The news of Hawkeye's mysterious malady, though it would most definitely
have had equal footing if he had, in fact, died, was drowned in the
spreading rumors of the return of Henry Blake. Lights switched on as dark
figures rand from tent to tent with the news, and soon not one eye was shut
in the entire compound. Except, of course, for Hawkeye's. He was sleeping
peacefully, and every once in a while a new IV was brought him.
Henry stayed at Hawkeye's bedside as long as he was able. But when the nurses and other hospital staff came wandering in in hordes to see whether he was really there or not, he eventually had to cede the place. B.J., Potter, Radar and Klinger had congregated in Potter's office, and were waiting for him.
"How's he?" started Potter, all business.
"Oh, just fine. Well, stable, that is." Henry affably replied.
It was B.J.'s turn to speak up. "You! From last night! Why didn't you tell me you were Colonel Blake?"
Henry kind of smirked, "Well, I didn't know I was supposed to be---", he started, but his face fell into a more serious expression as Radar's eyes met his through those smudged spectacles of his.
"Dead." He finished. "Hey, kid, looks like we had our reunion a little earlier than we'd planned, hm?" As he spoke, the look on Radar's face nearly caused him to weep from the pure outpouring of emotion. The rest of the group was silent in respect for the moment that Henry realized how torn up Radar must have been by the report of his death. As if to prove that he was real, he stepped over, tilting his head down to look into the somewhat lower eyes of the corporal, and hugged him closely, rubbing his hands up and down his back in a "cheer-up," kind of gesture, saying, "Come on, Radar, it's me. I'm fine. Really." Stepping back, keeping his hands on Radar's arms, he noticed the boy trembling a bit from his own cold touch, and withdrew his hands.
He suddenly recalled that he wasn't breathing, and took a deep breath, trying to get into the habit of it again. Smirking a bit, he blew on his hands. Of course, the air stayed the temperature of the office, but he rubbed his hands together, commenting, "It's getting cold out there, already, hm? Winter comes on fast here." He grimaced slightly, "Not five minutes, and I'm already talking about the weather." A light chuckle ran over the tent, relieving some of the tension.
"So," spoke up Klinger, "I suppose you know that the loss of a loved one, followed by their miraculous return to life, can inflict severe psychological confusion, can even bring on episodes of--"
"He still at it?" Henry asked Potter.
"Non-stop." Potter agreed, giving Klinger an annoyed look.
"Can't say as I'm susprised." He looked over the long black nightgown with the lacy top that was almost indistinguishable from the corpsman's thick chest hair and shook his head.
Klinger looked down at himself, as well. "Oh, God! What am I thinking?!" he cracked a grin, "You're alive again, Colonel! I can stop trying to find new pieces for my all-black wardrobe."
Henry looked incredulous, "Klinger-"
"No, Klinger's telling the truth, Henry. Sometime you ought to see the little number he did up, the one with the bow in the back. Nothing flashy- and such a neat little veil." B.J. began to rattle on, filling the space with a chipper prattle. "A perfect little old widowed something-or-other."
Henry leaned back against the wall, smiling at the reports of Klinger's high jinks. Through the light fog of alcohol-laced blood, however, came the cutting last words of the surgeon. "Oh, God!" he mumbled, his eyes growing wide with panic as he remembered the notice which must have already gotten home by this point.
Radar was halfway out the door, "I'll get her on the phone right away, sir."
"Radar, get my wife on the phone right away," Henry was meantime prattling, standing up straight again in concern.
Potter nodded approbation, obviously feeling Henry's concern.
"Oh, God," Henry repeated, "Lorraine. . ."
"Majors Burns and Houlihan to see you sir," Radar spoke, poking his head in just ahead of the barging majors, who had just returned from a coincidentally simultaneous weekend of R&R in Seoul.
"Show them in." the two Colonels replied in unison.
"Err-" Henry smiled a jauntily deferring smile at Potter.
"Colonel Potter!" Hot Lips cried, dragging the pale Ferret Face in her wake. Frank's eyes focused on Henry, and his mouth gaped open. It opened and shut a few times, until he began to resemble a fish.
"Major Burns and I demand to know the reason why the entire camp is up and about so late at night. It's highly unmilitary. When you came here, Frank was, of course, disappointed that he hadn't gotten the command, but he-we had high expectations that your command would bring with it some level of military authority! We seriously hope that this camp won't revert to the fiasco it was with Henry Blake in charge," she warned. "Don't we, Frank." She added to punctuate her statement. "Frank?"
She looked from Potter to Frank, then slowly turned, following the direction of his boggling eyes. Henry lifted a hand and briefly wiggled his fingers in a wave, a slightly amused expression perched jovially on his features.
Margaret nearly fainted. As it was, she had to sit down.
"You. You're. . ."
"Yeah, well," Henry cut her statement short, really tired of hearing how alive he was.
"Your plane crashed! You mean, you survived?" Margaret found her feet again, "But look at you. . . you look horrible."
"Gee, thanks, Major." Henry chortled.
"She's not kidding, Henry," B.J. affirmed. "You're really pale."
"You should probably get checked out, Blake," Potter threw in, the voice of authority. "You might feel alright, but you never know. A plane crash isn't exactly something one would expect you to come through intact, much less without any damage at all."
Henry shifted a bit, "No," he stated as their petitions died off. "No way. I'm not going through any examination," he concluded, a slice of his hand through the air lending authority to his statement.
