Author: Elanor
Pairing: Hawkeye / Radar
Rating: PG this chapter
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to anything and I am making no
profit from this story.
Archive - yes please!

AFTER HENRY

CHAPTER TWO

The company of the 4077th gathered sombrely to pay their last respects to their late commanding officer. For the first time in his army career, Hawkeye Pierce stood to attention and saluted while Radar and Klinger with all due ceremony lowered the flag to half mast. One or two nurses were crying openly and even iron-drawers Margaret had tears shining in her eyes. Only Ferret-faced Burns remained unmoved by his company's grief – Henry's death was nothing more than a convenient way for him to get his grubby little paws on command.

And so Hawkeye saluted his commanding officer and friend, struggling to accept the fact that bungling, big-hearted Henry Blake was truly dead. It was the injustice that rankled. Yesterday he had waved goodbye to Henry as the chopper had flown him out of the army and he had been forced to come to terms, amid the tears of happiness, with the fact that he would probably never see Henry again. He had still been happy – Henry was returning home, to kiss his wife and finally hold the son he had never met. For that bright future to be ripped away from him was what Hawkeye couldn't accept.

Klinger now marched impeccably back to the ranks and, despite the heaviness of his heart, Hawkeye couldn't help but smile slightly at Klinger's attire: a tasteful black dress with veil and gloves. Radar marched to his place at Frank Burn's side and the company sat down. Hawkeye studied Radar's expression but the clerk's face was devoid of any emotion. Father Mulcahy took the lectern and Hawkeye knew how much it bothered the priest that there was no coffin to bless. No coffin, no stars and stripes shroud, no gun salute – just an empty place in people's hearts. As Mulcahy began his simple, heartfelt service Hawkeye's gaze was again drawn to Radar. There was something childlike and innocent about Radar, something that spoke of blue skies and apple pie. Amidst the blood and mutilated corpses, Radar's optimism and simple faith in humanity had been like a ray of hope to Hawkeye. The war had affected him, it had caused him anguish but he had always remained untainted, uncorrupted. Now as Hawkeye regarded him, he could see innocence shattered. Henry's death was one too many for this unassuming, gentle man. Radar returned Hawkeye's gaze not with grief or anger but with an expression of cynicism that hurt Hawkeye almost as much as the circumstances causing it. He had two more things to hate the war for – Henry's useless death and Radar's loss of innocence.

Mulcahy concluded his benediction and asked Hawkeye to take the lectern to deliver his eulogy. All morning he'd been trying to think of what to say. He wiped his sweaty palms on his neatly pressed trousers and unfolded his notes. He looked out at the congregation – Father Mulcahy smiling encouragingly, far too young and damn well nice to be sent to a shitty outfit like this, Margaret whose chin was lifted in defiance as though daring the tears in her eyes to fall, Frank smiling his smarmy empty smile, Trapper unusually still and sober and, lastly, Radar who impassively returned the regard – unusual for Radar who generally dropped eye contact as much as Frank dropped sterile instruments. Hawkeye cleared his throat, all the noble words fleeing. He'd got less than a sentence out when Trapper jumped to his feet, waving for silence.

"Did you hear that? Choppers!"

"What?" Margaret said, "I don't hear anything. If this is another school boy prank, don't you think it's in extremely bad – "

Hawkeye's gaze swung back to Radar but the man remained quiet. A moment or two later and Hawkeye heard the familiar sound himself. For a split second he hesitated, outrage surging inside him. He wanted to order everyone back to their seats, continue his eulogy and give Henry the send-off he deserved. With a muttered curse, he threw the prepared speech to the ground and began to sprint for the landing site. He threw a backward glance at Radar who hadn't pre-empted the choppers' arrival and whose gentle features were currently twisted in an ironic smirk.

Radar heaved a deep sigh and followed the others as they raced towards the chopper pad, doctors, nurses and support staff peeling off to their appointed tasks with the ease of long practise. Two choppers had already dispatched their cargo, another two positioning to land. He pulled back the gauze off the first casualty's head - half the guy's face seemed to be missing. Once, before Henry Blake wound up at the bottom of the sea in a million pieces, Radar would have had to crawl away to be sick at the sight, now he merely flipped the gauze back into place and prevented the orderlies from conveying the corpse to the ambulance. "Forget it, he's bought it."

