Chapter One – Rising Wind:
"BJ! Captain Hunnicutt! Come quick!"
"What on earth are you shouting about, Corporal?"
"Major Winchester, sir! Come quick! Please, it's Hawkeye! He's hurt real bad."
"What do you mean, Corporal O'Reilly? Calm yourself!"
"Major Winchester, it's Hawkeye! Captain Pierce just came in with the other wounded. He's all bloody and I think he's unconscious or something. He must have been hurt at the Battalion Aid."
All this was said in a panicked, high-pitched bleating, in the midst of rushing, mud kicked up behind his heels, across the soaked and dripping compound. The sound of distant shell-fire swelled behind the very near sounds of tires spinning through mud, the incessant patter of rain, groaning of the many wounded laid in stretchers across the ground, yelling, stomping of boots, and the splitting of lighting across the dark, overcast sky.
Charles felt his stomach clench, felt Corporal O'Reilly's words trickle down his spine like the cold rain slipping down the collar of his pajama shirt. He followed the bobbing of Radar's flashlight at a trot, dodging the stretchers, the other personnel rushing pell-mell across the camp, bathrobes whipping, drenched through by the downpour. Charles impatiently brushed the rain out of his eyes.
"What is it, Radar?" Hunnicutt yelled from across the compound, kneeling in the mud at the side of a wounded soldier, trying to shield the boy's stomach wound from the falling rain.
"Never mind, Hunnicut. It's being taken care of," Charles tossed over his shoulder automatically, remembering Radar's ominous words, stomach swirling and heart pattering, not wanting to cause a seen.
"It's Hawkeye, sir!" Radar screeched back. The boy sounded near hysterics. He continued to pelt forward, twisting around a nurse carrying an IV above her head. "He came in with the wounded on the bus!"
Charles could hear Hunnicutt's hastily smothered shout of disbelief behind him, but didn't stop to offer the man any words of comfort. He followed Radar aboard the medical evacuation bus, boots clomping on the metal floor, skidding slightly over the mixture of mud, water, and blood.
"Here, sir!" said Radar.
Charles didn't need the Corporal's directions. He recognized Pierce's shaggy black head immediately, lanky form sprawled across the top bunk of the shelves of stretchers built into the sides of the bus. Pierce's pale green army fatigues were covered in mud and dark blood.
"My God," Charles muttered. He shouldered his way beside Radar, the boy's continued babbling disappearing into an unimportant drone in the back of Charles' head.
The blood was thickest and darkest across Pierce's chest and shoulder, which had been hastily wrapped in now dirty bandages. Charles struggled to click automatically back into a medical mode that Radar's pronouncement had jarred out of place.
His hands fumbled for the bandages covering Pierce's arm and chest, trying to complete a hasty medical scan through his haze of disbelief and shock. His eyes were continuously drawn to Pierce's ashen face, spattered with red and brown.
Pierce's eyes flickered. He groaned.
"Easy, easy," whispered Charles mechanically.
"Private McKinnon…get to…too much blood…leg blown off…."
"Try not to talk now, Pierce. Lay still."
"Charles…get to – Private McKinnon…."
"Quiet now, Pierce, easy does it."
"Radar!" Hunnicutt's voice echoed off the aluminum interior of the bus. "What were you saying. Hawkeye's been –"
"He's right here, sir," squeaked Radar.
"My God, Hawkeye!" Hunnicutt exclaimed. Charles felt the other doctor rush forward, felt Hunnicutt's shoulder press urgently against his own. "My God, what happened?" he whispered, voice croaking and withered sounding.
"Don't crowd me, Hunnicutt!" Charles snapped, something he recognized as panic edging disconcertingly across the corner of his mind. The rain clattered against the roof of the bus, making it difficult to hear anything, making it difficult to think.
"Beej…." croaked Pierce weakly.
"Battalion Aid was overrun, sir," said Radar faintly.
"Don't talk, Hawkeye. You're gonna be just fine." Hunnicutt leaned farther over Charles' arm. "The aorta may be partially torn," Hunnicutt said in a rush of breath. "He's hemorrhaging –going into shock –"
"Pulmonary laceration…" whispered Pierce. "…fractured ribs." He coughed. Charles saw that his teeth were stained pink.
