Radar peered into the Swamp through the window in the door. Except for Hawkeye Pierce, the tent was empty. Normally, Radar would have entered right away, but something about the way Hawkeye was lying there made the corporal uneasy.
The captain had flung himself carelessly on his cot and lay on his back. One arm covered his eyes, and his lips turned downwards in a grim line. By his other hand, a nudist magazine lay abandoned, and that was the surest sign of something gone awry.
Taking a breath to arm himself, Radar finally spoke. "Hawkeye?" He cleared his throat. "Ah, Hawk, you got a package from home."
Hawkeye rolled over on his cot. "Unless I'm mistaken, Radar, mail call was hours ago."
Radar shifted his weight. "Well, yes, sir, but this came by a separate military transport. It's marked perishable."
His curiosity aroused, Hawkeye said, "Bring it in then."
"I can't, sir, because I can't open the door on account of I'm holding this package with both hands."
Hawkeye uncovered his eyes. "Don't you fit through the doggie door?" Radar glared at him. Hawkeye sat up and pulled the door open. Radar shuffled inside, depositing the package by Hawkeye's feet. Trying to peek without staring, he eyed the captain.
Hawkeye had that dull, pained expression that usually accompanied a hangover, but Radar knew for a fact he'd been sober that morning. The captain exercised his jaws with a few quick snaps, wrinkling his nose at what Radar could only guess was a bad aftertaste. Hawkeye's eyes were vague and unfocussed, but he fixed his bleary gaze on Radar and the latter had to halt his investigations. Radar rocked on his feet and tried to smile as if he hadn't noticed anything wrong. "There it is, sir." He indicated the package.
"I noticed," Hawkeye said, reaching out to the package. He lay a hand on it. A puzzled frown creased his features, and then, in the rapid shift of mood to which Radar had become accustomed, the captain clapped his hands and gave a sharp, loud laugh.
"Lobsters!" Hawkeye exclaimed. "Maine lobsters." There was nothing logy or hungover about him now. The package from home had cheered him. Radar smiled.
"Are you happy now, sir?" he asked.
"Happy?" Hawkeye demanded, standing. "Happy? Radar, I could kiss you." The captain laid his hands on Radar's shoulders.
Gulping, Radar freed himself and backed away. "No, thank you, sir," he demurred hastily. "I prefer girls." Hawkeye grinned.
Pacing, Hawkeye pushed hair out of his face. He rubbed his hands together in the manner of a man who is planning something. "Radar, have you ever had boiled lobsters?"
Radar shoved his hands into his pockets. "Uh, no sir, but my mom used to boil crawdaddies I got out of the stream."
"Crawdaddies? That doesn't even compare. Here, Radar, help me get this box to the kitchen."
For the second time that day, Radar took hold of the box. "But what if the cook doesn't wanna do 'em?" he asked.
"I'll persuade him," Hawkeye said. "I'll run his shorts up the flagpole."
*****
After hours, Margaret repaired to her tent and sat huddled in front of a small mirror. She pulled a brush through her glowing blonde hair, mentally counting the strokes. Ninety-four, ninety-five. . . . She couldn't get her mind off the day's shift. Every time she closed her eyes, she remembered empty looks. The girl's mindless, empty stare. The broken, hopeless gaze on Captain Hunnicutt's face. Everything was so . . . empty.
A loud knock interrupted her ruminations. Glowering, she snapped out, "Yes?"
"Major Houlihan? It's me." Frank Burns. Margaret set her brush down and stood. She pulled the coats she was wearing-- a total of three, because it was freezing today-- close around her shoulders, and opened the door a crack. Frank stood huddled outside, stomping his feet to keep warm.
"Yes, Major Burns?" Out of habit, Margaret stole a glance across the compound to see if anyone was watching, but the snow was falling so thickly, she could barely even see Frank a few feet in front of her.