He moved to the other side and the guy, who had a mangled leg, grabbed Radar's hand, almost mad with pain. "God, help me! The pain! You've gotta help me." Once, he would have called for painkillers or at least held the guy's hand and tried to soothe him. Now, with a perverse sense of pleasure, he retrieved his hand and offered a cynical shrug. "That's because you've been shot, Jenkins," he said callously. There was a burning feeling low down in his stomach but Radar ignored it. He felt rather than saw Hawkeye appear beside him.

"What we got, Radar?"

"Leg and a stiff."

Hawkeye shot him a look. "The 'stiff's' the one not groaning in agony, I assume?" He shot painkillers into the crying guy's arm and grabbed the front of the gurney. "It's okay, you're going to be okay. Let's get this guy into the ambulance. Immediate surgery."

Once the wounded man was stacked into the ambulance, Hawkeye fumbled for Radar's hand and, ignoring his instinctive flinch, pressed it to the man's bleeding leg. "Press down hard there, kid. How are supplies? Do we have enough blood in stock?"

Radar met his gaze. "Depends how much they bleed, I guess, captain."

In the O.R, Hawkeye threw a bloody sponge to the floor. "It's a pleasure to serve in a war which has such exquisite timing. We don't even get to honour our fallen comrade - or in this case our blown up and mangled comrade." He plugged a bleeding artery, having to blink hard at the tears he couldn't wipe away. "Goddammit! Some mighty fine send-off." He cast a glare at Mulcahy who was praying quietly, whether for the boy on the table or for Henry Hawkeye didn't know. "God's got a tremendous sense of humour, Father. He gives Henry his papers, gleefully has him blown into fish food and then, as an encore, interrupts his Memorial Service."

Mulcahy held Hawkeye's gaze. "God understands your anger, Hawkeye. There's no reason why we cannot continue Henry's service here." So saying, in a trembling voice that gradually gained in confidence Mulcahy began to sing 'Abide With Me'. One by one, the staff in the O.R joined in, their song in time being taken up by those in the compound.

Hawkeye accepted the sticky, yellowish stodge that Igor was trying to prise onto his tray with only a half-hearted dig at needing some glue for his boots, and looked round the mess tent. There was an atmosphere of anger and remorse so thick he could have cut it with his scalpel. He nudged Trapper and led the way to Radar's table. Klinger, still dressed in mourning, was lingering over his second cup of coffee in a transparent ploy to keep Radar company; Radar's body language suggested his efforts were wasted.

"Afternoon, sirs," Klinger greeted jovially. Radar didn't glance up from his untouched tray. "Don't eat the chicken."

"Which one's the chicken?" Trapper asked as Klinger gathered his tray and handbag in preparation for his shift. He patted Radar's shoulder in parting and Hawkeye saw Radar cringe from the contact.

"Don't forget your coffee, Klinger," he said as the man clicked away on his high heels, "the tents could do with a creosoting."

"Everything's a joke to you, isn't it?" Radar snapped uncharacteristically.

"Bad coffee is funny, Radar," Trapper said gently, "Henry's death isn't."

Hawkeye dropped his jokey demeanour and squeezed Radar's hand which was immediately retracted. "We loved Henry too. Don't block us out, okay?" He nudged Radar's tray. "I can't believe I'm suggesting this but try to eat something, Radar."

Radar suddenly leapt to his feet, his face contorted with rage. "I am not Radar! My name is Walter O'Riley."

The two men stared at him in frank astonishment but before they could speak or even process the implications, Margaret marched into view. Hawkeye saw a glimmer of compassion then her expression hardened. "Major Burns wants to see all officers – and you, corporal – immediately."

Hawkeye prodded his lunch and offered her an innocent smile. "Would it be too obvious if I said we don't want to see Major Burns? And is it me or did that piece of meat just move?"

"Now, corporal," Margaret bawled.

"Yes, sir," Radar said flatly.

"Ma'am, I'm a Ma'am!"

Radar regarded her almost with dislike. "If you say so."

Hawkeye exchanged a worried glance with Trapper and followed the pair out.

Frank Burns was signing papers with an air of importance when the others were marched in by Margaret. He pretended to sign a few forms, nearly knocked over his coffee, and finally leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.

"Salute men," he rapped.

