Warnings: Still dark and angsty (maybe even more so than the last chapter), this time with some passing mentions of suicide.

- The Sound of Silence -
Chapter Two

Radar met BJ at the airport, unusually somber and even paler than usual. "Sir," he asked anxiously, "is Cap'n Hawkeye—I mean, Cap'n Pierce, sir, is he okay, sir?"

"As okay as can be expected," BJ said tiredly. "He's stable, and he's still holding in there. Can you get my bag, Radar?" He fell heavily into to the passenger seat of the jeep while Radar scurried off, and closed his eyes, longing for his warm, soft bed back in Mill Valley. But all he had to look forward to was the uncomfortable Army cot back in the Swamp, the Swamp that would be too quiet without Hawkeye bouncing around and taunting Frank. He was not looking forward to that.

"What's gonna happen to him?" Radar asked as he climbed in next to BJ. "Are the sendin' him home, or…?"

"I didn't ask. But I assume he'll go home as soon as he's fit to make the journey… They wouldn't make him stay here, not…how he is."

Radar didn't say anything for a moment; then, softly, "Is it real bad, BJ?"

"It's not good."

They spoke little on the drive to the 4077th, a heavy, uncomfortable silence, man and young man each lost in his own grim thoughts. His arm, BJ couldn't stop thinking, he lost his arm. And it's his right arm—! It'd be different if it were the left…he'd still have the dominant hand, could still do something…

By the time the jeep rolled into the compound, a crowd of anxious nurses, corpsmen, and doctors had gathered, pressing in close to the jeep, each voice shouting to be heard above the others. BJ tried to answer the questions he could hear, but for every question he answered, it was repeated five times; it was finally Radar who stood up on the seat of the jeep and shouted for silence.

There it was again, that suffocating lack of sound, the oppressively utter silence. BJ cleared his throat just to assure himself the world hadn't gone silent, and then he spoke to the crowd, his voice soft but carrying: "He's stable. They're taking good care of him over in Tokyo—"

"We could take better care of him here," one of the nurses interrupted; BJ couldn't see who, but it sounded like Able.

"He's doing as best as anyone could expect. There's…not much else to say." Except for that unspoken question, the one they were all thinking but couldn't give voice to, because they knew what the answer would be; it was what had struck BJ on the flight back from Tokyo, a chilling thought that had stopped his drink halfway to his mouth: I've never seen a surgeon with only one arm…

&.o.&.o.&

BJ was in the Swamp trying to smile at his latest letter from Peg, but he couldn't seem to find the same joy in the words he once had. The whole world seemed a little blacker, a little grimmer, and news of the daughter he hardly even knew only served to darken his mood. Frank was sitting in his own corner, and for once, amazingly, he seemed to be shaken rather than amused at Hawkeye's general misfortune. He'd said little in the past few days, often glancing over at Hawkeye's empty cot—just as BJ kept looking to the door, waiting for his friend to stroll in with some extravagant pronouncement and a casual insult thrown in Frank's direction. The whole camp was quiet, gloomy—how could it not be? And much as he hated the grimness, BJ knew he would be furious if the others tried to force a light mood. Better they grieved than tried to pretend nothing was wrong.

Boots pounded out in the compound, and the door flew open—and BJ looked up, quickly, expecting against all logic to see windblown black hair and sparkling blue eyes. But it was only Radar, face panicked and pale; and BJ, sensing bad news, was already on his feet by the time Radar gasped out, "Colonel Potter wants to see you, Cap'n Hunnicutt. He says it's—" He glanced at Frank. "—important."

BJ raced from the Swamp, Radar at his heels. "Hawkeye?" BJ asked tightly, and Radar nodded.

Potter was pacing behind his desk when BJ burst into the office, breathing heavily, eyes flashing with fear. Potter turned to face him, his face drawn, looking older, much older, than his years, and BJ's heart simultaneously sank to his feet and jumped to his throat. "Sit down, son," Potter said softly.

Radar shoved the chair under BJ as he collapsed, and his breath rattled as asked softly, "Is he…gone?"

"No," Potter said, "but not for a lack of trying."

Relief washed through BJ, but it was followed closely by the return of panic. He leaned forward, hands gripping the edge of the chair hard enough that his knuckles turned white, and demanded, "He tried to kill himself?"

Potter nodded grimly, lowering himself tenderly into his own chair. "A nurse delivering pills left her tray in his reach, and he swallowed everything he could grab before the orderlies pulled him away." BJ wanted to shove his fingers into his ears and scream, didn't want to hear any more, but he couldn't lift his hands, couldn't move, and Potter kept talking. "They've got him stable again, and under constant watch. Sidney Freedman is on his way to Tokyo even as we speak, to do what he can."

Hawkeye, BJ's mind wailed, Hawk, why? You were fine when I talked to you. Why would you do this to yourself—to me?! Why, why, WHY

Potter put the glass into BJ's hand, and he lifted it blindly to his mouth, sucking in the mercifully numbing liquid and feeling it spread through his body. If he could drink enough of it, maybe, just maybe, his whole body would go numb, and he wouldn't have to feel anymore.

&.o.&.o.&

Sidney Freedman walked into the post-op ward, strolling calmly between the rows of beds, a clipboard and file held against his stomach. He looked from side to side, his head swiveling constantly, occasionally smiling or nodding to the patients, until he came to the bed he was looking for. The orderly sitting guard rose to give Freedman his seat, wandering just out of earshot but not far enough away that he couldn't come to his patient's aid if he needed to.

