BJ was lying in his cot just after dawn, idly flipping through the mystery novel he'd read at least five times. When he'd first found it tucked in a box of blankets, he and Hawkeye had bet each other they could guess who the murderer was halfway through. They were both wrong - it hadn't been the beleaguered housemaid or the disowned brother, it was the Earl of Richport because the victim had stolen his best shoes.
Upon recalling this, BJ tossed the book aside and lay staring at the canvas above his head. Hawkeye and Charles were still asleep, but BJ had woken up an hour ago with his heart pounding and a feeling of dread that he couldn't quite shake. The feeling still gnawed at him even though he knew there was nothing...nothing in particular, anyway; nothing out of the ordinary...to be afraid of.
He tapped his fingers against his leg, thinking about waking up Hawkeye for company. Or even Charles. Surely the feeling that was pressing like a dead weight on his chest would go away if he had someone to talk to.
He looked over at Hawkeye, who had kicked off his covers as he slept. He was sprawled on his stomach, one arm dangling off the edge of his cot. Charles, opposite, was sleeping in the slightly unnerving posture he sometimes had - flat on his back, hands folded on his chest, as though he'd been posed that way for his funeral.
BJ couldn't wake them, especially for something as trivial as this irrational feeling. Who knew how long they'd be able to sleep?
His gaze drifted around the tent as he rubbed his thumb against the opposite palm, trying to calm himself. His eyes latched onto the still.
No...even here, even in Korea, even in the middle of a war zone, cleaning his teeth with a swig of gin first thing in the morning seemed like slipping a notch down toward becoming a full-time drunk.
He turned his head to the right, to the pile of letters from Peg stacked beside his bed. He pulled the top one from the pile, but he'd read all her letters so many times it felt like he'd siphoned all the comfort he could from them, and his eyes skimmed the words written in his wife's handwriting without taking in the meaning. He tossed the letter aside.
Feeling increasingly restless, he got up, deciding he might as well take advantage of the early hour and enjoy a hot shower. He fished his robe and shower shoes from under his cot, stole a bar of Hawkeye's soap, and left the tent as quietly as he could.
Though it looked to be one of the few truly nice days he'd seen so far, and though he was glad they'd passed through the hottest part of summer, the quiet of the camp at this hour did nothing to ease the aching feeling in his chest - he didn't even see a guard on duty, and the silence was eerie. BJ strode to the showers quickly, trying to shake the feeling that he was the only one left alive here.
Why do I keep thinking of death this morning?
He hung up his robe and stepped into the first stall, pulling the chain to start the shower. Hot water sprayed from the showerhead and he turned, warming his shoulders and back, allowing his skin to redden from the heat - he'd always loved his showers hot, almost painful. He stuck his face in the spray, wetting his hair, thinking that if he were to drown, if the water were this temperature, it might not be so bad.
A loud crack made him duck instinctively, wondering if there was a new sniper around camp, but when he wiped the water from his eyes, he realized it was just the door clattering closed after Father Mulcahey.
"Sorry to startle you, BJ," he said, hanging up his robe next to BJ's and stepping into the next stall.
"That's all right, Father," said BJ, waiting for his heartbeat to settle once more. "I'm jumpy today, I guess." He grabbed his soap and started lathering his chest. "You're up early today," he said.
"To be honest, I woke up some time ago with a sense of...terrible dread," said Father Mulcahey, removing his glasses and pulling the chain to start the shower. "I'm not sure what caused it, but I thought a hot shower might help." He looked over and noticed BJ staring at him. "What is it, BJ?"
"...I woke up with that same feeling," BJ said, fear fluttering underneath his ribcage. It was silly, obviously, but hearing Father Mulcahey repeat his own feelings back to him made them seem a lot more justified.
"Oh, dear," said Father Mulcahey. "Perhaps I should bless you, just in case?"
BJ hesitated. His attitude toward God shifted wildly from day to day over here. Some days he was angry, questioning how a supposedly loving God could allow these things to happen, but sometimes, when he'd done all he could do in surgery, the thought of God was comforting - someone in control of all this madness, someone he could share his problems with, even if it was just in his thoughts.
He was on the point of accepting - it's not as though it could hurt, right? - when they heard Radar's bleary shout across the compound.
"Choppers, incoming! We got wounded!"
"I'll take a rain check on that blessing, Father," said BJ, quickly rinsing off the soap suds, yanking the chain to stop the spray, and seizing his bathrobe.
"I'll say a prayer as we go, anyway," said Father Mulcahey, slipping his glasses back on and hurrying around to grab his robe as well.
As BJ jogged past the Swamp on the way up to the chopper pad, he met Hawkeye and Charles stumbling sleepily out the door.
"There you are," said Hawkeye, falling in beside him as they ran. "What's the matter, couldn't sleep?"
"Tell you about it later," said BJ as they reached the hill - running uphill never left much breath for talking.
The next few minutes were controlled chaos, as always. BJ settled into a rhythm, taking stock of each wounded man (or boy, or unlucky Korean civilian), giving a smile and a pat on the shoulder if they were conscious, checking their breathing, pulse, and pupils if they weren't. They rode the Jeeps back down to the compound with the wounded, arriving just as a bus and two more Jeeps pulled up, all loaded with still more wounded. Hawkeye jumped off the jeep he was riding and ran up inside the bus, where Charles had already started triage, leaving BJ to look at the ones carried in on the Jeeps.
The first Jeep wasn't too bad - one dislocated knee, a broken arm, and a few lacerations. All of them could wait. He moved on to the next Jeep, which carried an American with a broken leg as well as a couple North Koreans. He directed the driver to help the American inside, then looked at the other two passengers. The first had a nasty head wound - he was still breathing, but one of his pupils was much larger than the other; never a good sign. He ordered a couple corpsmen to take the patient inside and prep him for surgery immediately, and he turned to the other man.
This one was conscious, obviously terrified - a sheen of sweat covered his face and his eyes were darting around, trying to see what everyone around them was doing.
"I don't suppose you speak English," said BJ, looking under the bandage tied to the man's abdomen.
The soldier responded in Korean, sounding angry.
"Well, you'd think as the ones coming to the country, we'd learn to speak the language," said BJ. "Unfortunately, speaking Korean might be a sign of Communist tendencies-"
He stopped talking abruptly as his patient made a sudden movement. He'd been so focused on the man's wounds, he hadn't noticed what his hands were doing, but suddenly this man had pulled a pistol from his pocket and shoved it in BJ's face.
BJ stood frozen for what seemed like an eternity, his mouth open, staring down the barrel of the gun. A whine of panic like an air-raid siren started up in his head, and all he could think of was the order in which the bullet would penetrate his skull - first the frontal bone, then the frontal lobe of the cerebrum, possibly the brain stem with its tiny, delicate, but vitally important parts, then the parietal, then the occipital, and out the back through the occipital bone.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Father Mulcahey rushing toward them as the soldier struggled to cock the pistol. BJ still stood paralyzed as he managed it, said something in Korean, and pointed the gun directly (if shakily) at BJ's face, just as Father Mulcahey leaped onto the hood of the Jeep, reaching for the man's arm…