"Pierce, for once in your life would you please shut up," Charles hissed through his tight throat, pawing through the tattered folds of Pierce's fatigues, peeling away the bandages that were glued to his skin by blood.
His chest was a mess of red and torn flesh. He caught sight of a glimmer of white ribcage.
"What in Sam's Hill are you two doing in here?" Colonel Potter's boots clattered on the metal floor of the bus. "You've got a job to do. Get it done and done quickly. I need you both in the OR!"
"It's Hawkeye, sir," whispered Radar, voice taut as if he was choking back tears.
"Good gracious, what happened?" the Colonel's voice, still gruff, immediately lost his edge. He crowded in behind Hunnicutt.
"Battalion Aid, sir," Radar breathed. "It must have been…I mean…."
But Colonel Potter appeared to be no longer listening to Radar. He shoved his way to Pierce's side, cursing over what he saw.
"Hey…Colonel," whispered Hawkeye, lips spreading into what could hardly be described as a smile, "next time I'll…call…before dropping…in."
Colonel Potter's hand closed tightly around Pierce's shoulder. "Easy, son." He said to Charles, "Damn, he doesn't look good. You take him first."
"Colonel, let me –" babbled Hunnicutt.
"Winchester's our top chest man, you know that, Captain!" Colonel Potter snapped. "Now get back to your job. Hawkeye's not the only one wounded, you know!"
"Colonel –" Hunnicutt started to say.
"For goodness sake! Stop crowding me, Hunnicutt!" Charles had not meant to shout. He wiped the trails of rain and sweat off his face with the back of his hand.
Colonel Potter pointed to Hunnicutt's chest, "You get back to triage. Hawkeye's being taken care of. You –" he pointed to Charles', voice low and quick, "you scrub up and get ready to do the darndest job you've ever done on a time press."
Charles' began to edge his way back down the aisle of the bus, leaving Pierce for Radar and another corpsman to carry in on the stretcher.
"And Winchester," Potter's voice was strained. His eyes, hidden behind rain-specked glasses, seemed to bore into Charles' face. "Don't worry about anything fancy. Remember that we can always go back in after we've taken care of the other boys. Just do a good enough job that will make sure we'll still have that option later!"
Charles launched himself back into the pouring rain.
"Major Houlihan, get in there and prepare to assist Major Winchester!" barked Colonel Potter behind Charles. Charles caught a glimpse of the wet, limp blond hair of Major Houlihan whip through the air as she turned to follow Charles into the operating room.
Charles stripped off his bathrobe, having been hauled over his shoulders only moments before when the wounded had arrived in the middle of the night, and threw it unceremoniously onto the wooden bench pressed against the wall of the scrub room.
He paused only to wipe his face again on the back of his arm, hardly realizing that his fingers had begun to tremble. The door swung open behind him. He recognized Major Houlihan's sharp footsteps on the wooden floor. He breathed deeply through his nose and turned the tap on, dousing his shaking fingers in a rush of tepid water from the faucet, trying to prepare himself physically and mentally to begin.
BJ was having trouble keeping his mind on the task at hand. Unanswered questions and panic tumbled ferociously through his mind. He tried to focus on breathing deeply, attempting to settle his churning stomach. He clapped a wounded soldier numbly on the shoulder, mumbling, "You'll be fine. We advertise better care here than at the Marriott."
He couldn't erase the picture of Hawkeye lying motionless on a stretcher, of his blood-soaked shirt and pallid face, lifeless eyes. He couldn't get rid of the twisting, painful thumping in his stomach, of the wrenching sense of disbelief, the shock that it was to see his best friend lying there, dripping blood, half-way conscious, perhaps….
No! No, my God, no! BJ couldn't start to think like that. He couldn't allow his mind to stray anywhere near that dark and murky field of thought. Charles was good. Charles was a fantastic doctor. If Charles couldn't pull Hawkeye through than nobody could. BJ gulped back the acid that had risen in his throat.
