Author's Note: As the unidentified "Guest" pointed out, leaving Radar completely alone in post-op with tons of injured soldiers would not have been a smart move. Although it doesn't turn out to be a plot-point, I went back to revise it with a "I'll send in Lieutenant Baker" line for Margaret.
Chapter Three – Flood:
As usual, Father Mulcahy felt like a bumbling, clumsy fool as the wounded rumbled into the compound, coming in thick and fast. He tried to help wherever and whenever he was needed, rushing forward to carry litters into pre-op, sharing a comforting word when the opportunity presented itself, or supporting a soldier with functioning legs off a bus, but more often than not he found himself getting in the way of doctors, nurses, and corpsmen who were scrambling passed him with surer and more readily defined duties.
He supposed he could always be certain of the one duty he alone could perform, that of tending to those unfortunate boys who did not make it through the operating room doors, or did not make it out again. Over the course of the war, Father Mulcahy had found this particular duty to be his most reluctantly done, sorely heartrending, and indescribably painful. In fact, he had almost grown to hate it.
For this feeling he was secretly ashamed, for how could a priest – any priest, in any situation – ever come to despise one of his most sacred, hallowed responsibilities? These precious souls were in his hands, and that was a fact he could never forget and trembled under the weight of.
Father Mulcahy shut his own eyes as his fingers gently touched the eyelids of the dead soldier before him, cold, pale, and young face drenched by the pouring rain, like tears of the angels who most certainly were weeping in heaven at such a display of meaningless hate and death. He breathed deeply as he drew a cross over his chest, lips murmuring in Latin the phrases that had grown all too familiar in these mere two years.
"Watch it, Father. Sorry."
Father Mulcahy's eyes snapped back open in time to see BJ rush by in a splattering of mud, carrying a pressure bandage in one hand and a bag of plasma in the other.
Father Mulcahy climbed achingly back to his feet, knees soaked through with mud and water. He bent at the waist to cover the dead soldier's face with a blanket, and waved over a corpsman to help him carry the stretcher away from the rest of the wounded.
"Hey, Father!" Colonel Potter's voice boomed across the compound. He was in the middle of directing two nurses carrying a litter and rushing toward pre-op to scrub. "Get over to the OR! We're gonna need all the hands we can get, seeing as we're only working three tables."
Father Mulcahy felt a familiar pang in his chest when he remembered Hawkeye lying limp in post-op. Every moment, every movement of the camp, seemed to ring painfully of his absence.
"Right away, Colonel!" He stopped to pick up the end of another stretcher to carry before heading into pre-op.
Time in the operating room always acted in a most peculiar way, especially on days like these, when the casualties seemed unending. It seemed almost as if time ceased to be an entity, stopped holding any substance, mind, or matter. It twisted and buckled to its delight, laws of physics cast aside, sometimes moving unbearable slowly, sometimes racing past at breakneck speed, but always elusive and unpredictable.
Father Mulcahy knew not for how long he stood in OR, assisting the doctors, running hither and thither with instruments and refilling bags of IV fluid, but when he finally stepped away from the last patient he discovered that it was long into the night, and – of course – still raining outside.
"Alright, Klinger," Colonel Potter's voice was exceedingly heavy. He pealed his gloves away from his fingers and tugged his mask from his mouth. Father Mulcahy thought the colonel looked more like an old man than he ever had before. "Bring this one out."
"Mess tent's nearly full, sir," said Corporal Klinger, hat pins still sticking sporadically into his dark curls even though he had discarded his hat at the beginning of the session.
"Good thing that's the last of them, then," Colonel Potter answered.
"My God," said Major Houlihan, falling against the wall, "how many was that?"
"Too many, Major," said Colonel Potter.
"I for one, could use a nice, long, relaxing shower," Major Winchester said wiping his forehead with the back of his arm.
"Go stand outside for twenty minutes," said BJ. "I for one could use a nice, long, relaxing coma."
It was a welcome relief to hear a bit of humor interspersed in the doctors' conversation, however wry it might have been. It had been so noticeable lacking those past couple of days. Father Mulcahy sighed and rolled his shoulders. He'd only just realized how much his body ached from standing so long. "I do believe I'll go turn in," he said.
"I think that's a good idea, Padre," said Colonel Potter. "I think it's about time everyone hit the sack."
Margaret said, "I'll take first shift, Colonel."
