Chapter Two: Here's To Hell
~~
BJ was the first to finish surgery, and he took advantage of this. Usually, he would hang around, to see if anyone needed any assistance, but not today. Today, he was heading straight for the Swamp, to pour himself a swift drink.
He hadn't told anyone about the letter. Usually, Hawkeye would be the first to know about any news from home, good or bad, but BJ had let the letter drop to the ground and float under his cot where it still lay, untouched, like BJ couldn't bring himself to read it again. He had kept his problems to himself, and had adapted to trying to carry on with life as normal, as if nothing had happened.
Nothing had been the same since he had got that letter. Since that unspeakable day, BJ had felt that everything had become a shade darker in colour, not to say that the war had been a bundle of joy before, but getting that letter had amplified everything to become ten times worse. He felt that he had nothing to live for now, that even when the war was over there would be nothing at home for him.
BJ had a gut feeling that Peg would have a hard time choosing between him and this James Owen. The first factor was that Peg and James were both at home, and he, BJ was in Korea, thousands of miles away. Secondly, Peg had always said that she had admired and liked older men, and this man was a good ten years older than she and BJ were, and thirdly, he had a good career as an English teacher. BJ, of course, had a worthy career, but he was not very far ahead in it, having only recently finished his residency, and it sounded like James Owen was a well-respected member of staff in that school.
It was a fairly uncharacteristic decision on BJ's part for him to just give up without a fight, but then it was a fairly unusual situation for him to be placed in. At first, even as he read the letter, all BJ felt was disbelief. He imagined it to be some kind of a joke set up by someone, but then as he read on the despair of the reality of the situation sunk in, and he knew that no one could pull as cruel a joke as this.
He didn't try to contact his wife, he had that much respect for her wishes, no matter how much he yearned to speak to her on the phone. At the same time, though, he was glad that he did not have to, to hear her speak to him after reading that letter, to hear her sweet voice tell him that she wanted James instead would break his heart. At least now he had this feeling of "maybe, maybe not," and some hope to hang on to, but with each passing day that string of hope began to weaken.
"Here's to the end of another day in Hell," BJ said to no one in particular, glancing outside at the starry Korean night sky. He knocked the drink back before pouring another one and lying back on his cot, playing idly with the rim of the glass.
BJ had spent the past week spiralling into a deep, dark hole of depression. He was drunk in the evening of the day he had received the letter, drunk past caring. He had woken up in Colonel Potter's office early the next morning, not altogether sure how he had ended up there. He had drinks more than usual since that day, in an attempt to drown his sorrows and create a void for the pain for a few hours, until he woke up in the morning with a different kind of pain, this one in his head.
He had also become quieter than usual, more reserved to talk and make jokes. This had been a slow, gradual process and only a few select people had noticed this change, and those people had assumed it was just an off- week and that BJ's spirits would pick up soon enough. After all, everyone had their off-week once in a while, it was all part of being at war.
BJ was nearing the bottom of his third or fourth glass when Hawkeye walked into the Swamp, still wearing his blood-covered scrubs, and made a beeline for the Still. "You got a head start," Hawkeye muttered, pouring himself a drink.
"You'll soon catch up," BJ said, his tone a drowsy and almost-drunk murmur.
"How many have you had?" Hawkeye asked casually, not meaning any harm in the question.
"Who's counting?" BJ retorted huffily.
"Apparently not you," Hawkeye said, slightly affronted at being talked back to, before knocking back his drink and pouring himself a second.
The alcohol would be getting to BJ faster that day, as he had eaten nothing since dinner the previous evening. BJ didn't mind though, in fact this pleased him, as the quicker he could escape the reality of the war, the world, his wife, the better.
The toxin began to seep through into him, and it soon took effect. As he went up to make himself what he thought was his fifth, not that he was really counting, he asked Hawkeye, "Where's Chuckles?"
"He went to take a shower," Hawkeye told him. "He'll be back in here soon, to try and catch up on all the sleep he missed out on whilst he was pretending to rest in Tokyo."
"Ooh-oh, what was Chuckles up to when he was supposed to be R&R-ing in Tokyo? Was he trying to R&R with some other lady of the female persuasion?"
"Who, Charles? I'll bet he was fighting them off," Hawkeye joked.
Hawkeye smiled as the conversation lapsed into silence, a smile that turned into a frown as he worked through thoughts. At first he smiled, because he and BJ were bantering again, like they usually did. The smile turned to a frown when Hawkeye realised that the only reason this had happened was because BJ was drunk, and he himself was heading that way. Hawkeye hoped that BJ would soon find his way out of his depression and lay off the drinking, before his liver started complaining.
"S-so, who's on Post-Op duty?" BJ asked, slurring slightly as he spoke.
"Colonel Potter," Hawkeye said, glancing over at BJ. His friend could not have been out of surgery for more than an hour, yet he seemed to have quickly reached the latter stages of being drunk. He saw BJ move to the Still, and stopped him. "Come on, you've had enough."
BJ was taken aback by this, and commented, "I never thought I'd ever hear you say something like that, s-specially coming from you."
"Well, I'm usually at the same level as you, so whatever I see tends to be more blurred than this," Hawkeye explained, still standing defiantly in front of the Still. "Come on, you really don't need anymore."
BJ was about to protest when he stopped himself. He still had enough sober sense to know that the last thing he needed right then was an argument, and so he shrugged and said, "Whatever you say." He flopped down on his cot, albeit a little unsteadily, and began to drift to sleep.
Hawkeye watched, and could only shake his head, thinking to himself that war didn't only affect those fighting in it, but it hurt everyone. "To the end of the war," he silently toasted, before drinking his third and final glass for the evening.