"BJ!" Father Mulcahy's voice drifted through the wind and rain. With the squelching sound of boots being pulled through mud, the priest appeared, hair plastered to the side of his face, eyes darting behind his glasses. "I've just heard from Radar. My heavens, BJ, is Hawkeye alright? Is he going to be alright?"
"Charles is –" it was difficult to work his throat. "He's in there with Charles now."
"What happened, BJ?"
"I don't know, Father. He's –" BJ could not go on. His throat seemed to have collapsed, air ceased to reach his brain. He was suddenly very lightheaded, confused, lost….
Father Mulcahy's fingers closed around his forearm. "He'll be fine, BJ, I'm sure of it. Don't you worry."
It was what anyone was supposed to say. It didn't actually mean anything. BJ knew better than anyone that it didn't really mean anything. Doctor as he was, he himself wasn't even sure if Hawkeye was going to be alright. If his aortic artery had, in fact, been torn, even partially – it, BJ could tell Hawkeye had already lost a great deal of blood, there was no telling – Charles, even Charles wouldn't know the full extent of damage until he had Hawkeye's chest opened before him, displayed to the air and harsh light of the operating room –
"I've got to go, Father," BJ heard himself murmur. "Get Klinger to help you carry him in," he gestured to the soldier at his feet, stretcher laid in the dirt that had quickly been turned to mud in the ceaseless downpour of rain that had lasted all yesterday and half-way through the night. It fell onto the soldier's face and dripped down BJ's chin, ran into his eyes, making it difficult to see through the misty and night-shrouded compound.
He tramped heavily through the muck and shouldered open the door to pre-op. Charles was nowhere to be seen so presumably he was already working on…Hawkeye. The whole scenario refused to drop its cover of horrid surrealism. It was almost as if BJ's brain was incapable of swallowing the facts, that Hawkeye had been seriously injured, was being operated on, right now, right here, that BJ was utterly powerless, unable to lift so much as a finger, to help his best friend, perhaps stop him from –
BJ shook his head. Droplets of water flung loose from his drenched hair. He couldn't afford to think like this. After all, Hawkeye wasn't the only one fighting for his life in there. The door swung open and Colonel Potter stomped in, already pulling off his soaked bathrobe. He took his glasses off and wiped them on the corner of his pajama top.
"We're in for a tough one, BJ. Better get scrubbed up," somehow the older man's voice seemed unusually gentle.
"Sure thing," said BJ, and found, to his surprise, that he was already standing behind the sink, dressed in his pure white scrubs. Nurse Able burst through the door, muddy combat boots clashing strangely with her flimsy nightgown.
"I just heard, Colonel. Hawkeye – is he –?"
"Winchester's with him," said Colonel Potter, sounding tired. "Let's all keep a level head, now."
BJ wiped his hands and arms dry. He pulled a pair of rubber gloves over his hands with a snap. He pushed the door open to the operating room, shouting as he did so, "Alright, I'm ready. Bring one in."
"Bowl resection, sir," said Nurse Johnson, already standing at the ready.
Charles was standing at the far table, as he always did. Margaret was working with him, her back to BJ, blocking Hawkeye's face from BJ's sight. He wanted to say something, to ask how it was going, to ask…but Charles' forehead was beaded with sweat, his eyes strained purely on Hawkeye's open chest below him.
"More suction, Margaret," he said tightly. "Clamp."
There was a metallic clatter as an instrument fell out of Margaret's fingers and onto the floor.
"Damn it, Major! Be careful!"
"Steady now, Major," said Colonel Potter calmly as he pushed through the door, arms held parallel at chest height.
"Yes, Colonel." Margaret's voice was strangely high-pitched. "Sorry, Major." BJ noticed her fingers, covered in transparent rubber, covered in blood, Hawkeye's blood, were shaking.
"It's alright," muttered Charles, almost inaudibly, as if he might be speaking to either Margaret or himself. "It's alright, Major. Clamp."
"Doctor…?" said Nurse Johnson, and BJ snapped back to attention. He surveyed the broken, unconscious body of the soldier on the table before him, gauging the damage as best he could, and took a deep breath. "Scalpel," he said, and felt the instrument press into his palm.
