Yo again. Please read and review. Got exams coming up, though that is no excuse not to write lots of literary horse hockey. It is, however, an excuse to spend one's computer hour studying instead.
A shout out to Sporky, as well as anyone else still reading this story, if such people actually exist.
Chapter 12. Makes sense when you think about it.
My darling Louise,
Sorry I haven't sent you much mail lately. We really have been busy. It's not enjoyable busy, though I can't think of much that is enjoyable around here.
We've got something going around here. Frank Burns – you remember him, he's the nincompoop – has gastro and doesn't shut up about it. You'd hate him, Louise. He's pale and bony with no lips. Not like yours truly, eh? You'd know better than most.
Hawkeye Pierce is a different kettle of fish. You see, we aren't quite sure what's wrong with him. I've got a feeling our potatoes were the rotten variety. Our replacement surgeon, Captain McCulloch, is chasing up a few things. Hawk hasn't been himself. He's been sleepwalking, having these god-awful nightmares… He's a fantastic guy, Louise. The finest kind, as he'd say. Of course, he'd be more fantastic if we could find out what's wrong with him. I'm sure you two would get along famously, that is if I let you ever meet. McCulloch's nice, but he just isn't the same.
Wish I had better news for you. Sorry to disappoint. I hope to hear from – or better, see – you soon.
Take care,
John
"Trapper!"
He awoke. Looking around, he couldn't help but shake his head in relief. No one was sleepwalking, no one was having nightmares. He, Trapper John, was the one falling asleep. At last.
"Yo, Trap! Trap? Earth to Trapper!?"
Hawkeye pulled on his arm. Hawkeye. That's right. He was in Post-Op, apparently checking on his patients. Must have fallen asleep again. Trapper shook his head again. He had to stop falling asleep! Hot Lips didn't appreciate snoozing on the job.
"Yeah, I'm here, Hawk," Trapper mumbled snoozily. Hawkeye sat up. Trap hadn't been himself lately. Hawkeye wished they'd figure out what was ailing him: it pissed him off no end not knowing what was wrong and being denied the opportunity to prescribe his own medication. At least today he was able to keep his eyes open.
"Trap, why don't you head swampward and sleep it off. You look terrible."
"I'm on duty, dammit. Hot Lips will have my guts for garters if I fall asleep again. Sleep what off?"
"Well, er, you look kinda hung-over." Hung-over was rather a nice way of putting it: Trapper appeared to be permanently squinting and moaned whenever a loud sound was made. He'd snapped at Radar delivering the mail that morning, thrown potato in Igor's face, even reduced Klinger to tears when he directly ordered the snazzily-dressed Corporal to stop wearing a particularly striking blue shirt. "Looks too much like…" He'd meant to say Hawkeye's Hawaiian shirt, but couldn't get the words out. Whether Klinger's tears were out of frustration, anger, or sadness at being reminded of everyone's favourite Captain, Trapper couldn't quite tell. It appeared to all he'd saved his daily quota of good cheer for his best friend.
"No, I'm fine," Trapper spluttered stubbornly. "I'm more interested in how you are."
"Not interesting enough to require the use of an adjective. Now go and sleep! You're starting to look like a martini!"
Trapper stood up, shaking his head drunkenly as he did so. "Get well soon, Hawk. If I could write straight I'd make you a card."
"That won't be necessary. Now go!"
As his best friend stumbled out the Post-Op door, Hawkeye slowly sat up and reached for the bottle of antibiotics on the stand. It would be folly to pull it out, not to mention extremely painful, so Hawkeye gingerly stood up and placed the bottle (tubing still attached) into his pocket. The nurses had given in and allowed him his familiar red bathrobe from the Swamp. Quietly, when Nurse Kellye wasn't looking, he tiptoed to the Post-Op door, opened it, and stole away into the afternoon gloom.
As Hawkeye wandered to the edge of camp arguing with himself over whether to pay Rosie a visit, a flash of green, nearly out of his sight, stopped him in his tracks. Bright, vivid green that seemed to attract the sunlight against the drab, khaki backdrop. Hawkeye stared, confused and open-mouthed, at a Sergeant with a few missing teeth and hair like a bird's nest chatting animatedly with a Korean trader. At his feet lay two Hessian sacks marked "POTATOES". The Sergeant flashed a grin that could be described as toothy if it had featured any teeth as he accepted a small vial from the trader. More flashes of green. Green, not red. No one had green money around here.
Hawkeye's brow furrowed almost by itself as the Sergeant, with his few words of Korean, haggled with the trader. Eventually they agreed on a price. As the Sergeant turned back toward camp, the silvery contents of the vial caught Hawk's eye, so to speak. A label, almost too small to read, quietly spelled "Arsenic."
The burgundy, blood-stained earth of Korea had never looked so nice to our protagonist as, unseen and unbelieving, he fell gently forwards into the dust.
……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……
"Where the hell is he?!"
Naturally, Trapper John McIntyre had not reacted well to the news given him by a Lieutenant shaking in his boots. Hawkeye had been perfectly within his rights as Chief Surgeon to prescribe outside visits for himself, except the entire medical corps had been directly ordered (and in Margaret's case, directly blackmailed) to keep him in his bed. Sidney Freedman had watched on with great interest as Trapper angrily growled at the post-op staff, desperate to find out where his buddy had gone.
"Kellye, you were on duty when he wandered off. How could you let him just walk off like that? How could-"
"Captain McIntyre!"
"I'm busy, Radar."
"Sir, someone's found Captain Pierce!"
Radar quickly sidestepped out of the way as Trapper leapt up and sped out the door, squinting as the sun met his eyes. He bounded toward two enlisted men carrying between them a man bundled in red whom Trapper would recognise anywhere.
"How is-"
"Sir, he's alive, he's breathin' but he ain't sayin' much. Keeps mutterin' to 'imself 'bout arsenic, or somethin' like that. Dunno why."
Arsenic…arsenic…
And suddenly, with an air of cliché unnoticed by everyone in the compound, something clicked.
"Klinger! Go to the mess tent and bring me Igor and Rodriguez, now."
"Now now, sir?"
"What other nows are there? Go!"
As Klinger waddled toward the mess tent sporting pumps and a blue summer dress, Trapper turned to the runaway. His face, front and robe were caked with dirt, with the IV bottle in his pocket somehow unbroken after his fall. An eyelid prised itself awake and, after recognising Trapper, its owner started tugging at his friend's hanging dog tags.
"Trap… 's arsenic… Sarge…no teeth… Korean…"
Hawkeye's half-words seemed to scamper from his mouth, in search of a willing listener. Such a listener, barely a metre away, added it all up in his head.
When he arrived at the conclusion, he shook his head sadly. It explained a lot of things, but not all of them. The curly-haired Captain stood up, without even being aware he'd crouched in the first place, and watched as two medics loaded Hawkeye onto a stretcher and carried him inside.
"I'm gonna make a house call," he mused, half-aloud. "And he ain't gonna like it one bit."
Sorry for the delay in posting it: I had this ready a week ago but the library computer refused to let me post stuff.