for a bit, and something had to be behind the wheel during the vacation. You know how it is," he added pointedly.
"Bullshit," I rebuffed him bluntly. "You set this up well in advance."
Drew regarded me silently for a moment as his expression morphed into a blank mask, eyes locked defiantly on mine, but didn't deny my accusation. "Maybe I just wanted to get out of the Army," he suggested in a patronizing tone.
Oh yeah. That was totally convincing. I rolled my eyes and began pacing aimlessly in agitation, still clenching the neck of the scotch bottle in a slowly blanching hand. "Drew. You were caught in the middle of what the Army defines as 'sodomy,'" I explained sharply, trying to underline the stark situation at hand, because judging by his reaction he'd clearly misjudged the gravity of his current position. Surely even Drew couldn't be that blasé. "And then you drove the final nail into your coffin by announcing it to the entire camp, including our C.O.! You're going to jail. Military prison, even. As in, splitting rocks to landscape Leavenworth for the next five years. Hell, Hoover is sending men discharged for sodomy to Alcatraz." I realized my voice was rising and took a breath in attempt to calm myself. "There's a dozen other ways you could have gotten out of Korea without risking jail time. What could possibly be worth this?"
He smiled enigmatically in that infuriating manner of his and I shook my head as I doubled back toward the other side of the tent at a more rapid pace, recognizing the look on his face from too many years of experience and realizing that I was never going to get a satisfactory answer, no matter how much I beat my head against the figurative wall – or beat his head against a literal one. It was some sort of power play on his part, or perhaps revenge for my failure to save him; he'd get off knowing that he was leaving me hanging, essentially condemned to wonder for the rest of my life. Or at least until I could once more compartmentalize our history and pack it away in the far recesses of my mind for good (again).
"You know, when you do that it just makes me want to throttle you," I informed him. His smile turned a bit more smug at that and I valiantly resisted the urge to smack the expression off his face – with my hand or lips, I wasn't sure. God, the man was infuriating. How had I let myself get wrapped up in him again? 'Just sex,' my ass.
I realized I was white-knuckling the scotch bottle and set it down with a heavy thud on the nearest flat surface before I gave in to the desire to brain him with the heavy glass.
"You owe me an explanation," I pressed as I continued my anxious trek around the tent, despite knowing full well that I was wasting my breath.
"I owe you?" he repeated, somehow incredulous and mocking at the same time. He reached out and snagged my arm to haul me to a stop.
Seeing as he was right there, I stepped forward, inches from his face as I looked down at his ever-so-slightly shorter frame. "After everything? The years at Androscoggin and this... this train wreck? Yeah," I insisted. "Yeah, you do." I tried to yank my arm out of his grasp, but he tenaciously held on to my wrist.
"If I recall correctly, you let me get caught last night," he said icily, eyes narrowed.
Ah. Seemed he was unhappy about that. I hated feeling at least somewhat guilty for it, just as he'd designed. "You can't pin this on me," I informed him in no uncertain terms. "You engineered that entire thing. You dug yourself into this hole to see if I would jump in to save you. And I am done with your fucking tests and mind games," I spat. "I'm just... done." My anger battled with the knowledge that I probably shouldn't piss off the guy who could ruin me just by saying my name in front of the wrong people. Self-preservation vs. passion; that seemed to be a theme with Drew. "This is all on you, and you know it." Apparently passion won out.
This time he did drop my hand when I tried to pull it out of his grasp.
"No," he told me firmly. "You started this shit."
My head jerked back sharply, as if he'd slapped me. "Excuse me?"
"Maybe I just wanted to get away from you. Ever think of that?" He paused for a second, ostensibly to let me think it through, while I blinked owlishly at him, taken aback. "You think you're God's gift to men? Oh, and women? Half the time I can't even tell if you give a shit about me." Despite his anger, he still made an effort to keep his voice down, for my sake. "About us. Do you know what it was like, watching you around the nurses? And Trapper? Your 'just friends' roommate?"
Oh, for fuck's sake. "I'm starting to remember the feeling, yeah," I retorted with a glare. "Though I never had sex with them right in front of you." I gestured in the general direction of the supply hut. "And I already told you, Trapper—"
He cut me off. "You're so full of it. You two hang all over each other, anywhere and everywhere. But me – you hardly let me touch you!"
"You know why? It's because there is nothing to hide with Trapper! We can't get caught, because there is nothing for anyone to catch!" I huffed in exasperation, then picked up another thread. "And you think I don't care about you? I'm here, aren't I? Even after last night!"
"You're here to cover your ass," he shot back. "You want to sweet talk me into forgetting that you just stood there and let me be outed."
I couldn't deny that I wasn't at all concerned with seeking absolution – the way he covered for me last night had engendered some sort of false hope, I supposed – and he obviously wasn't going to verbally admit to setting himself up to be caught; I could argue that until I was blue in the face and I'd probably only get a self-satisfied smirk in return. So I elucidated my other, more noble motivations. "Actually, I'm here because I wanted to know what the hell you were thinking! And I—" my throat once again closed over the words "—I had to say goodbye. Despite the recommendations of people who actually care about my wellbeing."
