Well, another BJ story, because the way he misses his family is just so darn cute, and provides excellent fodder for a bored fan.
Disclaimer: If you think I own anything to do with MASH go to the 4077th and I'll get Sidney Freedman to look you over.
Twice removed and on the far side of anarchy, the normal rules of engagement ceased to exist. Not that he was ever in combat- he was a doctor after all- but instead of continuing to live what was considered a normal life, everyone seemed to disregard those personal rules and engage in behaviour that would be frowned upon back home. While BJ thought people would try and retain some sense of normalcy, the people at the 4077th seemed to revel in the strangeness of their environment, embracing it with gusto.
One prime example of the loss of the 'moral code' was the disregard for the commandment 'Thou shall not commit adultery.' If BJ were given a nickel for every time he saw someone of the male gender sneaking out of the female showers, he'd be able to retire on the funds once the war was over. Not that he could judge particularly well- he'd only been in Korea for less than two months- but he would have thought that the priest would have taken a more active interest in the 'extra-curricular' activities that many people seemed to engage in.
BJ mulled over his thoughts while making his way to the showers, glad for the moment's respite. Hawkeye wasn't with him, and BJ missed the company, although saying that on the way to the showers might be misconstrued. It was true though; the small size of the camp meant that you were always in someone else's pockets. In the Swamp personal possessions were mixed together in one jumble of goods; BJ often found his elbow in a pile of mashed potatoes in the Mess Tent; and it wasn't uncommon to feel as though you were forming a special bond with an individual when you stepped on their foot in a rabid attempt to remove a resisting fragment from a mangled piece of flesh.
BJ passed Klinger, the latter making his way around the camp realigning the border rocks, dressed in a pink gingham shift. The dress was so short that when Klinger bent over BJ was greeted with a rather unfortunate view.
"What are you doing, Klinger?" BJ asked in amusement. "If you're really that bored I'm sure that the bed pans in post-op need emptying."
"Very funny, sir," Klinger replied sarcastically, straightening up and rubbing the sweat off his brow. "I'm doing this on the orders of Major Burns. Seemed to think that this would add a touch of class to the camp."
BJ laughed heartily, wondering how, in the middle of a war zone, Frank thought the issue that needed immediate attention was the garden. "May I offer a suggestion about your attire, though?"
Klinger narrowed his eyes, guessing what was coming next. "If you're gonna tell me to get into uniform save your breath. I've become allergic to khaki since I've come over here, and I flare up!"
"Nothing like that," BJ laughed. "But I do feel that it's in the best interests in everyone if you put some more, ah, substantial underclothes on. We don't want to get Sidney Freedman down more often than we need to."
Klinger nodded acquiescence, glad that he wasn't getting bawled out again. He often felt that his outfits didn't receive the praise they deserved, even though they obviously added a touch of class – a bit of needed glitz - to life in camp.
BJ continued on his way, knocking on the door of the showers before he entered, and cursing as he pulled on the chain and icy water issued from the tap. Sighing, he picked up his washcloth and began to lather up his soap. Peggy had sent it from home after he had told her that he missed that way she smelt, the clean alcoholic odour of gardenias that would greet him when he buried his face in her hair.
But it was no use thinking those thoughts now, because Peggy was far away, and such thoughts had an unfortunate effect on some parts of his anatomy. Diverting himself, BJ began to rub shampoo through his hair, roughly massaging his scalp. Soap began to run in his eyes and he shut them quickly, blindly fumbling for a towel.
"Hey, Hawk, do you think you could get that for me?" BJ asked the empty room, before realising that he was on is own. And for one flash of a second BJ could understand how adrift Hawkeye felt when he realised his bunkmate had left without saying goodbye. Hell, BJ was growing dependent on Hawkeye and he had only known the guy for two months. But with his eyes closed against the icy spray an unwelcome memory entered his consciousness.
"I missed him by ten minutes! Ten lousy minutes!" an angry Hawkeye proclaims, pulling at his dirty fatigues as he talks to Radar.