Hawkeye, who had sprawled into a chair, crashed to attention and saluted Trapper and Radar. "Men," he barked, "I salute you." He turned to Margaret, a sly smirk on his face and saluted her too.

"Me!" squeaked Frank, "you're supposed to salute me."

Hawkeye resumed his seat with a bored sniff. "You're not a man, Frank. What do you want us for? Apart from a personality transplant?"

"Ha de ha. I'm in command now, Pierce. I can make your life hell."

"The war that killed my friend makes my life hell, Frank, you're nothing more than a minor irritant."

"There'll be no more slacking, no more slovenly behaviour. Regulation uniform will be worn by everyone, including that degenerate Klinger. And as for your lewdness, there will be no more consorting with nurses."

Trapper grinned and stared significantly at Margaret. "From anyone, Frank?"

Pierce put up his hand. "Please sir, Major Burns, sir."

Frank eyed him with deep suspicion. "What is it, captain?"

"Is there a manual for learning how to goosestep? And do I have to grow a Hitler moustache or can I buy one?"

Frank shuffled his papers, losing half of them on the floor, and tried to resume control. "I'm not a pushover like that half-witted fool before me - God rest his soul."

The door banged closed as Radar pointedly left the room. Hawkeye glared at Frank. "Oh, and speaking of that half-witted fool – God rest his soul, if He can find all the pieces of it – we're holding a wake for Henry at 19 hundred hours – that's when the little hand is at seven."

"That's right," Trapper continued, "and you're not invited."

"But Henry Blake was my friend," Frank whined.

"The word hypercritical was invented for you, Frank," Hawkeye said.

"Look it up in a dictionary. I'll give you a clue, it doesn't have anything to do with hippos."

"I know what it means, McIntyre. I took the Hippocratic Oath too, you know."

"Really – in crayon?" Hawkeye was getting sick of Frank's company. "Much as I am not enjoying this little chin-wag, I ask again, what do you want, Frank?"

"The major called you in to make you aware of his new status," Margaret replied when Frank looked lost.

"Has he been crowned King of Korea or something?"

"My new status as commanding officer of this MASH unit," Frank snapped petulantly, "Any more insubordination and I'll have both of you thrown in the klink, yes siree, Bob."

"Who's Bob? C'mon Frank, you wouldn't dare."

"Blake might have let you get away with infantile jokes, Pierce, and behaviour unbecoming to an officer but I won't. I can file a commander's report now and send it straight to General Hammond." At the captains' look of extreme boredom, he bawled, "Corporal!" He opened his mouth expecting Radar to have already materialised miraculously at his side but no Radar appeared. Pouting slightly, he called again. Eventually Radar entered, regarding Burns with an expression of thinly veiled disgust.

"Corporal, I called you."

"I didn't hear. Sir. Did you want something?"

"You know what I want." At Radar's blank look, he lost patience and ordered his papers of command. He waved them under Hawkeye's nose but Hawkeye was watching Radar disappear out of the door. "See? Full command authorisation."

"That's just great, Frank. Now if you'll dismiss me I can go to the latrine to be sick."

"Oh, get out of here!" Margaret screeched.

"Frank, your mouth didn't even move," Trapper sniped as the two captains made their way to the door.

"He wasn't using the lips on his face," Hawkeye explained.

Margaret followed them out and for a second she let her guard down as she said almost tenderly. "I'll miss him too, Hawkeye."

He wanted to scream at her, to point out all the times when she had gone over Henry's head, all the times she had treated him like a spineless worm but he didn't have the energy. "I'll see you at seven."

The mess tent had been transformed for Henry's wake; bandages coiled round the uprights, inflated plastic gloves, some scrawled with rude messages, dangled from the roof and a stage had been erected from supply crates. In pride of place on the stage, stood figures A and B which had figured so prominently in Henry's bewildering monthly lectures. And so for the next few hours the unit remembered their late commanding officer, spinning tales, laughing and crying in equal measure as each person struggled to come to terms with their loss. Rizzo was wearing a black pullover upon which he had painted a huge 'I' in imitation of Henry's favourite jumper and quite a few people were sporting fishing hats. Hawkeye went through the motions dutifully - he offered words of comfort where he could, danced a few slow dances and applauded when each person took the stage to offer their own personal testimony to Henry's kindness and warmth - but his heart wasn't in it. Despite an announcement over the tannoy, Radar was conspicuous by his absence. Hawkeye had tried several times in the course of the last few hours to find him but he appeared to be avoiding him, and indeed everyone else. He noticed Frank Burns had Father Mulcahy buttonholed, telling him (probably because no-one else would listen) how much he had adored, nay worshipped, Henry Blake and how he would never forget him. Hawkeye slunk off into a quiet corner and sipped his martini moodily. Trapper broke away from a warm nurse to join him, reading his mood with ease as always.