He worked quickly but methodically, feeling the blissful automation of surgery take hold of his body and mind, disappearing into the here and now so completely as only working on a patient had ever allowed him to.
"How's it going, Winchester?" Colonel Potter's voice cut across the gentle drone of tinkling instruments and murmured voices of the doctors and nurses. Otherwise, the operating room was strangely silent, unnervingly silently and it sliced through BJ's chest like a cold knife when he realized that it was Hawkeye's usually light-hearted banter and cheerful quips that were missing.
"Don't bother me now!" Charles snapped, and then seemed to realize who he was talking to and said, "Er – Colonel. It's…tricky…" he didn't elaborate, holding out his hand for Margaret to press another instrument into.
"Alright," BJ said, pulling another stich tight. "I'm ready for another one."
Klinger darted forward, frilled eye-covers pushed on top of his head, one of the two corpsmen to remove BJs patient. "Hey, he gonna be alright, sir?" He jabbed his head in the direction of Hawkeye, eyes large above the mask covering his nose and mouth.
BJ tried to smile but then remembered his own mask was covering his lips. "Keep your fingers crossed, Klinger," he said, as lightly as he could.
Another patient was wheeled in to replace BJ's first one. BJ tossed his gloves off and snapped on a clean pair.
"No pulse, doctor." The voice was quiet, so very horrifyingly quiet, but it seemed to penetrate the whole room, clanging against the flimsy walls, weaving through the air, colliding meaninglessly against BJs eardrums.
In the pause that followed, BJ heard Margaret stifle a gasp. For a moment Charles' eyes leapt upward, catching hold of BJ's from across the room. Charles' eyes were wide and terrified, his hands seemed to have gone utterly still. BJ felt something within him jerk, for a moment he was certain he was going to throw up, scream, cry….
Charles leapt into action. "Open heart massage," he muttered urgently. "Margaret, rib-spreader. Major, there isn't any time to waste! Pull yourself together!"
"I'm sorry! Here! I've got it!" Margaret fumbled for the instrument. BJ could hear roaring in his ears, making it difficult for him to hear anything. He realized it was only the pattering of the rain on the aluminum roof, no, it was the frantic hammering of his heart against his ribs…
"Oh jeez."
BJ had not realized Radar had come in. He wondered if the boy had perhaps sensed that something had gone wrong in order to run into the operating room at that exact crucial moment. He was holding a mask up to his mouth with shaking hands.
"Radar," barked Colonel Potter, "get out of here!"
"Oh jeez," Radar whimpered again, unmoving. His eyes were gleaming brightly behind his glasses that sharply reflected the electric lighting.
Charles swore loudly. "Come on, Pierce! Don't you do this!"
The whole of the room seemed to be holding its breath. BJ grew lightheaded as his chest refused to rise and fall, refused to allow any breath up his windpipe. Charles bent intensely over the body of his patient that had refused to any longer connect itself in BJs mind with the same living, breathing, laughing person that was Hawkeye.
The door to the operating room opened and shut again almost soundlessly. Father Mulcahy tripped inside as if he had been another who had been supernaturally drawn to that place at that time. He began to murmur urgently beneath his breath in Latin, eyes pressed shut, hands clasped before his chest tightly, imploringly….
"You can't, Pierce!" Charles hissed fiercely across the silent expanse of operating room. "I won't let you, damn it. Come on, Pierce! Not on my watch, you don't!"
The water beating down on the ceiling seemed to be the second hand of a clock, wound to an unnatural speed, ticking away the moments, the cruel, abrupt moments in which the patient – Hawkeye – continued in a limbo between life and unspeakable, unthinkable death.
Don't let 'im win, Hawk. BJ felt something hot and light, like a feather, trace its way down his cheek.
Colonel Potter's head bowed. A bead of sweat ran down Charles' forehead and into his eye. He didn't blink, hands working frantically inside Hawkeye's chest.
"A pulse!" gasped Nurse Carson, voice squeezing past the sob caught in her throat.