"Oh, no you don't, Major – you either, Winchester," said Colonel Potter as Charles opened his mouth. "Both of you have been on your feet for almost twenty-four hours, now."
"I'll take first shift, Colonel," said BJ quietly.
Colonel Potter raised his hand. "I'll take first shift, Hunnicutt," he said firmly. "I don't need any more of my medical personal laid up, especially not for something like fainting from exhaustion."
BJ looked as if he was going to protest, but a stern glance from Colonel Potter sent him shuffling out of the OR. Charles and Margaret followed him. Father Mulcahy stopped outside briefly to discard his soiled gloves and don his windbreaker hung on one of the hooks. He bid the others good-night and then tripped out into the soaked compound.
He was halfway to his tent when he felt a nagging, persistent pull in his stomach. He remembered that it had been quite a while since he'd last seen Hawkeye, and wondered…. True, it was very late. The odds of Hawkeye being awake weren't good. After all, the man was supposed to be resting as much as possible. But…perhaps it might be a comfort to see him, whether sleeping or awake.
Father Mulcahy turned on his heel and backtracked to post-op. He eased the door open and stepped inside. It was dark except for the lighted desk lamp at the end of the room. Colonel Potter had already arrived; he was sitting at the desk with his head in his hands. Father Mulcahy suspected the Colonel was truthfully much more tired than he had let on in the OR.
Father Mulcahy shuffled up the aisle and Colonel Potter raised his head.
"Padre," said the Colonel with a nod.
"Colonel," Father Mulcahy said back.
Colonel Potter didn't ask Father Mulcahy what he was doing there. Father Mulcahy thought the Colonel could guess why. After all, he was a very sharp man.
"How's Hawkeye?" said Father Mulcahy, eyes drawn to his still form on the bed halfway down the wall.
Colonel Potter sighed. "His fever's getting worse. Not breathing very easily, either."
"Infection?" said Father Mulcahy.
"I'm afraid so," said Colonel Potter. "Possibly a touch of postoperative pneumonia. Ordinarily we should be able to knock that out with antibiotics, but because there's already so much damage to his lung…."
Father Mulcahy felt a sigh rise up and choke him in his throat as Colonel Potter's voice drifted away. It was almost silent within the ward.
"How is the little Korean family you and BJ brought in?"
"They're doing alright," said Colonel Potter. "The girl wasn't more than a little stunned. The mother's got a concussion, mild abrasions, nothing to worry about."
"Thank God," said Father Mulcahy.
"Sure thing, Padre," said Colonel Potter. He kneaded his forehead with his thin and knotted fingers.
"You look exhausted, Colonel," Father Mulcahy said softly.
"Probably 'cuz I am, Padre. Mentally, physically, and emotionally. Seeing all this," Colonel Potter waved his hand over post-op, "it certainly has a way of aging you that time on its own can't match."
"Perhaps it would be better if you went to your tent?" Father Mulcahy suggested tentatively. "I could…."
"That's alright, Father," Colonel Potter interrupted. "But there are more to tend now than just Hawkeye. I'd better make rounds to the mess tent pretty soon."
"Yes," Father Mulcahy murmured. "Yes, I suppose so." He felt so desperately hopeless, as if there was nothing here that he was able to do, nothing he had ever been able to do.
All our times are in Thy hand. All diseases come at Thy call, and go at Thy bidding –
There was a shuddering, choking sort of gasp from one of the wounded, a sort of muffled shout of pain. Father Mulcahy started and whirled around. Colonel Potter had already jumped to his feet.
Father Mulcahy could hear the flurry of ruffling sheets, the ragged, painful gasping of the wounded soldier. Colonel Potter darted forward.
"Light, Padre!" he barked. Father Mulcahy fumbled into motion. He flicked on the light switch attached to the wall, flooding the ward with brightness. Father Mulcahy blinked passed the sudden vividness of his surroundings, racing forward to see what it was he could do.
Colonel Potter was bent over one of the patients, wrestling with his thrashing arms. Colonel Potter's elbow hit the IV stand. It wobbled and hit the wall, bag half-way filled with blood swinging wildly.
"Oh, Lord, no!" Father Mulcahy felt the unintentional gasp – prayer or mere outcry he did not know – leap from his lips. His stomach wrenched violently.
It was Hawkeye. His blue eyes were wide and terrified, his face pale and etched with pain. His lips opened and closed helplessly as though trying to swallow air that no longer slipped through his windpipe and reached his lungs.