Sometimes, late at night when he listened to the rhythmic breathing of his bunkmate BJ wondered if Hawkeye would be angry if he left without saying goodbye, or whether Trapper was a special case.
Because for the first time, BJ realised that everything in life was relative. Korea hadn't existed for BJ until he opened his draft notice, despite the saturation of articles in the newspapers. The 4077th hadn't been tangible until he'd dumped his suitcase on the floor of the Swamp and had been plied with glasses of homemade gin. But for Hawkeye, Korea had existed for an extra year, a year where men called Trapper and Henry played a vital role in the camp activities. They had played cards in the Swamp, eaten in the Mess Tent and performed surgery in the OR, but for a year of living at the 4077th there was precious little to show they had ever set foot in camp.
BJ realised that sometimes people assumed he was an incarnate form of Trapper. It had happened more than once; they'd be sitting in the Swamp, talking about the latest way to foil the meeting plans of the khaki majors and Hawkeye would sit up, smile widening and say, "Hey, Trap-."
Then nothing. Sometimes Hawkeye would attempt to fix his mistake, ("Hey, let's Trap them in the Supply Tent together!), but more often Hawkeye wouldn't even bother because there was nothing to say. Despite the fact that Hawkeye never mentioned his previous bunkmate after his first encounter with BJ, Trapper was always present; someone that had reached mythological proportions that BJ could never live up too.
After rubbing the residual soap out of his hair, BJ picked up his razor and propped his handheld mirror up against the ledge so that he could shave. The air was condensing against his pimpled skin and he tried to keep his hand steady as he held the blade.
How long does it take to forget someone that you had lived with for a whole year? Would you have to make a conscious effort, or did your recollections simply blur around the edges, as if you were looking at them through a sheet of frosted glass?
Come to that, how long would it be until BJ forgot Peggy and Erin? Not that he intended too; he still knew all the important details, and the plethora of photographs he'd bought with him helped fill in the gaps, but BJ realised that he was already beginning to forget some of Peggy's idiosyncrasies that were such an integral part of her character. Small, stupid things that would mean nothing to anyone else, like the way she drenched her pancakes in syrup and then kissed him with her sticky lips, grinning as he squirmed under her ministrations.
And Erin, BJ thought wistfully, grabbing his bathrobe off the hook on the wall and pulling it on. BJ hadn't even had the opportunity to get to know Erin before he was drafted. The heart-wrenching thing was that he didn't know enough about his daughter to start forgetting her.
BJ left the confines of the shower, making a brief detour to the Swamp to replace his bathrobe with some fatigues, before making his way to the Mess Tent. Upon opening the door he saw a slumped form of Hawkeye talking with Radar, and he piled up his tray and made his way over to the bench.
Sitting down next to Radar, BJ asked, "Room for one more?"
"I do believe," began Hawkeye, "that it's a bit late to be asking since you're already sitting."
"'Course there's room for you, sir," Radar replied, spitting crumbs across the table in his hurriedness to speak.
BJ favoured Radar with a smile, before looking down at the Corporal's tray. "Radar, are you sure that you're going to eat all that? You've got enough there to feed all of South Korea."
"And the leftovers could be sent to the North," Hawkeye agreed, poking at a dubious green lump that had taken up residence on the edge of his plate. "I do believe that the Geneva Convention states that it's illegal to serve food that was previously used as ammunition." He pushed the tray to one side, sighing into the depths of his coffee cup.
"You're not going to eat that? After all the trouble that Igor went to make it taste so nice?" BJ asked, following suit and pushing his tray away. Looking at the food scraps, BJ realised why one of the main preoccupations in camp was food.
"I could have Igor court martialed for the killing of my taste buds. We can't all be troopers like Radar here and eat everything that's put in front of us."
"Yeah," BJ replied, nudging the small Corporal with his elbow. "You could market yourself as a garbage disposal when you get back to Iowa. You'd make a fortune."