Charles looked up, hands falling away. BJ saw Margaret's shoulder fall in a sigh of relief. There was no outbreak of cheering, however, and silence continued to beat upon his ears. BJ was too weak to cheer. For a moment he was certain he was going to start sobbing. A nob in his throat grew and twisted to an agonizing size.
Colonel Potter said waveringly, "Thank God," and turned back to his own patient.
Father Mulcahy drew his hand in a cross over his chest and then pushed his fingers under his glasses to rub his eyes. Radar seemed to lose all strength in his legs. His hand fished for the wall behind him and he used it as a guide, wobbling mutely back out of the doors.
Charles breathed heavily. "Alright," he said at last, and breathed again. "Alright. Just one last stich and we'll get him out to post-op."
As soon as the last casualty had been tended to, Margaret would have liked to collapse in her tent, burry herself on her cot, and have a good cry.
Instead, she continued to march through post-op, throat aching, eyes itching, and every molecule of her being screaming to bow down and give into the monster of tumultuous emotions that threatened to claw itself up and out of her esophagus.
With every painful step down the aisle between the rows of bed she remembered with aching clarity how much they – she – everyone – had almost lost, just six hours before. Just six hours before.
Hawkeye had almost died. Hawkeye would, perhaps, still die. Margaret bit her fingernails into her palms, catching the sob that threatened to escape from her lips.
Margaret was not a fragile woman. On the contrary, Margaret was a very strong, steady, and level-headed woman. She was in complete control of her emotions. She prided herself on keeping a stiff upper lip, of remaining unfazed by whatever she might encounter, by whatever horrors the war had yet thought to fling in her face.
She was ashamed of the way she had almost fallen to pieces in the OR earlier that day…night…morning. She was unsure of what time it had been, what time it was now. Sunlight was filtering grayishly through the clouds that continued to hang ominously in the sky, cascading their endless torrents of rain. Surely that meant that it was daytime, which day that daytime belonged to, however, Margaret was unsure.
She came to a stop at the foot of Hawkeye's bed. She reached unconsciously for the clipboard hanging from the bedpost and ran her eyes down his list of vitals, something she had done so frequently over the past hour that she had almost memorized it word for word.
She shut her eyes, trying to erase from memory those heart-stopping, horrifying moments in which she had thought that, perhaps, Hawkeye's still, cold, pale face lying atop the operating table might be the last time she'd ever see him before the army took him and placed him in some unmarked, light-brown casket.
For something to do, Margaret reached for Hawkeye's good arm, feeling for the pulse in his wrist. Before she knew it, she had sat down in the chair placed conveniently by the side of his cot, allowing her head to fall against the slated wooden walls, shutting her eyes against the unusually cruel lighting hanging from the ceiling.
"Who's this sitting in my chair?" said BJ's tired voice above her. Margaret's eyes snapped back open. BJ was smiling wanly, something that stretched weakly across his lips and hadn't the strength enough to reach his eyes.
Margaret tried to smile back at him. Her lips felt stiff and hard from disuse. It felt like ages since she'd last smiled.
BJ's eyes traveled to Margaret's hand. She noticed she had unintentionally entwined her fingers in Hawkeye's cool, still ones.
"Checking for a pulse," she said stiffly, and BJ smiled a smidgeon wider. Margaret wondered what people would think of her, but decided BJ really wasn't a man liable to spread any rumors. Besides, she didn't feel any immediate impulse to pull away.
"How's he doing?" said BJ, rubbing his eyes with his fists.
"No change. Chest seems to be draining well," Margaret murmured, figuring BJ already knew it. If anyone was ahead of her on memorizing that clipboard, than it was BJ. She didn't think she'd seen him leave post-op once. But, then again, she only knew that because she hadn't left once, either.
BJ sighed, long and low. He looked exhausted, almost as exhausted as Margaret felt.
"Why don't you get some sleep," she offered gently. "I can take care of post-op from here."
"No, I," BJ paused and frowned. "I don't think I could sleep."
"You'd be surprised to find what you could do if you'd only try," said Margaret.
"How 'bout you go?" said BJ. "No offense, but you look terrible."