"No Radar then."

"I can't find him. God, Trap, I hate seeing him like that. That creature walking about out there – out there, mark you, not in here - is not Radar O'Riley. I can't believe he acted like that with the patients."

"He's angry, Hawk. Anger's a natural reaction to grief."

Hawkeye stirred his martini with an olive. "Anger I can take – I'll even GIVE him some of my anger. But he's bitter and cynical. Now there's an oxymoron for you. I don't know how to help him."

"Perhaps you can't. You're a doctor, Hawkeye, not God."

"Don't talk to me about God, me and the Big Guy are definitely not on speaking terms." Hawkeye shifted in agitation. "He needs me!"

Trapper was silent for a minute. "Are you sure? We all loved Henry, Hawkeye, but are you sure you're not pursuing Radar to assuage your own grief?"

"You know, maybe I am!" Hawkeye leapt to his feet, all restless energy and wounded pride. "Is that so terrible? My friend is dead – our friend, Trapper," he added significantly. Instead of matching his anger, Trapper simply reached for him, wrapping him in his arms. It always took a conscious effort to allow himself to be vulnerable, to be something other than The Great Doctor Hawkeye Pierce, surgeon extraordinaire, but Henry's death and Radar's strange behaviour had eroded all his defences and so Hawkeye leaned into Trapper's solid weight and let his eyes drift closed. Trapper stroked his back soothingly and he drifted further, soaking up the comfort. He'd lowered all his defences but, as always, Trapper had not. He pulled back, disengaging himself from Hawkeye's arms; it was done gently but the message was clear: back off, Hawkeye. Hawkeye locked gazes with him, disbelief and need warring with outrage. Trapper dropped eye contact, saying gruffly, "You can't be Henry for him."

"I can be comfort," Hawkeye bit back. "You know like when you and me..." He trailed off for it was something they had never admitted – not until Trapper had announced that it mustn't happen again.

Trapper's expression stiffened. "And when the kid wants more than you can give? Or thinks it's more than comfort?"

Too much to think about here, too many potential time bombs. "I'll take that chance. This time. I'm not going to let my friend down." He slammed his martini down on the footlocker, stepped over Klinger who was drunkenly telling Rizzo how he had sewn every sequin on his dress for Henry, and made for the door.

The moment Hawkeye banged through the office door, Radar suddenly became deeply absorbed in his filing. "How did I know I'd find you here – I must have ESP." When that little dig produced no significant response, Hawkeye continued, "Listen, I can see how absorbing, not to mention boring, counting paperclips and writing stationary orders in triplicate must be for you but the wake's started. There's a grape knee high with your name on it."

"Why bother? The wake'll get interrupted just like the Memorial Service," Radar responded with heavy, biting sarcasm. "I'm not coming. Sir."

Hawkeye watched him shuffling papers from one pigeon hole to the next. "Don't say that. I know how you must be feeling. Talk to me." He tried to inject a note of levity into the proceedings by adding, "I am a doctor."

"Okay, fine: Colonel Blake is dead, blown to smithereens," Radar said as though itemising a supply list, "his Memorial Service was interrupted, his children are orphans and Major Burns wants me to colour code all the files by morning. Any part I missed out?" He wrenched open the filing cabinet as noisily as possible and turned his back on Pierce.

Hawkeye leaned against the cabinet, his voice dropping to gentle tones as he tried to compel Radar to make eye contact. "You know it's okay to grieve. You're even allowed to cry. God, even Margaret cried! You're allowed to be angry, you're allowed to feel alone and abandoned, Radar."

"I asked you not to call me that."