Father Mulcahy suddenly couldn't breathe. He couldn't think, couldn't feel, couldn't comprehend….
"Ruptured aneurysm!" Colonel Potter said tersely. "Collapsed lung! Father, get Winchester in here stat!"
He obeyed without question. There was no time to question. Father Mulcahy skidded across the floor, heart pumping frantically in his chest, skin covered in a cold sweat. His glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose. He pushed them back in front of his eyes, and realized his fingers were shaking.
He crashed through the doors and he almost ran headlong into Radar, whose face was pale and eyes large with fear and shock, evidently attracted by the commotion.
"Father –"
"It's Hawkeye! Hurry!" Father Mulcahy's voice was high and shaking. He could hardly recognize himself. He could hardly remember making any decision to speak. He felt the rain wash over him like a single sheet of water as he stumbled into the compound. Reflex seemed to have taken over, grasped control of his limbs, his thoughts, his very being –
His boots slipped through the mud and his shoulder collided with the door of the Swamp, which flew open with a clatter. BJ sat up straight in his bed, eyes wide, slightly maddened. Charles, too, sat up abruptly without a word from Father Mulcahy, already throwing off his covers.
"What in heaven's –"
"It's Hawkeye!" Father Mulcahy shrieked. "For God's sake, hurry!"
BJ was up like a shot, shoving his feet into his boots, grabbing a fistful of his robe and jostling past Father Mulcahy and into the rain. Charles followed right on his heels, throwing his robe over his shoulders as he ran, mud streaming from behind his heels.
Father Mulcahy stood there for a moment, gasping to try to catch his breath, mind racing, a blurred frantic swirl of thoughts that refused to focus on anything definite, any next course of action. Margaret –
He slipped back across the compound to the major's tent; her door was already swinging open.
"What it, Father?" she asked sharply. "I heard running –"
"It's – Hawkeye," Father Mulcahy gasped. Breath tore painfully up his chest. Rain slithered chillingly down the collar of his shirt. "Quickly – ruptured aneurysm –" Father Mulcahy had no need to say more. Margaret, paled, shocked, but resolute had already flung herself into the swirling rain outside, pulling the tie of her robe tightly.
As Thou hast delivered his eyes from tears, his feet from falling, and his soul from death –
Father Mulcahy darted after her. His boot slipped in the mud and he slid onto his stomach, fingers sinking into the soft ground, mud splattering his glasses. He struggled back to his feet and ran onwards. If only there might be an end to this dreadful rain, he thought fleetingly.
The door to post-op was still swinging shut when Father Mulcahy reached it. He was in time to see Major Houlihan skid to a stop at the foot of Hawkeye's cot. She was already reaching out a hand to unhook his IV from the stand.
"He's going into heart failure. I'll have to go back in again," Charles was saying, leaning urgently over Hawkeye, whom had been quieted, perhaps with a sedative. His breathing scraped across the air, coming in shallow, wheezing gaps.
The door at the other end of the ward clattered open and Radar tripped inside, untangling the tubes of an oxygen mask. "Here!" he announced, skidding to a stop before BJ, whom was kneeling across the bed from Winchester, gripping Hawkeye's unbandaged forearm tightly in his fist.
"Alright, Margaret you'll be assisting again," Colonel Potter said rapidly. He was pressed against the wall to allow Major Winchester full access to his patient. "Hunnicutt, you're on anesthesia."
"His temperature's 103.9," said Margaret shrilly. "That's too high to operate."
"I cannot not operate, Major," said Charles tightly.
"She's right, Winchester. It's risky," said Colonel Potter, voice low and gruff, hiding goodness knows what emotions, thought Father Mulcahy. "It's your call."
Father Mulcahy focused on breathing deeply. The recovery ward had gone oddly still. Charles was still bending over Hawkeye. Father Mulcahy could see the tautness of his shoulders showing through his robe. Radar stood trembling in the middle of the hall. Father Mulcahy could see unshed tears pooling in his eyes behind his glasses.
What shall I render unto the Lord for all his benefits towards me, and resolve to offer unto Thee the sacrifices of thanksgiving –
BJ looked up, one hand clamped over the oxygen mask that was covering Hawkeye's nose and mouth. He fixed his steely gray eyes on Charles' bent head. His face was pale. He looked stricken.
"My God, Charles," he whispered, voice carrying sharply across the thick silence. "He'll die if you don't."