"None taken," said Margaret, "so do you." Silence fell for a moment. Margaret could hear only the even breathing of the many sleeping soldiers, and the steady drip of the many IVs tapped into the many soldier's arms lining the walls of post-op, that and the relentless, maddening clatter of rain outside that sounded more like a solid thing than millions of individual drops of water.
Hawkeye's chest rose quietly up and down. His face was still pale. His eyes closed. He looked as if he was merely slumbering peacefully in the middle of the night, somewhere far away from this living nightmare they were currently trapped in. Margaret thought he had always looked so innocent when sleeping.
Not that she had ever particularly had opportunities to notice, of course.
BJ dragged an arm over his eyes. He rolled his head in a circle on his neck. He looked like he was about to collapse where he stood. "Why don't you drag over the other chair?" said Margaret.
"Too far a walk," he murmured. "The floor is much closer."
"You could wake Major Winchester," Margaret insisted.
"Why are you so anxious to get rid of me, Margaret?" said BJ, and smiled that hatefully forced, tired smile again. He sunk gently down to the foot of Hawkeye's bed, bracing his elbows on his knees. He added very quietly, "Charles has done enough. Let him sleep."
"So've you, BJ," said Margaret.
BJ sighed. Still quietly, as if speaking to himself, he said, "I don't think I'd have been able to do it. You and Charles – were amazing. I don't think I could. I would have frozen up or…something."
Margaret found herself speaking without first weighing what she was about to say. "It was easy when I forgot that it was Hawkeye. Whenever I remembered…that was when I –" She couldn't go on. The sob stung her throat like bile. Her eyes burned.
The rumbles of thunder overhead and distant clatter of artillery were impossible to distinguish from one another. She thought that the war had never felt so close.
She took a deep breath. Her chest ached. "Somehow I can't believe it," she whispered. "It was only a couple of days ago and he was…. What happened, BJ? How did he get hurt? Why did –" Why did it have to be Hawkeye? What had he done? What had they done?
"It was a mortar. One of the other guys brought in, he saw it happen." BJ spoke in an emotionless, flat voice that sent a shiver down Margaret's spine. "The Chinese got a little too close for comfort. They were evacuating. Hawkeye went out to help a kid who'd been shot and couldn't get up. I guess that's when it hit."
Margaret focused on breathing through her nose, not knowing if hearing the details helped or only made it worse.
"The kid he went to get, he – Private McKinnon, he – Hawk was asking about him when he was first brought in."
"We didn't work on any Private McKinnon," said Margaret, she lifted her head to glance to the beds around post-op, not even having the heart to pray she might be mistaken.
"No," said BJ. "He'd lost a leg…but that wasn't all. A piece of shrapnel lodged itself in his head. He – dead on arrival."
She knew what BJ was thinking, that Hawkeye had perhaps sacrificed his life for a lost cause, was lying there now, unmoving, unconscious….
"My Dod, he could have gotten out," said BJ, voice twisted and anguished. Margaret felt her stomach clench. "What was he even doing there?" he demanded. "I should have –"
"It was his turn, BJ," Margaret said firmly, abruptly. "This isn't your fault."
BJ didn't say anything. He had buried his eyes in heels of his hands.
Almost imperceptible, Hawkeye's hand twitched within Margaret's, drawing Margaret's eyes to him. BJ looked up and also fixed his gaze on Hawkeye. He was stirring fitfully, dark hair tangled upon the white linen pillowcase, breathing growing faster and shallower.
"Hey, Hawk," BJ prompted him. He reached his hand over to touch Hawkeye lightly on the arm. Margaret realized she was still holding his hand and gently released his fingers from hers.
Hawkeye groaned quietly. His eyelids flickered.
"Hawkeye?" Margaret had not meant to whisper. She cleared her throat. "Pierce?"
Hawkeye's eyes opened fully. For a moment he stared blearily up at them. Margaret could feel him tense beside her and she had to stop herself from involuntarily reaching for his hand again.
"Hey, Hawk," said BJ again, voice soothing. "Hey, you're okay. Home sweet home."
Hawkeye didn't seem to understand. His eyes began to drift shut again.