Radar's insistence on being called by his given name had been niggling Hawkeye since lunch - it was undoubtedly more than a mechanism for keeping people at arm's length. He tried a light probing. "Sorry. It takes some getting used to, when 'Radar' seems such an appropriate name for you." When Radar's features stiffened, Hawkeye decided to drop the subject for the moment. He studied Radar's body language. Despite the aloofness, the air of disinterest and cynicism, there was still a hint of wounded animal in Radar's hunched shoulders. "No-one will think less of you because you grieve for your friend and father, Walter."

"He wasn't my father! I never even called him by his first name." Hawkeye wondered if that was part of the problem: Radar was trying to rationalise his complex relationship with Henry. Not easy; Henry had his defences, his own need for distance and Radar, despite their closeness, had been too much the dutiful subordinate to push for more. Although it was improving, Radar still tended to refer to Hawkeye and Trapper as sir. Hawkeye put his arm round Radar's shoulders, trying with all his compassion and skill to reach him. "Henry loved you, Walter."

The response was immediate: Radar pulled away from Hawkeye just as he had all day but this time even more violently. "I told you, don't touch me, don't ever touch me! If you touch me ..."

"What? You'll feel the contact? You'll feel the warmth of another human being?" Certain things were starting to fall into place: the change of name, the touch issue. "You'll have to admit I exist? God forbid. That's what this is all about, isn't it?"

Hawkeye had expected an angry denial or a sarcastic comment but instead the clerk sagged as if all the fire, all the energy, had been drained from his body. The mask slipped away and he was a hurting, forlorn Radar again. "I could hear him die, Hawkeye."

Hawkeye took a shocked step back and he found he couldn't form any words, either of denial or comfort. Finally Radar gave an apologetic shrug and continued: "I felt it. I was there when the plane was shot down. I could feel him ... die. I could hear people screaming, the sound of metal buckling. I heard the engines screaming as the plane went into a flat spin. I heard Colonel Blake choking against the smoke and fumes – gee, I hope I never hear anything like that again. I heard him die, Hawkeye, and I felt like my gut was being torn from my body."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Hawkeye murmured. Everything clicked into place. "That's why you won't let anyone touch you."

The clerk met his gaze, his eyes begging for understanding. "It doesn't always happen like that. But if I get close to someone, I pick them up like radio transmissions. Ma said I get the gift from my uncle Ernest. But it's not a gift, Hawkeye, it's a curse."

There was silence while Radar strove for control and Hawkeye sought to process all the information. Until today he had never quite believed in Radar's premonitions. Or perhaps he hadn't wanted too. Partly they were such an idiosynchratic part of his friend that he had become used to them – they had ceased to be anything wonderful or out of the ordinary. Partly he had always thought they could be explained rationally: Radar pre-empting the choppers could just be down to his having very good hearing. Similarly in a day there were only so many forms that Henry could want so Radar seemingly reading Henry's mind to produce the right one could just be down to coincidence and playing the odds. This event, however, shook Hawkeye's cynicism. Radar's uncanny sixth sense had compelled him to witness his friend's death and, consequently he was trying to distance himself, physically and psychically, from all other contact. The logic was simple: if he stopped being Radar, he wouldn't get hurt again.

"I don't want to go through that again, Hawkeye," he continued in a weary voice. "It hurts too much."

Now that he understood the sickness Hawkeye could offer healing. "I wish I could promise you that the pain will ease but pain is a part of life. I wish you could go back to your farm in Iowa, I wish I could go back to Crabapple Cove. I wish Henry were alive, snoring in his office right now." He offered a gentle smile. "But life and this war suck, Radar. Those visions caused you pain – I understand that – but they've also brought comfort and strength and friendship. The way you used to pre-empt Henry, he really used to like that, it made him feel special."

For a swift second Hawkeye thought he was getting through to his friend then Radar shook his head. "I'm not coming to the wake, Hawkeye." He cast him a guilty, almost furtive look. "I'm sorry, sir."

Hawkeye's patience snapped. "Fine! Withdraw behind your shield, batten down the hatches, pretend the world doesn't exist, see if I care." He strode to the door, yanking it open. He whirled round for his parting shot. "Oh, by the way, remember Jenkins, that guy with the shot-up leg, the one screaming in agony? He lost his leg. Yeah, you see we didn't get to him in time. Just a few more minutes – a few more minutes given to us, for example by your pre-empting the choppers - and maybe we could have saved the leg. Henry's not the only casualty of this war, Radar."