Charles breathed deeply. His shoulders heaved. "Hunnicutt's right," he said. He stood abruptly. "Get him into the OR. I'm scrubbing up."
Charles swept down the hall toward the operating room, robe sweeping behind him like the cloak of a monarch. Father Mulcahy caught a glimpse of his pale face as the major passed and was startled at the look of unexpected emotion he saw etched on the major's face. Father Mulcahy suddenly felt a pressing urge to reach for the major's arm, to tell him…tell him something. Something that might be remotely encouraging, that might, somehow, lessen this terrible weight upon the major's shoulders, this terrible knowledge that if he should fail –
Radar had dashed away and returned pushing a gurney. BJ and Colonel Potter gently lifted Hawkeye onto it, Margaret reaching over their shoulders to maintain her hold on Hawkeye's IV.
"Colonel, what can I do?" said Father Mulcahy, watching as Radar, BJ and Margaret hastily rolled Hawkeye after Major Winchester.
"Pray, Padre."
"Colonel, what else?" Lord, anything else. Let him do something, anything….
"I'd be thankful, Father," said Colonel Potter. Father Mulcahy saw the colonel's eyes were hard and gleaming, watching with a clenched jaw as BJ disappeared through the far door, pushing the tail end of the gurney. "You're one of the few around here who have even that much they're able to do."
Colonel Potter drew a deep, shuddering breath, and seemed to regain his composure.
"Hey, doc?" croaked one of the other patients.
"What is it, son?" Colonel Potter approached the patient, who looked pallid and shaken after witnessing the past episode.
"Hey, he gonna be alright, doc?"
Father Mulcahy noticed that many of the other patients in post-op had been woken by Hawkeye, except for those few who were no doubt in a medically induced sleep.
"Don't you worry about it, son. Try to get back to sleep."
"He's a doctor, isn't he?" the patient continued. "He was at Battalion Aid. I remember – he treated my shoulder before I was bused over here."
"That's right, son."
"What happened to him? Is he gonna be alright?"
Colonel Potter clapped the soldier on the shoulder. "He's in the hands of one of our most capable surgeons. Don't you worry about it," the colonel reiterated. Mollified, the soldier nodded.
"Father," said Colonel Potter. Father Mulcahy snapped to attention. His thoughts were still wildly scattered, sluggish, and confused. He could feel his heart thumping in his stomach. He felt nauseated. "Why don't you head to the OR? I guess you could do just as much good praying there as here, maybe a little more."
"Yes…yes, of course, Colonel." Father Mulcahy stumbled across the floor.
He heard the door at the other end of the ward swing open and the voice of Lieutenant Kellye as she asked Colonel Potter what had happened. "I heard something about Hawkeye…?"
She must have been summoned by someone, probably Radar. The boy seemed capable of completing a manifold of tasks, almost as if he was able to be in more than one place at one time. Father Mulcahy couldn't imagine what the unit would do without him. Or, indeed, what the unit would do without any of them….
Father Mulcahy paused to collect himself outside the door to the operating room. The scrub room was empty, everyone already bustling inside. He could hear Charles' and BJ's voices drifting muffled through the space below the door.
The door behind Father Mulcahy clattered open and in stumbled Klinger, wide-eyed, pale, and fingers trembling. "I just heard – is he –?"
"I don't know," said Father Mulcahy, throat tight. Really, the only thing to do would open the door to find out. But Father Mulcahy felt a curious misgiving about walking into the operating room, of seeing Hawkeye once again on the table, once again with is chest split open, once again, perhaps, on the brink of breathing his last breath –
– And to call upon the name of the Lord.
Father Mulcahy snatched up a cloth mask and pushed open the door abruptly, spilling into the brightly lit, gaping room. Charles was standing at his usual table, at the end of the room, somehow seeming very small and faraway. The small group of people gathered around the operating table seemed to take up very little room, their voices and the clattering of instruments seemed unusually loud against the otherwise empty and echoing room.
He tied the mask around his neck with fumbling fingers and marched briskly forward.
"He's hemorrhaging," said BJ, voice raspy, working the anesthesia machine, holding the black mask against Hawkeye's still face.
"We've got to lower his blood pressure," said Charles. "He's losing blood too fast."
"Right, beta blocker," said Margaret, standing across the table from him, face pale but set, looking almost like a waxwork.
"Suction, Major. There it is."
"Thank God, the aorta's not ruptured," said Margaret.