"May I come in, Margaret?" Frank lowered his voice as he spoke her name. He, too, stole a quick glance to either side and across the compound. Those peeping toms, Pierce and Hunnicutt, had made both of them paranoid.
Margaret stepped back, allowing Frank entry. He moved right in, tracking snow along with him. Inwardly, Margaret groaned at his ineptitude. He could at least have kicked his boots together to shake it off outside. "Frank," she admonished, "you're tracking snow into my tent."
Frank glanced back and cringed apologetically. "I'm sorry, Margaret, but I wanted to see you so badly! I spent all evening thinking about you." He bobbed his head to emphasize his devotion.
"That's very considerate of you, Frank."
Frank paused, his libido interrupted by her cold demeanor. "Is there something wrong, Margaret?"
She moved back to her mirror and sat calmly down in front of it. "Nothing's wrong, Frank. Everything's just fine."
She sensed him coming up behind him, a suspicion confirmed as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Gentle but firm, Margaret pushed them away.
Frank was growing frustrated. "Then why won't you let me hold you?" he whined.
Margaret sat down by her table. Her eyes met his in the mirror. "I don't feel like it tonight," she told him coolly.
He considered that for a moment. "When will you feel like it?"
"I don't know, Frank." A short silence. "Maybe you shouldn't come back."
Frank emitted a small, pathetic squeak. "Not come back? Not ever?"
Margaret nodded. "That sounds about right."
"But why, Margaret?" Frank dropped onto the ground before her and clutched feebly at her hand. "You know how lonely I get without you!"
"Lonely enough to leave your wife, Frank?" Margaret snapped. Immediately Frank's face heated as he struggled to get around the question. Taking pity on him, Margaret laid a hand on his. "Frank, when this war is all over, you go home to your wife and your thriving practice in Fort Wayne, but where do I go? I'll become just another forgotten army nurse, alone and out of a job." She paused, removing her hand. "I want something more than that."
He couldn't argue with that. Long speeches left Frank frozen like a deer in headlights. Picking up her brush, Margaret combed her hair in silence, until at last she heard him go to the door and leave. She glanced over her shoulder as the door closed, and once she was certain he was gone, Margaret dropped her brush. Her mind was filled with images of mindless, empty stares.
*****
Hawkeye could remember his home clearly. He knew more about it now, he guessed, than he'd ever been aware of while living there. It seemed he couldn't sit still for more than a moment without remembering some intimate detail of Crabapple Cove. If he had to wait for his next patient in OR, he would think of the exact hues of the dying leaves in autumn. When the cold winter winds of Korea struck his cheeks, he would compare them to the friendly chill of breezes coming in off the Atlantic. Once he had surprised himself with the realization that Maine snow had a smell, metallic and faint. All the things he had never noticed before would come to him these days in bits and pieces.
As he scooped the warm lobster meat out of its shell, Hawkeye made another discovery, perhaps the best one yet. From the subtly, salty odor of the lobster's meat, he could remember the smell of the wind as it blew in from the ocean, carrying with it all the promise and adventure of the uncharted waters. It also smelled like the fishermen of Maine; quiet men with roughly-hewn features and bright eyes that knew more of the world's secrets than any landbound person could. Finally, it reminded him of a girl's hair after she'd been swimming, matted into clumps that still smelled sweetly and freshly of saltwater. With every mouthful Hawkeye drew closer and closer to his home.
Then there was no more meat. Hawkeye discarded the empty tail and reached for another. Before breaking into it, he spared a glance to his right, where Radar sat by his elbow, stuffing his mouth with as much lobster as he could fit. Hawkeye shuddered at the affront to good food. "Radar, you have to savor the meat. . . . Do you even know what 'savor' means?"
Radar chewed viciously, then swallowed his mouthful of meat. He washed it down with a quick drink of milk. "Sure, it's someone who saves people." Setting aside a now-empty shell, Radar reached for another. Hawkeye had had to teach him the technique of opening a lobster, but already Radar was separating the tail with the finesse of a pro.
