Faith.
The walls are hung with bunting, red and blue, and streamers of white toilet paper. They sit together at the table in the mess, side by side. The one, slender and elegant, laughing handsomely at his own brilliance, the other morose and taciturn, curly head hunched into shoulders, elbows on the table in front of him, a beer can in one rough, bloodstained hand. The first laughs aloud and throws his arms wide, including them all in his embrace. At this moment, buoyed high with jubilation, he loves them all. There are cheers and screams of joy, and voices joined in a rowdy chorus, but through it all the other sits silent, staring into his sixth beer, then his seventh, and refusing to look at Hawkeye's face. There are speeches, and pictures shown on a broken down projector, and laughter on all sides. The Hawk slings a casual arm about his bunk mate's shoulder, grinning innanely. His eyes sparkle, so bright, so full of life. He is oblivious, caught up in a whirlpool ecstacy that he has no intention of escaping. Like a child at Christmas, delightedly oblivious to his friend's mood. And even if he did notice, it's only to be expected. That's just Trapper. After all, he enoys his pessimistic view of life. Never lets himself think, even for a moment, that something good might come out of the war. Never lets himself hope that it might be over. The laughter continues, and Hawkeye starts up Auld Lang Syne, tips his beer can so that it spills off Trapper's unruly curls into his eyes, and is rewarded with a cynical little half-smile. And then, as suddenly as if he's turned down the volume on the radio, there is a silence. And into the trembling silence, General Clayton reads the message with shaking hands. There is no ceasefire. And Hawkeye, his bubble shattered, swallows the tears and the hope together, feels suddenly the oppressive weight of his own arm about Trapper's shoulders. And he doesn't want to look, because he knows what he'll see, and it shouldn't be there. Hell, Trap was right all along, he's never had any faith to lose. But still, when Hawkeye finally meets his eyes, he's crying.
That was the thing about BJ. He had faith. Believed, really truly believed, that he was here for a purpose. That one day he'd escape from here, and return home a better man. Believed, of course, is past tense. When BJ arrived, he was a kid. Squeaky clean, fresh scrubbed, Doctor-and-Mrs-Hunnicutt cordially invite you to witness their upcoming celebration of apple-pie-America. That sort of thing. Now, BJ lives in a louse infested tent with a gutful of bitterness, and his best friend is a patched-up distillelry. He grows a cheesy moustache, and tells everyone that it's his own little rebellion. But it's not that, or at least, not entirely. It's to do with faith, with forcing himself to remember something which, though he won't admit it, simply doesn't matter any more. How can a pretty girl and a baby he doesn't remember mean anything, when everyday he stands in a swill of blood and fishes around in kids' intestines for shrapnel like it's some bizzare treasure hunt? I think, in a way, that he actually believes that this is Hell. And in BJ's mind, there is no return. He can never go back now to Peggy's lasagne, and powdered infant formula, and lavender scented sheets, never go back to a time when he could still conceivably go home. There's always been this incredible guilt about BJ, but more and more, I see it overtaken by anger. It's a strange thing, to look at your best friend, to see the gin glass in your own hand, and realise that it's him, not you, who's the alcoholic. And in a way, I feel guilty too, for pushing BJ so hard, for wanting to make him into something he should never have been. I had him drunk as a deacon within two hours of his arrival. That kind of thing leaves a scar. More and more now, I have trouble remembering the BJ who arrived here. More and more, I find myself swearing at him, hating him, then picking him up off the ground and crying with him. Now, more and more, BJ reminds me of Trapper John.