Radar looked up, glaring at the two Captains grinning at him. "Can't you guys stop it? You're so embarrassing, and everyone's looking!"
Hawkeye began to glare at BJ as well, a small grin betraying his true emotions. "You need to be nicer to Radar here," Hawkeye declared. "Didn't you know that he's doing the whole army a service? He's stockpiling food, so if we ever get caught without supplies we just need to cut him open and we'll have our own general store."
"O'Reilly's," BJ mused, "It's got a nice ring to it. Do we get a discount if we're regular customers?"
Radar attempted to swallow to make some reply, but Hawkeye held up his hand and stood, motioning for BJ to follow him. BJ rose gladly, knowing that a drink with Hawkeye was most often accompanied with stupid, stimulating conversation that made the ache for Peggy slightly duller.
"I do believe that an extra large drink is required to make up for the lack of food," Hawkeye declared, in the voice of someone stating that equal rights had just been declared for Blacks.
In the Swamp, sitting on their greasy respective beds, they got straight down to business, pouring the clear liquid into dirty martini glasses, sculling them one after the other. The alcohol caused a blaze of fire to burn in BJ's throat so that after the first glass he was no longer assaulted with the taste, and the drinking became a routine, a simple glass-to-mouth action.
And the alcohol worked its magic, loosening tongues and lubricating mind processes, so that everything seemed infinitely clearer than it was several hours ago. Through the haze, BJ tried to articulate what he had been thinking earlier.
"D'you ever think that when you go back it'll all be different?" he slurred, closing his eyes so that the room stopped spinning.
"Of course," Hawkeye replied, and BJ could hear the laughter in his friend's voice. Hawkeye, who didn't seem to be affected by the excess liquor at all, mocked the gagging actions of a drunk BJ. "I have this continual fear that I'm going to go home and my dad will have sold my clubs. Happened when he thought I was dead, actually."
"You're not dead," BJ replied, confused. "You're here. But I s'pose it's like being dead." He reached forward for the gin, steadying himself on the edge of his cot.
And he ignores the voice that he hears in his head, Peg's voice, telling him that it's no good to be drinking too much. You're driving later; remember? And you always get so maudlin when you're drunk. Maybe I could get the violins out in preparation?
"Are you sure you should be having another?" a voice asks. But it's Hawkeye, not Peggy, although in his inebriated state they seem to be the same person.
"You're having another!" BJ pointed out triumphantly, as though this proved some great argument
"I," Hawkeye returned, voice barely affected by the alcohol, "have turned drinking in to an art form. Were it an Olympic sport, I would be the world champion."
Tempted to reply, BJ tried to stand, but the room persisted spinning, so he settled for pulling himself up against the bookshelf behind him. "I think that I'm going to go back and forget them, and they will have forgotten me, too. I just thought up this theory before," BJ proclaimed, in the self-righteous tone of the drunk, "that the brain's a lot like a washing machine."
"How so?" Hawkeye asked, reclining comfortably on his cot. "I'm intrigued."
"We used to have this washing machine at home, and you couldn't do your full load, because if you kept pushing all the clothes in it would start thumping. So if you wanted to wash that hat, you had to pull out the skirt. So I'm going to learn all this stuff about Korea that my brain's going to start thumping and pulling out all my memories of Peggy and Erin. Get it?" BJ asked.
"Sure," replied Hawkeye easily. "You just compared your brain to a household appliance. Although you seem to be completing the spin cycle pretty well right now."
BJ reached for more gin, but Hawkeye put his hand over the jar. "I think you've had enough," Hawkeye said, "bad for the brain cells, you know."
Bitter laughter filled the Swamp at this speech. "All it can do is make me forget stuff. But then that's a bad idea because forgetting is kind of like the not remembering I was telling you about earlier. I think I will have some more." And he reached for the gin again, but no god in the world could have bestowed the gift of balance on BJ at that moment.
He hit the floor.
Please review! Look out for the next chapter, Of limbo and legs, out soon.