Hawkeye shook his head. He attempted to phrase his request in a way Radar would understand. "Slow down or you'll choke." Radar smiled around another mouthful, and somehow managed to take another sip of milk at the same time.
Shaking his head with a small smile, Hawkeye broke his own lobster open and scooped out the first tender morsel. After the pressures of the day, this little piece of home and heaven was just what he needed to cheer up.
Almost before he knew it, the last of all the lobsters had been eaten. Radar, beginning to get stomach pains from eating good, rich food too fast, slumped away with a hand over his mouth, muttering something about the latrine. Hawkeye stayed by himself.
Night had settled over Korea, and even in the mess tent, surrounded by the lukewarm army food on the rickety serving tables, Hawkeye still felt the bitter chill. He shivered, but he stayed where he was, reluctant to return to the Swamp.
The Swamp came to him. Frank Burns was the first to enter, chattering away in his squeaking, excited voice with a morose, red-eyed B.J. in tow. Hawkeye met B.J.'s eye, but looked away, not wanting to talk to him. Oblivious to everything, Frank filled up a cup of coffee and hailed Hawkeye with a desperate cheerfulness. "Pierce! So that's where you went to." He approached Hawkeye's table and sat down. B.J., having no other option, came over too and took a seat across from Frank.
Frank chattered away, paying no heed to either of his taciturn dinner companions. "Well, if she wants to ruin her life, let her, I say! I mean, hehe, who am I to suggest otherwise? Only her lover for the past year, that's all!" He slammed his coffee cup down on the table, splashing some coffee over the rim and onto his hand. Yelping, he stuck his scalded fingers in his mouth and sucked on them. B.J. raised a brow, but Hawkeye didn't react. Neither said anything.
When his hand felt better, Frank removed it from his mouth and shook it as he continued his diatribe. "Women! They'll throw away a good thing for nothing. You two may not know it, but Margaret and I are, have been, we used to be a couple. Well, not anymore! I'm my own man now."
"Selfish," Hawkeye broke in, unable to resist.
"Greed is a sin, Frank," B.J. added drolly. He glanced aside at Hawkeye, who ignored him. Ready to take offense, Frank puffed up for a moment, then let all his anger out in a wild giggle.
"Oh, you guys are such kidders!" he exclaimed, thumping Hawkeye's shoulder. Hawkeye jolted forward. He glared angrily at Frank, saying nothing. BJ, too, was silent, and after a moment's uncomfortable silence Frank got up to leave. Picking up his coffee, he downed it in a final gulp. "Well," he said, "it's been nice talking with you fellas but I'd better get back to our tent. I plan on getting a nice, long sleep - not going anywhere at all, just treasuring some time by myself, just me and my memories. I may even write to my wife." He skipped out of the mess hall.
Hawkeye and B.J. stared across the table at each other for a long moment, then B.J. cleared his throat. "Well," he said. "So. What have you been doing all day?"
Hawkeye slammed his silverware onto his tray without answering. If B.J. was going to pretend nothing had happened, he was going to pretend B.J. wasn't there. Piling his tray on top of Radar's, which had been abandoned in his haste, Hawkeye took both trays back to the serving table and laid them in a pile with a bunch of other used ones. He strode for the door.
B.J.'s voice halted him. "Wait, Hawk. I'm sorry." Hawkeye stopped and stared at him, expressionless. The silence was too much for B.J., who got quickly to his feet and began pacing back and forth in his agitation. "I was homesick, and I took it out on you. I'm sorry. You know how it is." He stopped in front of Hawkeye, turning to face him and holding his palms upward.
"No, I don't," Hawkeye answered, becoming agitated himself. He raked hair out of his face and shook his head. "I miss home, too, but it's never made me yell at you."
B.J. blinked, surprised by the refusal of his apology. "Well, it's not like I meant to!" he exclaimed. "You don't understand!"
"That's right, I don't, because I would never do it!"