"Yeah," he said bitterly, his voice finally rising above the hushed tones we'd been implementing throughout the argument. "You wouldn't want to be associated with the camp fairy. People might actually realize—"
Knowing where he was going with that statement and suddenly and painfully aware of the M.P. standing outside the door, I swiftly raised my hand, intending to clap it over his mouth. Instead it wrapped itself around the back of his head, tangling its fingers in his soft black hair and yanking his face toward mine. Desperate to stop the movement of his lips and the breath behind them, I silenced him with a hasty, almost violent kiss.
Upon realizing that my body had once again betrayed me I promptly began to pull back, but one of his arms snaked around my torso to pull me toward him until we were nearly melded together. His other hand came up to lightly tug at my hair, keeping my head in place as he deepened the kiss.
I melted into his hold for the last time, trying to memorize his taste, his scent, the feeling of his tongue locked in a passionate dance with mine, and the light scratch of stubble against my chin. I couldn't bring myself to stop until we both had to come up for air. Instead of allowing myself to dive back into a scenario that could very well result in an undesirable or dishonorable discharge for me as well, I gently leaned my head forward, resting my forehead against his as we caught our breath. As I studied his beautiful, dark eyes, framed by those long lashes that he'd used an untold number of times to erotically tickle my skin during some of the best foreplay I'd ever experienced (a prelude to some of the best sex I'd ever had), he released my hair and tenderly caressed my face. My eyes fluttered closed as I leaned in to his touch.
"I love you," he whispered fervently, practically giving me whiplash with the abrupt change in his demeanor. It hurt to hear him say the words out loud, after what he'd done last night.
I worried my abused lip for a moment before opening my eyes to meet his once more. "You're a bastard, you know that?"
He smiled softly. "You love me," he said confidently under his breath.
I sighed, loathe to admit he was right. "I hate you," I retorted halfheartedly with approximately equal amounts exasperation and fondness, echoing the words I'd told him the first night we'd started this mess. After his actions just the night before, how I couldn't stop myself loving this man I would never understand. But I supposed there were a lot of things about Andrew Kenna that I would never understand. Damn the man. Damn his charisma. Damn his dark doe eyes, his silky black hair, and the curve of his lips. Damn his sexual prowess. And damn that otherwise undefinable allure that kept me ensnared despite my better judgement. I shook my head in futile denial.
"Say it," he pressed. The gentle smile on his face turned smug, and it was so unfairly provocative in more than one sense of the word. Something so annoying had no right being that attractive.
My brow furrowed and my breath caught in my chest. For some reason the panic from that disturbing dream (just weeks before, though it felt like a lifetime ago) bubbled to the surface. I'd been distraught at the idea of losing him without him knowing my feelings. Could I really let Drew go without telling him I loved him? I knew that he was intimately aware of the fact by now, but... would not saying it cost me some feeling of closure?
Following quickly on the coattails of that memory was the image of Drew in the supply hut, smirking at me over the head of the private on his knees before him, and the echo of his vicious words in my head (I'll out us both).
I heaved a shuddering breath when another, even more disturbing thought occurred to me: would not giving him this satisfaction increase the possibility that he'd drop my name during his trial out of spite?
I didn't want the last time I told this man that I loved him to be out of fear of repercussions if I refused. Hell, Trapper had tried to discourage me from stooping so low as to even say goodbye to Drew after the pain he'd caused me last night. What did it say about me that I was not only crawling back to him for a heart-to-heart but also struggling (not) to confess my love for him?
I was saved from having to make that decision by the sound of voices drifting through the tent walls and door. Heart pounding, I immediately stepped away from Drew, running a hand through my mussed hair and hastily wiping my mouth on my sleeve to eradicate any potential evidence, hoping that my lips weren't unusually plumped as if they'd just been pressed against those of the only other person in the tent. Since, you know, they had been.
My impromptu grooming session was completed just before the tent door opened with a creak.
Hale had returned from his shower. After shuffling a couple feet into the tent, allowing the door to bang shut behind him, he caught sight of my boots amidst his intense scrutiny of the ground. Startled, he jerked back a step and finally raised his head to see me standing a few feet from Drew.
I nodded to the boy, self-conscious and mindful of Trapper's warning. Turning back toward Drew, facing away from the private, I sent him a soft, remorseful smile in farewell, then nodded more conservatively. I gestured broadly toward the scotch bottle, movements slightly exaggerated in order to catch Hale's attention in case he'd once again dropped his gaze, and told Drew, "You might want to go ahead and finish it tonight. I doubt they'll let you take it with you to the court martial." Turning toward Hale, whose face was tilted down though he eyed me with caution, I told him, "Make sure Andrew shares." Maybe my perceived altruism would keep the kid from being suspicious enough to name me during the court martial. "Looks like you could both use it," I added with sincere sympathy. I very carefully did not think about Drew getting drunk alone with the boy who'd just given him a blow job the night before. Turning back to my... whatever he was to me... I said, more sternly, "Behave. You don't need to dig yourself any deeper than you already have."