"In blue blazes, why not, Blake?" Potter queried.
"Why don't you ask Hawkeye?" A light voice called from the doorway. Father Mulcahy had just entered, a cloud of disapproving gloom over his normally bright face.
~
Henry stayed at Hawkeye's bedside as long as he was able. But when the nurses and other hospital staff came wandering in in hordes to see whether he was really there or not, he eventually had to cede the place. B.J., Potter, Radar and Klinger had congregated in Potter's office, and were waiting for him.
"How's he?" started Potter, all business.
"Oh, just fine. Well, stable, that is." Henry affably replied.
It was B.J.'s turn to speak up. "You! From last night! Why didn't you tell me you were Colonel Blake?"
Henry kind of smirked, "Well, I didn't know I was supposed to be---", he started, but his face fell into a more serious expression as Radar's eyes met his through those smudged spectacles of his.
"Dead." He finished. "Hey, kid, looks like we had our reunion a little earlier than we'd planned, hm?" As he spoke, the look on Radar's face nearly caused him to weep from the pure outpouring of emotion. The rest of the group was silent in respect for the moment that Henry realized how torn up Radar must have been by the report of his death. As if to prove that he was real, he stepped over, tilting his head down to look into the somewhat lower eyes of the corporal, and hugged him closely, rubbing his hands up and down his back in a "cheer-up," kind of gesture, saying, "Come on, Radar, it's me. I'm fine. Really." Stepping back, keeping his hands on Radar's arms, he noticed the boy trembling a bit from his own cold touch, and withdrew his hands.
He suddenly recalled that he wasn't breathing, and took a deep breath, trying to get into the habit of it again. Smirking a bit, he blew on his hands. Of course, the air stayed the temperature of the office, but he rubbed his hands together, commenting, "It's getting cold out there, already, hm? Winter comes on fast here." He grimaced slightly, "Not five minutes, and I'm already talking about the weather." A light chuckle ran over the tent, relieving some of the tension.
"So," spoke up Klinger, "I suppose you know that the loss of a loved one, followed by their miraculous return to life, can inflict severe psychological confusion, can even bring on episodes of--"
"He still at it?" Henry asked Potter.
"Non-stop." Potter agreed, giving Klinger an annoyed look.
"Can't say as I'm susprised." He looked over the long black nightgown with the lacy top that was almost indistinguishable from the corpsman's thick chest hair and shook his head.
Klinger looked down at himself, as well. "Oh, God! What am I thinking?!" he cracked a grin, "You're alive again, Colonel! I can stop trying to find new pieces for my all-black wardrobe."
Henry looked incredulous, "Klinger-"
"No, Klinger's telling the truth, Henry. Sometime you ought to see the little number he did up, the one with the bow in the back. Nothing flashy- and such a neat little veil." B.J. began to rattle on, filling the space with a chipper prattle. "A perfect little old widowed something-or-other."
Henry leaned back against the wall, smiling at the reports of Klinger's high jinks. Through the light fog of alcohol-laced blood, however, came the cutting last words of the surgeon. "Oh, God!" he mumbled, his eyes growing wide with panic as he remembered the notice which must have already gotten home by this point.
Radar was halfway out the door, "I'll get her on the phone right away, sir."
"Radar, get my wife on the phone right away," Henry was meantime prattling, standing up straight again in concern.
Potter nodded approbation, obviously feeling Henry's concern.
"Oh, God," Henry repeated, "Lorraine. . ."
"Majors Burns and Houlihan to see you sir," Radar spoke, poking his head in just ahead of the barging majors, who had just returned from a coincidentally simultaneous weekend of R&R in Seoul.
"Show them in." the two Colonels replied in unison.
"Err-" Henry smiled a jauntily deferring smile at Potter.
"Colonel Potter!" Hot Lips cried, dragging the pale Ferret Face in her wake. Frank's eyes focused on Henry, and his mouth gaped open. It opened and shut a few times, until he began to resemble a fish.
"Major Burns and I demand to know the reason why the entire camp is up and about so late at night. It's highly unmilitary. When you came here, Frank was, of course, disappointed that he hadn't gotten the command, but he-we had high expectations that your command would bring with it some level of military authority! We seriously hope that this camp won't revert to the fiasco it was with Henry Blake in charge," she warned. "Don't we, Frank." She added to punctuate her statement. "Frank?"
She looked from Potter to Frank, then slowly turned, following the direction of his boggling eyes. Henry lifted a hand and briefly wiggled his fingers in a wave, a slightly amused expression perched jovially on his features.
Margaret nearly fainted. As it was, she had to sit down.
"You. You're. . ."
"Yeah, well," Henry cut her statement short, really tired of hearing how alive he was.
"Your plane crashed! You mean, you survived?" Margaret found her feet again, "But look at you. . . you look horrible."
"Gee, thanks, Major." Henry chortled.
"She's not kidding, Henry," B.J. affirmed. "You're really pale."
"You should probably get checked out, Blake," Potter threw in, the voice of authority. "You might feel alright, but you never know. A plane crash isn't exactly something one would expect you to come through intact, much less without any damage at all."
Henry shifted a bit, "No," he stated as their petitions died off. "No way. I'm not going through any examination," he concluded, a slice of his hand through the air lending authority to his statement.
"In blue blazes, why not, Blake?" Potter queried.
"Why don't you ask Hawkeye?" A light voice called from the doorway. Father Mulcahy had just entered, a cloud of disapproving gloom over his normally bright face.
~