~~~~
~~
BJ was the first to finish surgery, and he took advantage of this. Usually, he would hang around, to see if anyone needed any assistance, but not today. Today, he was heading straight for the Swamp, to pour himself a swift drink.
He hadn't told anyone about the letter. Usually, Hawkeye would be the first to know about any news from home, good or bad, but BJ had let the letter drop to the ground and float under his cot where it still lay, untouched, like BJ couldn't bring himself to read it again. He had kept his problems to himself, and had adapted to trying to carry on with life as normal, as if nothing had happened.
Nothing had been the same since he had got that letter. Since that unspeakable day, BJ had felt that everything had become a shade darker in colour, not to say that the war had been a bundle of joy before, but getting that letter had amplified everything to become ten times worse. He felt that he had nothing to live for now, that even when the war was over there would be nothing at home for him.
BJ had a gut feeling that Peg would have a hard time choosing between him and this James Owen. The first factor was that Peg and James were both at home, and he, BJ was in Korea, thousands of miles away. Secondly, Peg had always said that she had admired and liked older men, and this man was a good ten years older than she and BJ were, and thirdly, he had a good career as an English teacher. BJ, of course, had a worthy career, but he was not very far ahead in it, having only recently finished his residency, and it sounded like James Owen was a well-respected member of staff in that school.
It was a fairly uncharacteristic decision on BJ's part for him to just give up without a fight, but then it was a fairly unusual situation for him to be placed in. At first, even as he read the letter, all BJ felt was disbelief. He imagined it to be some kind of a joke set up by someone, but then as he read on the despair of the reality of the situation sunk in, and he knew that no one could pull as cruel a joke as this.
He didn't try to contact his wife, he had that much respect for her wishes, no matter how much he yearned to speak to her on the phone. At the same time, though, he was glad that he did not have to, to hear her speak to him after reading that letter, to hear her sweet voice tell him that she wanted James instead would break his heart. At least now he had this feeling of "maybe, maybe not," and some hope to hang on to, but with each passing day that string of hope began to weaken.
"Here's to the end of another day in Hell," BJ said to no one in particular, glancing outside at the starry Korean night sky. He knocked the drink back before pouring another one and lying back on his cot, playing idly with the rim of the glass.
BJ had spent the past week spiralling into a deep, dark hole of depression. He was drunk in the evening of the day he had received the letter, drunk past caring. He had woken up in Colonel Potter's office early the next morning, not altogether sure how he had ended up there. He had drinks more than usual since that day, in an attempt to drown his sorrows and create a void for the pain for a few hours, until he woke up in the morning with a different kind of pain, this one in his head.
He had also become quieter than usual, more reserved to talk and make jokes. This had been a slow, gradual process and only a few select people had noticed this change, and those people had assumed it was just an off- week and that BJ's spirits would pick up soon enough. After all, everyone had their off-week once in a while, it was all part of being at war.
BJ was nearing the bottom of his third or fourth glass when Hawkeye walked into the Swamp, still wearing his blood-covered scrubs, and made a beeline for the Still. "You got a head start," Hawkeye muttered, pouring himself a drink.
"You'll soon catch up," BJ said, his tone a drowsy and almost-drunk murmur.
"How many have you had?" Hawkeye asked casually, not meaning any harm in the question.
"Who's counting?" BJ retorted huffily.
"Apparently not you," Hawkeye said, slightly affronted at being talked back to, before knocking back his drink and pouring himself a second.
The alcohol would be getting to BJ faster that day, as he had eaten nothing since dinner the previous evening. BJ didn't mind though, in fact this pleased him, as the quicker he could escape the reality of the war, the world, his wife, the better.
The toxin began to seep through into him, and it soon took effect. As he went up to make himself what he thought was his fifth, not that he was really counting, he asked Hawkeye, "Where's Chuckles?"
"He went to take a shower," Hawkeye told him. "He'll be back in here soon, to try and catch up on all the sleep he missed out on whilst he was pretending to rest in Tokyo."
"Ooh-oh, what was Chuckles up to when he was supposed to be R&R-ing in Tokyo? Was he trying to R&R with some other lady of the female persuasion?"
"Who, Charles? I'll bet he was fighting them off," Hawkeye joked.
Hawkeye smiled as the conversation lapsed into silence, a smile that turned into a frown as he worked through thoughts. At first he smiled, because he and BJ were bantering again, like they usually did. The smile turned to a frown when Hawkeye realised that the only reason this had happened was because BJ was drunk, and he himself was heading that way. Hawkeye hoped that BJ would soon find his way out of his depression and lay off the drinking, before his liver started complaining.
"S-so, who's on Post-Op duty?" BJ asked, slurring slightly as he spoke.
"Colonel Potter," Hawkeye said, glancing over at BJ. His friend could not have been out of surgery for more than an hour, yet he seemed to have quickly reached the latter stages of being drunk. He saw BJ move to the Still, and stopped him. "Come on, you've had enough."
BJ was taken aback by this, and commented, "I never thought I'd ever hear you say something like that, s-specially coming from you."
"Well, I'm usually at the same level as you, so whatever I see tends to be more blurred than this," Hawkeye explained, still standing defiantly in front of the Still. "Come on, you really don't need anymore."
BJ was about to protest when he stopped himself. He still had enough sober sense to know that the last thing he needed right then was an argument, and so he shrugged and said, "Whatever you say." He flopped down on his cot, albeit a little unsteadily, and began to drift to sleep.
Hawkeye watched, and could only shake his head, thinking to himself that war didn't only affect those fighting in it, but it hurt everyone. "To the end of the war," he silently toasted, before drinking his third and final glass for the evening.
~~~~