"And nearly walked straight into me, I understand," Sidney said at the end of this tale of woe. "What an unfortunate accident."
"Don't you shrinks have a way of saying there are no accidents?" Trapper asked lazily.
"So we do, so we do," Sidney acquiesced, "however, even I can't think of any sinister motives Colonel Blake might have had in perpetrating this particular… accident. Unless of course he harbours a secret desire to remove Hawkeye from the equation altogether because of repressed feelings of inadequacy he experiences when placed next to his chief surgeon."
Trapper considered this for a few moments. "You gotta inject more humour into your jokes, Sidney," he suggested.
"I try my best," returned the psychiatrist humbly. "So… how long until Sleeping Beauty resurfaces?"
"About eight hours," Trapper replied, "and that was an interesting choice of words you used there."
"Stop!" Sidney said. "Enough. I object to being analysed by an inmate of the asylum."
"Talking of the asylum…" Trapper sighed, and the door opened on cue.
"Sirs!"
"Klinger," said Trapper and Sidney simultaneously.
"Dr Freedman!" Klinger's eyes shone with a sudden insane light.
"How goes it, Klinger?" asked the owner of the name wearily, and before Klinger could go on, he held up one hand. "Seventeen other guys, corporal. Bear that in mind before you say anything else."
"I've tried stowing away in a chopper!" Klinger cried. "I've sent the president a picture of me naked! I've eaten a jeep!"
"Has he?" Sidney asked, turning to Trapper in mild surprise.
Trapper nodded. "He has. You can see the X-rays if you like. Hawk's hanging on to them, he says he'll send them to the AMA after the war."
"I look forward to that," Sidney replied dryly.
"Well, sir?" Klinger demanded impatiently.
"No dice, Corporal," the psychiatrist returned. "There's a guy at the 8063rd who says he's a glass of orange juice. Won't let anyone near him for fear someone'll drink him."
Trapper, who had been just about to take a gulp of gin, lowered his glass at this statement.
Klinger appeared to take the news philosophically. "I'll be back," he promised, and removed himself from the Swamp.
"I'm sure he will," Sidney said, once he'd gone. "He's a real breath of fresh air, Klinger is."
"I'm sure," Trapper said, and relapsed into silence. The atmosphere of quiet was very uncharacteristic of the Swamp, and the psychiatrist felt the strangeness of it particularly keenly. Trapper appeared not to have noticed, gazing aimless around the tent. Sidney followed Trapper's gaze with his own eyes, and was suddenly seized by an old suspicion.
"Missing Hawkeye, Trapper?"
Trapper looked sharply at him, and then at Hawkeye, and then back at him. Sidney resisted the urge to say, "Aha," and waited for the other man to say something.
And then the door burst open.
It was Frank. It wasn't difficult to guess where he'd been, because it never was. Smiling wickedly, Trapper asked, "Where'd you go, Frank?"
"That's none of your beeswax," Frank snapped, glaring.
"How was she?"
Sidney stifled a giggle that threatened to escape.
"Major Houlihan," Trapper persisted. "I trust she was in good health?"
"Oh…" Frank seemed at a temporary loss for words. "She… she was… she was fine. That is, she was… oh."
Trapper blinked as Frank grew increasingly flustered. "That is, I mean, in terms of her health… oh…"
The door opened and closed in quick succession as Frank fled the scene of indiscretion, leaving Trapper and Sidney to their mirth. "In terms of her health!" Sidney repeated, laughing helplessly. "Oh, Trapper… you may have scarred that man permanently, do you realise?"
"What's your point?" Trapper asked, also choking with laughter.
After a minute which they both used to pull themselves together, Trapper put down his glass of gin. "No offence to you, Hawk," he said, "but this batch is even more vile than most."
Hawkeye gave no sign of having heard the remark, or in fact of having heard anything for the last quarter-century. He had even stopped twitching some time before, and was now lying face down with a blanket half over him, completely and utterly out of commission.
"I think I'd like some coffee," Trapper reflected. "Join me, doctor?"
"Certainly," Sidney replied, and then, pointing at Hawkeye's still form, added, "Although… is it a good idea to leave him alone?"
"He's just asleep," Trapper said easily. "He can't get into any trouble sleeping. I ought to know, I sleep with him."
Sidney raised his eyebrows.
"I meant," Trapper began, "literally. No, not literally, I mean, I sleep in the same tent, no…"
"Don't worry yourself, I know what you meant," Sidney said, stemming the flow and opening the door.
It wasn't until a little while afterwards that Trapper realised the psychiatrist's last statement wasn't as comforting as it seemed to be.
Out in the compound, they ran into a priest.
"Ah, Sidney," Father Mulcahy said, falling into step with them. "I understand you won't be joining us in our poker game tonight."
"So I believe, but that's because I was under the impression the game wasn't taking place at all."
"Hawkeye's indisposed," the priest said thoughtfully, "but we wouldn't be able to wake him no matter how much noise we make."
"Why not hold the game, Trapper?" Sidney asked. "I'm sure Colonel Blake would agree."
"I'm sure," said Trapper dryly. "I just didn't think… yeah, okay. Let's hold the game. We can put a pillow over Hawk's head if he gets fractious."
Father Mulcahy held back so he could say a few words to the psychiatrist. "When he talks about Hawkeye, I'm never quite sure if he's joking or not," he complained.
Sidney only smiled.