Hawkeye lay still in the bed, his head turned to the side, single visible eye glazed and staring blankly. Freedman sat down, propping one foot up on the exposed bed frame and leaning against the back of his chair, watching one of the most intriguing patients he'd ever had.

"You're wasting your time," Hawkeye said hoarsely, his voice thick and unlike what Freedman was used to hearing from the man.

"Am I?" he asked mildly. "Your doctors don't seem to think so." Silence descended, briefly, broken only by the usual sounds of an active hospital. "I'd ask how you were feeling, but I think I can already guess what your answer would be."

"That's what they pay you for, isn't it?"

"Why don't you tell me about it?"

Hawkeye finally turned his head to look at Freedman, and asked incredulously, "Why? Why don't you tell me, doctor, why I shouldn't just lay here and think up another way to end this nightmare? Or, better yet, why don't you find me a gun and I can end the nightmare right now?"

"That's not what you want, Hawkeye."

The familiar sardonic smile/grimace crossed Hawkeye's face, shaded by pain and grief. "Don't I? Well then, Dr. Freud, why don't you tell me what I do want?"

Freedman lifted his hands in an eloquent little shrug. "That's what I'm here to find out."

"Well, like I said: you're wasting your time." Hawkeye turned his face away, and silence descended again. Freedman continued to watch his patient, and Hawkeye continued to ignore him, until he finally said, bitterly, "It's not nice to stare at cripples, you know."

Freedman leaned forward, elbow on knee, chin in hand. "Is that how you think of yourself?"

Hawkeye's head swung back around, and the stump of his right arm, wrapped heavily in bandages, lifting from the bed just as his whole arm did. He'd always talked with his hands, Hawkeye. Hand, now. "Lame, disabled, handicapped, impaired, defective, broken, damaged—you take your pick, I'm rather fond of 'worthless'."

"You know, it's amazing what they can do with prosthetics these days."

"Ah, yes, and then I can play Captain Hook in the Army's production of Peter Pan. Quite fitting, don't you think?" And he turned away again.

"I hear BJ came to visit you a few days ago."

Freedman saw Hawkeye's face tighten, darken, and knew he was getting close to the source of the matter. "Yeah, so what?"

"So how did that make you feel?"

"Oh, cut the psychoanalysis mumbo-jumbo, Sidney. Why don't you just come out and say it?" His voice lowered in timbre as he dramatized a conversation between himself and some unknown other—perhaps the voice at the back of everyone's head, the whispering voice of fear and doubt and self-loathing. " 'Has it occurred to you yet that it's highly unlikely you'll ever operate again?' Why yes, good sir, it has. 'And does it make you angry to know that the only person who gives a damn about you has abandoned you to your grim fate?' Bullseye! Nurse, get this man a prize."

"That's enough, Hawkeye," Freedman said gently, reaching out to rest a hand on his patient's shoulder.

Hawkeye jerked away from the touch as if he'd been burned, and his voice rose louder. Those nearby stopped what they were doing and turned to watch, sadistically curious as to just what a mental breakdown looked like. "Enough? That's enough, you say? Oh no, no—you want me to open up, well here it is! Here's me, laying my soul bare! So go on, Freud, grab your scalpel and poke around a bit—let's see if we can find something else I've repressed, shall we? You seem to like that sort of thing. Go on, ask me about my childhood—I'll tell you about the time my cousin beat me to a pulp because I wouldn't give him my candy bar. Or—or about the time—oh, you'll like this one—I came home early from school because I wasn't feeling well, and found dear old dad doing the unspeakable with—and here's the kicker—my dentist! That not good enough? Okay, okay, let me try this one—"

"Hawkeye—"

"You don't want to hear about my fear of commitment? Okay, all right, we'll talk about what you want to talk about. You want me to tell you about the explosion? Well, let me see…I was riding along in my merry chariot, and not a hundred yards from camp—BOOM!" He brought his hand down on the bedframe, a resounding crack that split the sudden stillness of the room. All activity had stopped, all eyes turned towards the raving patient. But Hawkeye seemed not to notice, his eye glittering with madness and tears, unable to stop the flood of words and emotions. "No, no, let's go back in time—why was I in the jeep, you ask? Well I, being the kind, generous man I am, offered to take the place of my good friend BJ Hunnicutt at an aid station, since he was feeling a little down, what with his family thousands of miles away and all—nice of me, isn't it? Well, you know what they say—"

"Nurse," Freedman called, to someone, anyone. "Sedation…"

"—'no good deed goes unpunished'. So this is my punishment. I quite literally step in front of a bullet for him, and he leaves me here to rot amongst the rest of the Lost Boys. He'll go off and get to see his family again, waltz home without a scratch into open arms and smiling faces, and what do I get? A pat on the head, a nice 'attaboy'—and then, for the finale, a sucker punch to the groin. So how does it make me feel, was that your question? Well I'll tell…I'll tell you…you…" His voice trailed off as the sedatives took effect, his eyes rolling back and the lids sliding shut, head tipping to the side.

Sidney Freedman sat still for a long time afterwards, simply watching Hawkeye; even in sleep, his face was drawn, haunted, lines etched into his skin that Sidney had never seen before. He was not a well man, but it didn't take a psychiatrist to see that. With a sigh, Freedman rose and rested his hand briefly on the wounded man's hair, murmuring, "You can't get rid of me that easily." And he turned and walked calmly from the ward. Sidney Freedman always enjoyed a challenge, and it seemed Hawkeye Pierce was always willing to provide one.

To Be Continued