"No, just an aortic dissection," muttered Charles.
"He's going into shock, Charles," said BJ tightly.
"Suction, Major! I need two more units of whole blood, now!"
Klinger stumbled forward, "I've got them, sir!"
"Klinger, what are you doing here?" demanded Margaret.
Klinger returned with the units of blood and hooked them to the IV stand, Margaret helping with one bloodied hand, the other holding steady a suction tube that reached into Hawkeye's open chest.
"Listen, I know all I'm gonna be able to do is maybe mop up blood on the floor and towel off your foreheads but it's a whole lot better than just standing around waiting to see what happens!" said Klinger.
"I don't need an audience," said Charles through gritted teeth, but appeared much too absorbed in the task at hand to protest anymore. "Sponge, Major. Hunnicut, what's he reading?"
"Eighty-five over fifty-five, Charles."
Charles swore under his breath. "Pulse?"
"Forty. It's weak – but – but it's still there," whispered BJ.
"I've got to oversew the aneurism," hissed Charles, almost as if he was speaking to himself.
Father Mulcahy became aware that he'd clenched his hands into fists. He tried to ease the tension from his shoulders. Hawkeye's pale face kept him enraptured. He'd never been bothered very much by the blood and gore of operations – goodness knows he'd seen his share over the past two years – but now he found himself curiously incapable of staring at the torn flesh of Hawkeye's chest, of the pooling blood and palpitating exposed muscles. Nausea rolled in his stomach. His hands moved unconsciously to the crucifix dangling from his neck.
The air in the operating room was stagnant and tense. Father Mulcahy focused on breathing deeply in and out, feeling the stretch of his shirt against his abdomen, whispering in his mind whatever plea he could think of.
Give him strength, Lord. Grant him Your mercy. Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.
Klinger stood tensely beside him. Shoulder's taught like a spring, ready to jump forward at a moment's notice if his assistance should be called for. A bead of sweat slithered down Father Mulcahy's forehead, running behind his ear, down his neck.
The operation seemed to progress at an abnormally slow time. It seemed like Charles' every movement was slow, weighted, painstakingly precise. There was only the sound of clattering instruments, Charles' murmured voice, the muffled, almost silent ebb and flow of Hawkeye's breathing.
"Alright, now to take care of the lung," said Charles. "How is he?"
"Still with us," said BJ weakly.
The mud covering the front of Father Mulchay's uniform had dried to a crusty light brown. He had forgotten about that. He realized his glasses were still speckled with now-dried mud. Absentmindedly, he reached up to take them off and wipe them on a corner of his shirt.
The seconds ticked by and Father Mulcahy was reminded of that sickening pause on the first day, when Hawkeye's heart had stopped and those in the operating room had all paused, forgotten to breathe and to think, waiting for that word from the nurse, waiting for some kind of response, waiting, praying, hoping –
"Alright," Charles took a breath. "I've done everything it is I could possibly do. It's up to Hawkeye now."
Father Mulcahy realized distantly that it was one of the few times he had ever heard the Major address Hawkeye by his favored nickname.
BJ stood from his seat by Hawkeye's head. Margaret tugged off her bloodied gloves.
"Klinger," said BJ, "help me get him back out to post-op."
May we ever remember that recovery is only a reprieve and that someday we will go to our rest in the Lord. May we therefore secure the righteous path and live with eternity ever in our view.
Father Mulcahy realized the operating room had dissolved into a blur. He tugged the mask away from his chin with trembling fingers. His chest ached. He faltered forward, walking through the door into pre-op, stepping toward the door that led to the compound. He only had the vague awareness that he hadn't a clue where it was he was going.
Father Mulcahy stepped outside distractedly, and only after taking several steps across the muddy compound did he realize that it had stopped raining. He came to a slightly unsteady stop, and saw that the clouds had begun to break near the horizon, bleeding red rays of the rising sun across the gray expanse of sky. His throat burned and eyes stung and he realized he was still clutching his crucifix in his hand, edges of the small cross biting painfully into his palm. He took a slow, trembling breath of the cool moist air and he wearily bowed his head in a brief, stammering prayer of thanks.
Author's Note: I hadn't planned on having this whole chapter from Father Mulcahy's point of view but after I started writing I just kept visualizing the scenes from his eyes. Tell me how you think I did.
Anyway, if all goes as planned, two more chapters and then it will be finished…one way or the other. ;)