"How does this sound?" BJ laid down his pen, turning to where Hawkeye stood beside the still, peering over his shoulder at the paper before him. "'Dear Peg'." Sighing, he set the paper down.
"Well, I think that says it all, right there." Hawkeye crossed the tent, making his way to his cot. As he began to pull back the blankets and slide between the scratchy sheets, he asked, "What happened to the other letter you were writing this morning?"
"I tossed it. I couldn't find a way to explain -- it just didn't sound right. Didn't do the situation justice." BJ picked the pen up again, setting it back down immediately, and crumpling up the sheet of paper, tossed it into the stove. Leaning over, he quickly and forcefully slammed the stove door close.
Hawkeye lowered the blankets, peeking out at BJ.
"The stove started it, I swear."
The taller man stood up, and began to pace. "Hawk, how they hell do I -- how can I make her understand? How can I tell her something like this, and expect her to miraculously understand? I can't do this to her, tell her that her husband's cracking up, ruining himself. I can't --" Mind elsewhere, BJ began to ready for bed, scrambling for the shirt he normally wore asleep, a shirt Peg had sent him nearly three months ago.
Hawkeye watch as BJ slowly took his jacket off, exposing the stark white bandages covering his arms. Unable to tear his eyes away, he sat up on the cot. "Potter's going to know. Nothing much gets past that man, nothing like this."
"I know." BJ flopped, graceless, onto his cot.
"This could probably get you that Section Eight Klinger's been bucking for. Get you sent out of this hell."
Rolling over, the blonde man snapped out, "I know, Hawk, I know. Just drop it, will you."
Whatever retort he had was drowned out by the sound of an approaching jeep. Hawkeye jumped out to peer out the window of the Swamp. BJ lifted his head, turning it towards the offending noise.
"Wounded? At this hour?" Grumbling, he pulled himself up. "I suppose with Frank in Tokyo, it'll make the OR all the more pleasant."
"No need, BJ. It's just Sidney." Hawkeye turned around, darting his eyes at the bandages before catching BJ's eyes.
"Oh." As Hawkeye made his way back to his cot, BJ wrapped himself in the rough woolen blanket and turned away once more. "Oh."
"I'm here to relieve you." BJ glanced up from the chart he was reading to watch Hawkeye step silently around a sleeping patient and dart over.
"I just started my shift." Putting the chart back, he motioned to the near empty Post Op. "There's hardly anyone left in here, I think I'll manage on my own for the night." Closer up, BJ could notice the bags forming under Hawkeye's eyes and the sharp redness streaking outwards from the pupils. "You look like you haven't slept in days. Head back to the Swamp, I'll come get you when I think I've had my fill."
Hawkeye shook his head. "I could stay here and --"
It was then that BJ pushed his was past the dark haired man, and angrily muttered. "God dammit, Hawk, I'm not a child. I can manage in Post Op by myself for a night."
Hawkeye spun on his heels and cut right in front of the younger man's path. "I'm just trying to help. I didn't want you to --"
"Look, I know what you didn't want. You really think I'm so much better back in the Swamp all alone, with only the still? At least here I have a patient or two that I can --"
"You said yourself that you wanted me to be here for you. You're the one who said that maybe if you weren't alone --"
"I didn't mean you had to follow me every waking moment!" BJ stepped back, making his way across the room, saying all the way, "First it was in the Officer's Club, remember? You wouldn't let me get a damn drink, one lousy drink, told me it was a depressant. You stared at me in the Mess Tent any time I touched a knife to cut my food, Margaret thought you were losing it. Then you rope Radar into following me around on your shifts, poor kid doesn't even know why. Just does it because you asked him to. You watch me like a -- excuse the pun -- hawk, ever single moment!" One hand on the door, BJ paused. "I appreciate this, really I do, but I do not need to be watched all the time. If you turn your back I will not go straight to the nearest scalpel, I promise you. If I feel the need to, I will come to you, and then we'll deal with this. But until then, just -- just leave me alone, let me work through this as best as I can alone."
Hawkeye nodded, and began to walk past the rows of cots and through the door BJ held open. "Sure, Beej, sure. Whatever you say." He hesitated when he reached the man, just long enough to mutter. "I'm trying to understand, really, I am. I'm sorry if I seem in your way all the time, but I do not want you to --" Hawkeye just shook his head, and stepped out into the harsh winter weather. "I won't let that happen again."
BJ watched as the man staggered along the compound, shoulders hunched in defeat. Sighing, he turned back to the nearest chart, and began to check the man's heart rate.
"Come in." Father Mulcahy set his book down, smiling when he saw Sidney Freedman walk into the tent. Just as BJ had, nights before, the man quickly shut the door, eager to be out of the bitter cold.
"Father." His head bowed in greeting as Father Mulcahy stood, extending a hand. As he grasped it, Sidney said, "It's good to see you."
"You too, Sidney, you too." Sighing, he broke the handshake. "I just wish it were under better circumstances."
"Ah, yes, Potter told me you were the one I should be talking to."
"Please, have a seat."
As the two men sat down, making themselves comfortable, Sidney got straight to the business at hand. "What seems to be the problem? As far as I could make out over the static, Radar seems to think it was urgent."
"Yes, well, you see -- ah -- I'm not quite sure if it's as serious as Radar may have said. It very well may be, but I'm not quite sure. I thought it's be best to call you in any case."
Sidney leaned forward, eyes burrowing into the man fidgeting before him. "What is it, Father?"
"It's BJ." Father Mulcahy stood up, reaching for a coffee pot that sat nearby. Silently he offered some, continuing when he was refused. "He came into my tent a few nights ago. Wasn't sure who to talk to, it seems he had a bit of a problem on his hands -- oh, my, that probably wasn't the best way to put it."
"Go on."
The Father seemed to shake himself slightly. Carefully, he lowered himself into the chair. "He rolled up his sleeves, Sidney, and they were covered in these bandages, both of them, just covered. He told me he did it himself, that for a few weeks he's been hurting himself."
Sidney sighed, and tugged down on his hat. "I suppose it can't ever be easy in a war." Almost as if reluctant he stood up. "Did he say how long? How much damage is being done? Did it seem suicidal, perhaps, or was it just battle fatigue?"
Father Mulcahy shook his head slowly. "Since before Christmas, I think he said. He assured me they weren't serious -- serious cuts, and I even asked if they were based on suicidal thoughts. He said no, and I believe him. His eyes weren't lying to me." He hesitated before adding, "I don't think they were simply battle fatigue. He said something about a pain and how it -- well, you know."
Sidney nodded. Adjusting his hat once more, he made his way to the door. "Father? Calling me, that was really -- thank you. I'm sure BJ thanks you too. Lucky to have a Chaplin like you in the camp. Now if you excuse me, I think I must go and have a talked with the man."
He tipped his hat farewell and slipped out the door.
