The day after Henry's death dawned just like any other. That was one of the most brutal things about it- the fact that life just carried on without letting you stop for breath, get accustomed to your loss.
They were patching up a theater full of patients, imagining Henry being joyously greeted by his family, perhaps feeling one or two pangs of envy, when Radar came in with the devastating news. It had been so unexpected that even Burns shut his piehole. Radar shuffled out in tears. Someone dropped a scalpel. But life carried on. Their patients depended on them. They got back to work without a word.
In war, some guys made it and some didn't. The fact that Henry was one of those who didn't hit harder than most. He was on his way home. He was out of the hell hole. His last moments must have been terrifying.
Hawkeye swallowed more moonshine. Any more terrifying than the last moments of fighting soldiers? Wounded civilians? Orphans adrift in a sea of hostile strangers? In war, which was worse? Death or life?
The death of a familiar face hit harder because you knew them. Hawkeye pondered his own existence as the moonshine crept through his veins. Who'd mourn him if he died tomorrow? His Dad for sure. Trapper? Hawkeye smirked- he had better be sad after all the laughs they'd shared. Frank would no doubt be delighted and Margaret would be thrilled that one half of the duo that tormented her was gone. Radar would cry but he was a sensitive kid anyway. Pretty soon someone would come out to replace him and the name Benjamin Franklin 'Hawkeye' Pierce would be lost to the mists of time.
Hawkeye got up to replenish his glass, greasy with fingerprints old and new. "It might be a good thing to be forgotten," he thought. "I hate this war, I hate picking shards of metal out of young men's bodies. I hate the cretins who took us to war. I hate these clothes. I hate this tent. I hate that I can't do more."
Someone else was in the Swamp, standing just behind Hawkeye near the door. He felt eyes burning into the back of his neck where the short hairs prickled. Unnerved, Hawkeye waited with growing impatience for the arrival to introduce himself. Trapper was never this quiet so it couldn't be him. "Who is it, and what is it?" Hawkeye growled, but there was no response. "If that's you Frank, I'm warning you. Don't try me right now." Still nothing. Hawkeye lifted his glass and downed the contents in one before turning around to find no one there. "Oh, come on," he said irritably. His throat burned from the onslaught of home made liquor as he made his way to the door of the Swamp. He hadn't heard it open or close. Nothing was moving in the breeze. He wondered if he'd imagined it. He grunted. Shell shock, and so soon. Maybe he just didn't have the guts for any of this. Maybe he was just a fake, a lightweight relying on pranks and alcohol to get him through. A coward who jumped at every sound.
On his way back to the still, Hawkeye spotted something on the floor. Why it should catch his eye he didn't know- there was so much mess in the Swamp it may as well have been called the Mess. But catch his eye it did, so he bent down to pick it up. It pricked his finger and he exclaimed quietly, adjusting his fingers around the delicate but sharp object.
"Well, I'll be."
It was a fly hook. Hawkeye held it up to the light, turned it around. A cold shiver chased the moonshine around his veins. How long had it been there? It couldn't be one of Henry's, could it? Hawkeye frowned, studying the barb and feathers, once bright but now faded after years under the sun. There was no reason why it couldn't be. Henry had been in the Swamp. Henry had drunk the Swamp dry, leaving Trapper and Hawkeye to look like amateurs. One of the hooks could easily have fallen off that raggedy old hat. Easily.
Sure. That's what happened. It had fallen off Henry's hat some time when he had been sharing a dram with the boys. There was no other way it could have ended up at Hawkeye's feet. It had always been there, he just didn't see it until now. He was glad he didn't step on it with bare feet.
The door banged open. That was more like it! Trapper breezed in, clapped Hawkeye on the shoulder before going to the still. "I just saw Radar."
"Hello to you too."
Trapper poured himself a drink. "Seems he found a fly hook stuck in his teddy bear. He thinks he was visited by Henry's ghost."
Hawkeye's fist clenched around the hook which stabbed him yet again. This time he let out a yelp. Trapper glanced at him over the rim of his glass. Without another word, Hawkeye showed his friend the fly hook.
Trapper stared, then Hawkeye laughed- a dry sound that creeped them out more than anything.
"You believe in ghosts?"
Trapper pulled an incredulous face. "Nah. If ghosts were real this place'd be full of them."
"Good point." Hawkeye found an old tin and put the fly hook inside it. He replaced the lid and put the tin on the makeshift table next to his cot. "I'll keep it anyway."
"Never know when you might need it."
Trapper fixed another drink for Hawkeye. They raised their glasses and clinked them together.
"Henry, you old bastard. If you're listening, this one's for you." Hawkeye threw his drink back and Trapper did the same. And maybe it was because Hawkeye was drunk, but he was sure he heard Henry chuckle somewhere behind him near the door.