Drew sent me a reserved half-smile and managed to partially abort a roll of his eyes, winding up just cutting them toward the empty side of the tent.
Stepping toward the door, I told both of them softly, "Good luck."
Private Hale nodded jerkily, and I could tell that he appreciated the sentiment, however useless it was. I supposed it could be a comfort to him to know that at least one person in the camp didn't hate his guts. I locked eyes with Drew one more time, careful to keep my expression neutral, before heading out of the tent and quickly slinking my way back to the Swamp, feeling overwhelmingly unsatisfied. I spent the night getting inebriated myself, and wishing like hell that Drew could be with me for one last hurrah.
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I watched from the Swamp as Drew and Private Hale prepared to leave for regimental headquarters early the next morning, accompanied by two M.P.s. Each had their own vehicle with a single M.P. pulling double duty as a guard and driver. Either Henry had convinced the Army that they weren't flight risks or prone to violence, or they hadn't had time to get more M.P.s to camp on short notice. The Army certainly seemed interested in expediting the procedures. Best to get the undesirables out of their highly esteemed organization posthaste, I presumed. It was clearly a system that had been implemented enough times in the past that the M.P.s and brass at headquarters were well-versed in the procedure.
The backs of their Jeeps were filled with their belongings, leaving no doubt as to the expected outcome (had there been any straw left to grasp). Following directly behind them in another Jeep were Henry, Frank, and Radar. The young corporal juggled a few ominously thick folders as he climbed into the driver's seat, eventually stuffing them into a worn briefcase. The files kept Frank company in the back seat, and the officers' and clerk's small overnight bags were distributed into the free space of the prisoners' vehicles.
As the various belongings and gratuitous Army paperwork were being loaded into the scant free spaces left in the crowded Jeeps, Drew caught my gaze through the opaque siding of the tent. Between the warmer morning and the desire to see Drew off, if only at a distance, I'd rolled up one side of the tent flaps despite my aching head. He gestured toward me, and with some trepidation I stepped out of the Swamp. Henry sent me a disapproving warning glare, but Drew made some noise about needing to pay me back for the bottle of scotch I'd bought for him and the M.P.s just passively observed from the Jeep as he walked toward me.
As he approached I saw a folded piece of paper in his hand. It wasn't money; his words gave me hope that it was something much more valuable. "I hope you find your answers here," he said quietly as he passed the paper off in a handshake, covertly caressing my hand one last time out of sight of the rest of the camp before dropping it to his side.
I nodded, glancing at the folded note before slipping it into my pocket. "Thanks," I said at a normal volume. Biting my much-abused lip in attempt to keep my expression platonically friendly, I told him in a more subdued tone, "Take care of yourself." It was a woefully inadequate farewell, but it was the best that could be managed under the watchful gaze of half the camp and, more notably, Frank Burns.
Drew returned my nod and a softer, more tender smile, his back to any onlookers. Pursing his lips, he swallowed the words I knew he wanted to say. I crinkled my eyes in a smile that I didn't allow to reach my lips to show him that I understood.
For a moment I was worried that he wouldn't be able to turn and walk away. It looked like he was concerned as well, but he finally heaved a sigh – perhaps not of regret, but certainly of resignation – and pivoted, striding back to the Jeep as if staying in my vicinity for a second longer would break him.
I certainly thought it might break me.
I watched the little convoy until it was out of sight, resolutely keeping my stinging eyes from overflowing. After a few moments I once more became aware of Trapper's presence at my side. I wasn't sure if he'd recently developed some sort of stealth mode or if I was just being that unobservant.
Taking me by the shoulder, he again led me the short distance to our tent, informing me that he'd taken my day shift for Post-Op and recommending that I sleep off the rest of the hangover before I took over the evening shift. As chief surgeon, I approved of his plan. Thankfully there were relatively few patients in Post-Op, and no serious cases remained. The push would be coming soon, but Henry wasn't expecting the proceedings to take more than a day or two, and since there had been no spare doctors that could be temporarily assigned to our camp, the 8063rd would be taking the heaviest load of casualties until Henry and Frank returned.
Emotionally exhausted despite having been awake for less than an hour, I elected not to argue with Trap's generous offer – or insistence, as the case may have been. He considerately lowered the tent flaps as I pulled off my boots and got comfortable. After he'd headed back to Post-Op I sat on my cot and briefly debated having another few glasses of our lighter fluid to help me get to sleep with as little angst as possible, but my body elected to just go ahead and curl up on its side, making the decision for me. I felt a few tears escape to collect on my pillow and was glad that they'd had the decency to wait until I was in the privacy of my bunk in the empty Swamp. As if that thought had given some treacherous part of me permission, I felt the trickle of grief and hurt that had slowly welled up in my eyes turn into a flood. Thankfully I didn't have to wait too very long before that flood had subsided into a very welcome unconsciousness. I wasn't sure if it was the emotional exhaustion, the hangover, or the sheer relief of escaping Drew's perilous but bewitching hold on me that contributed to the blessed lack of dreams, but I was grateful nonetheless.