"Hawk?" said BJ, gripping Hawkeye's arm tighter. "How you feeling, Hawk?"
"…Beej?" His voice was hoarse and weak. "Where…what…?"
"You're okay, Hawk. You're in post-op."
"You're alright, Pierce," Margaret chimed in.
Hawkeye's eyes lazily swung to fix on her face. She didn't think she'd ever noticed quite how blue they were before. "Margaret…."
She mustered a smile and briefly squeezed his fingers again.
Someone cleared his throat behind them. She looked up to see Charles staring down at them. Margaret had been so preoccupied with Hawkeye that she hadn't heard him come in.
"And what are you two doing with my patient?" he asked, eyebrows arched.
Margaret smiled weakly and leaned backward in her chair to allow Charles room to get to Hawkeye.
"Charles?" said Hawkeye. His voice was getting stronger, his eyes more alert.
"The very same, Pierce. It's about time you woke up. I'm afraid you've slept in."
Hawkeye blinked slowly. His upper lip twitched in a way that made Margaret think he was trying to smile.
Charles continued, "I must say you gave us quite a scare. I, of course, was confident in my surgeon's abilities to pull you through, but I can't speak for the others."
"It is…Charles," Hawkeye wheezed.
"Mm-hm," Charles murmured. He touched his fingers to Hawkeye's wrist. Margaret already knew his pulse was steady, but slow. He said seriously "How are you feeling, Pierce?"
"Like I…got ran over…by…a jeep."
Charles smiled sardonically, "Yes, well, that's to be expected, I'm afraid."
"How…Beej? How bad was I?"
Margaret could tell BJ was having almost as much difficulty speaking at Hawkeye was. BJ blinked. "Pretty bad, Hawk. But Charles pulled you through just fine. Don't worry."
"Well, well," said a jovial voice. Margaret almost jumped. Colonel Potter was stalking down the aisle, smile fixed firmly over his square jaw. Margaret honestly couldn't understand how the Colonel did it. "Up and at 'em, Pierce?"
"Colonel…" said Hawkeye. Margaret felt Hawkeye stiffen again. For all his talk of disregarding military discipline, he always seemed to attempt to perk up when the colonel walked into a room, even now. "It looks like…everyone's turning up…for my…." Hawkeye trailed away. Margaret wondered if he'd grown too weak to continue.
Colonel Potter covered the pause graciously. "Sure does, son. We'd have Radar in, too, but he's passed out in his office after staying up the whole night."
"I'll…have to see him…later…" murmured Hawkeye.
"Sure will," said Colonel heartily, rocking on his heels, grinning broader. "How you feeling? Any pain?"
Hawkeye's face screwed up in concentration. "I don't…" he winced as though he'd only just become aware of the waning pain medication. "Yeah," he murmured, and shut his eyes again.
Margaret felt water pool in her eyes. She felt her heart twisting. It was unbearable – unbearable to think of Hawkeye like this, lying on the cot, in pain that was liable only to get worse….
"Major," said Charles abruptly, "would you be so good as to refresh Captain Pierce's supply of morphine. .02 CCs will do it."
Margaret blinked and slipped quickly out of her chair. "Yes, of course, Major." She busied herself with collecting and administering the proper medication, finding welcome solace in the methodical work. It was easier when she had a job to do, easier to keep her mind off of it – Hawkeye – everything. She returned to Hawkeye's bedside to find the patient had once again fallen into a doze and Charles had sunk into her previously occupied chair.
"Why don't you and Hunnicutt leave to get some sleep?" Charles offered, sounding kindler then Margaret had often heard him. "Nurse Kellye and I can manage in here."
BJ opened his mouth to object but Colonel Potter intercepted him, "That sounds like a good idea, BJ. You've both had a draining night."
Margaret felt like objecting, too, but she knew the only way BJ might concede was if she allowed herself to leave as well. "Alright," she said, catching BJ's eye.
He wearily nodded. "Okay. Just keep an eye on him, alright?"
"Both eyes when I can spare them, Hunnicutt," said Charles, crossing his legs. "Now, be gone with you. No offense intended, of course, but you both look utterly terrible."