B.J.'s building anger over the refused apology came to an abrupt halt. As he stood there, staring at Hawkeye, he felt the full weight of responsibility coming to settle on his shoulders. He sank onto a nearby bench, wracked by guilt. He stared at his shoes for several moments before he could bring himself to look his friend in the eye. "I can be a real monster, can't I?" he asked quietly.
Hawkeye stepped over the bench and sat next to him. "No," he reassured him. "Well. Sometimes." B.J. laughed wryly. Hawkeye smiled. "I'm sorry for what I said, too. I've done my own share of mean things. War gets to all of us, sometime or another. You go insane for a little while, we all do. Something awful happens and you slip."
"Man, do I slip," B.J. agreed. He sighed. "I'm always thinking of Erin, growing up thousands of miles away from me. Then Sleeping Beauty comes along and it really hits me: while I'm over here, fighting this stupid war, Erin is growing up without me, and I'm missing everything. I won't be there for her first word or her first step. I can't sit with her while she's drawing her crayon pictures. Even the doll I sent her for Christmas was probably smashed to pieces on the trip."
Hawkeye put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Beej," he said. They sat in silence for a while.
"Hawk?"
"Yeah?"
"Sleeping Beauty's got Doll's Eyes. She's braindead."
*****
Frank Burns lost his good cheer the moment he left Hawkeye and B.J. in the mess tent, beginning to skulk angrily across the camp. He hesitated in front of Margaret's tent, bouncing on his feet. Should he go in to her? He could beg for her forgiveness (whatever he had done to offend her). He could lavish her with kisses and praise of her beauty. He took a step forward, and had his hand on the doorknob before he noticed her light was out. She was already asleep. With a plaintive whine, Frank sulked back to his tent.
He could see the silhouette of a woman inside, standing next to the center pole. Probably one of Pierce's little dates, Frank thought. He must have forgotten her. As he opened the door, he drew in his breath to say something snide, but the woman who turned to face him was Margaret herself.
All the hot air leaked out of him like wind from a punctured balloon. He started to move towards her, but no, he had his pride. This was the same woman who, not long ago, had scorned his attention without even bothering to give an explanation. And now she was back? Well, just see if he would go crawling back to her!
"Frank --" she began, raising a hand towards him. She didn't get to finish.
Frank leapt at her, flinging himself onto his knees and grabbing her hand to smother with kisses. "Margaret, oh, Margaret!" he punctuated his kisses. "Oh, I've missed you so!" He threw his arms around her waist and hobbled closer to her on his knees.
Putting a hand in his hair, Margaret looked up and rolled her eyes. "Get on your feet, Frank," she commanded shortly, and he obeyed. Her smile, at first hard and strict, softened as she stared into his watery blue eyes. "I've missed you, too, Frank," she said composedly.
Frank still had her hand in his; now he tightened his grip on it convulsively, worried by her calmness towards him. "You are back, aren't you, Margaret? We're friends again? 'Cause I don't know what I did to make you angry with me but I promise I will never -- ever -- do it again." His kunckles were white from pressing her hand.
"Frank, your grip is so strong," Margaret purred, looking down at his hand. Frank dropped her hand quickly, thinking he'd hurt her. She picked his hand up again in her own and drew him to his cot, where she sat down with him beside her. "Yes, Frank, I'm back," she said. "I've come back to apologize for turning on you. I thought --" Frank cut her off again, wrapping her in his arms.
"Oh, I don't care what for, Margaret. You don't need to apologize! We're together again, that's what's important." Tilting his head on its side, he began leveling kisses at her throat, sometimes clumsily bumping her jaw with his nose. Margaret raised her chin up, allowing him to kiss her, but her eyes were unfocused and her attention was elsewhere.
The memory of Sleeping Beauty's empty eyes kept crossing her mind. Brain-dead Sleeping Beauty had no one to care for her, no one who remembered her, and if she ever had, they were lost to her now. Because I thought you would forget me, Margaret thought, mentally completing her apology. And I'm still afraid you will.