It was halfway through his Post Op shift that BJ spotted Potter rushing around in the adjoining office. Slipping through the door, he watched for a minute as the elder man ran around the room, opening files, shifting papers on Radar's desk, tearing the place apart.
"Colonel?"
"Oh, BJ good. Go and scrub, Radar says to expect a fresh batch of wounded at any moment."
"Can I help you look for something?" Potter straightened up, and turned to face BJ.
"No, no, that's alright. I was just searching for a number -- HQ's." Turning back to the desk, he added, "I'd hurry and scrub. Radar thinks we won't have a moment to waste."
As BJ began to turn back through the door, the haunting sound of choppers echoed about.
"I'll never understand how that kid does it."
"I don't think we're meant to." Potter began to half-heartedly reorganize the mess he was making. "I've got Hawkeye doing Triage, and with Frank gone we'll be a little short, but I think we'll manage. No, go on, head out."
BJ nodded and sprinted through the doors to Pre Op. It was there Hawkeye found the man, hopping about as he struggled to tug on the freshly laundered white pants. As BJ pulled for a mask, motioning a nurse nearby to tie it, he asked, "How bad is it?"
"Hardly. We'll do just fine, a few hours at most." A pause and then, "Beej, I'm sorry. For how I was acting."
"No I'm -- I'm the one who should be sorry."
Hawkeye just nodded, switching the sink on and plunging his hands under the water. "There's a kid, Evans or something, he's been hit pretty bad. Chest is torn open, a rib may be puncturing a lung, and there's a bit of shrapnel surrounding the heart. He's got a small chance, but we've got to try. Think you can manage?"
"How small is the chance?"
"In Triage, he started as a three and moved up to a one as a whimsical hope."
BJ nodded. "The guy will be better than new."
Hawkeye smiled beneath the mask that was being tied on, and the two men quickly darted into the operating theater, ready to start their grisly work.
***
"Suction."
Hawkeye glanced up from the kidney he was prodding at to see BJ pull another piece of shrapnel from the Evans patient. It was quickly moving into the third hour of OR, and BJ had yet to touch another man. "How's it going Beej?"
"What? It's going, uh -- clamp -- it's going as best as it can."
Potter motioned for the nurse to close as he shouted for another man. "The lung?"
"It's fine. The man's pulse is slowing down to a normal speed, and his breathing seems regular. I think he may --" BJ cut off, brow furrowing.
"Thank the Lord." A nearby Father Mulcahy muttered, crossing himself.
Hawkeye raised an eyebrow. "Think, or know?"
"I -- there's one last piece I can't seem to -- there." Grinning, he looked Hawkeye straight in the eye as he said, "I know." He dropped the shrapnel into a nearby tin, satisfied by the pinging noise that rang. "Klinger! Get me a new one, this man's done."
"Yes, sir."
"Move him carefully, he's not out of the woods yet."
"Yes, Colonel Potter."
Hawkeye set down his needle, saying, "This one can be moved into Post Op, post haste." Snapping of his gloves, he asked a passing nurse, "How many more men?"
"Six at best."
BJ slipped a fresh pair of gloves on as a new man was brought in. Hawkeye quickly pulled his own pair on, and the two men set to work on their respective patients. "Beej? Great job back there."
"You did good, son."
BJ nodded and replied only with, "Suction."
The OR bustled with activity as the three men concentrated on piecing the men before them back together.
***
It wasn't until a few hours later that Hawkeye and BJ managed to stumble back into the Swamp. Grateful as they were for a rather short OR session, they were even more grateful it was over, and celebrated over a glass or two of gin from the still. As he poured himself the martini, BJ stared almost defiantly at Hawkeye, waiting for the other man to protest his drunken intent. Hawkeye sat silently on his cot, lips pursed, sipping at his own martini, acting as if he didn't think alcohol was the last thing BJ needed. BJ just smiled, and sank into his own cot.
After a few moments of silence, broken only by the occasional sipping sound, Hawkeye set his glass down and began with all seriousness, "Beej? I don't want you to get angry again, but -- I'm only saying this because I want you to get over your -- to get past this."
"Hawk?"
Hawkeye stood up and began to refill his martini glass. "Sidney's been in camp a few days now, you can't keep avoiding him. You've got the man so worried he -- not to mention how worried I --" Hawkeye cut off, sinking into his cot.
BJ sighed, setting down his half-empty glass. "I will. I just haven't been able to yet. But I will."
Hawkeye nodded his agreement, casting around for a quick change of subject. "What you did for Evans, that was -- well -- good work, you hear? Not many could have handled -- I'm sure he'll want to thank you when he comes to."
BJ stood up, opening the stove door to restart the fire, shivering as he did so. "Just wish I never had to fix him up in the first place."
Hawkeye could only nod as he wearily sank further into his cot. BJ quickly followed suit. They sat there, silent, for a few moments, both too tired to talk. After awhile, Hawkeye broke the tranquility of it all, offering, "To the Officer's Club we go, and I'll buy you a drink."
"You have no money."
"Can I borrow five bucks?" BJ raised an eyebrow. "I'll need a bit extra to buy a drink for my date."
"Which nurse?"
"I'm not sure yet."
Laughing, BJ stood up, holding out a hand to pull Hawkeye to his feet. As the two men made their way to the door, Radar burst through, toppling into them. As limbs were untangled and apologies exchanged, the young Corporal blurted out, "BJ, sir, it Evans. His pulse is dropping and he's struggling to breathe. The nurse said to hurry quick, he's in bad shape."
The words had hardly passed Radar's lips when BJ took of running as quick as he could in the direction of Post Op, Hawkeye on his heels. Radar spun around, racing after the two men, shouting to BJ instructions the nurse had given to him. They arrived in record time to catch sight of a frantic nurse and a weakening Evans. Without missing a beat BJ began to check the man's vital signs, worry etched in his face. Hawkeye watched, solemn, Radar peering over his shoulder to get a peek himself.
"It's that damn infection going around." BJ muttered to Hawkeye, as he counted heart beats, "Taking it's toll on the kid, and it isn't wasting anytime."
"Has a habit of showing up unexpectedly. Reminds me of Mom's sister Ethel. Never once called ahead, just dropped in without an invite."
Radar paused, thoughtful, before replying, "I'd say the whole war is like that, sir."
"I'd say you were right, Radar." There was silence for a moment, before --
"Nurse! Adrenaline, quick." BJ dropped the wrist he held, as he began to push down on the man's chest, using all the force he could muster. "Nurse!"
Radar backed away from the activity that was rapidly picking up, eyes wide. "Hawkeye, is he --"
A nurse came running, jostling Radar out of the way in the process. As Hawkeye tore the syringe from her hands, jabbing the needle into Evans, BJ continued pressing the chest, harder and quicker now, a faint line of sweat lining his forehead.
Hawkeye reached for the wrist dangling in front of Radar, seizing it with a searching look on his face. "Nothing yet."
It was then that Radar, tears beginning to well up, turned and slowly walked into his office, crying the moment he reached the comfort of his cot. He lay there, feeling helpless, for a few minutes, unable to bring himself to move until BJ walked in.
It was the haunting look in the Captain's eyes, the look that left his face empty, as if he were nothing more than a body, a shell, that scared Radar. As BJ spoke, his voice faint as if he were miles away, his face blank and emotionless, Radar felt a shiver run down his back. The only sign of life in the other man's eyes were the tears that were being held back with every ounce of self-control the older man possessed.
"Radar, get me a death certificate, and a pen."
Radar complied as BJ shuffled out of the office, moving as if he weren't there, absentmindedly scratching at his arm as he walked.
